To Hell and Beyond Page 20

  The drainage they searched now was a maze of scorched, moss-covered logs and shallow creek beds that resembled a great green quilt bunched together in a fan of wrinkles. Head-sized chunks of granite littered the low washes and wreaked havoc on the horses’ footing.

  The wind blasted every bit of debris out from among the trees and ditches. Hundreds of animals, including elk and moose, had already followed the same natural routes of escape, so finding a decent identifiable track without inching along was next to impossible.

  His eyes to the ground, deafened by the whir of wind in his ears, Trap traveled on for several minutes before he glanced up and realized he couldn’t see Blake. Clay, quiet for an unnaturally long spell, was off to his left, flanking him and keeping a sharp eye ahead. With the fire, there wasn’t much chance of anyone sneaking up behind them.

  Trap turned in his saddle and scanned every direction. Blake was nowhere to be found. The way the land rippled, he could have been below the lip of a wash twenty feet away and still been out of sight, and so Trap didn’t worry at first. Instead, he gave a shrill whistle like the call of a hawk. He received no answer, so he tried again, cupping his hands in front of his face to focus the sound to his right and then his left.

  Nothing.

  Alarmed now, he waved at Clay, who was already picking his way around a knee-high blow down to ride up next to him.

  “Where’s Blake?” Clay leaned in close and yelled above the wind.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you.” Trap began to get the feeling he knew he would feel if anything happened to Maggie or Blake—a sickness down to his center that spread like palsy over his entire body—a deep, broken-bone sort of ache that made it hard to catch a breath.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  * * *

  Blake O’Shannon was off his horse when he realized someone was watching him. He couldn’t see anyone, and the wind moaned so mournfully that the idea of hearing anything above it was unthinkable. A shudder up his spine and a prickling along the short hairs on the back of his neck told him eyes were on him. He chanced a look to his left, where his father and Clay should have been. He saw nothing but a tangle of wilted hemlock trees, devil’s club, and smoke.

  The young deputy chided himself for straying too far away from his companions. He knew better than to venture out on his own, and had been happy to follow such knowledgeable men as his father, Ky Roman, and Clay Madsen. Maybe Madsen had been right about not being a real man until you were thirty. Blake was not the type to panic, but he was smart enough to realize the chances of survival on his own in the midst of hostile forces and a rapidly approaching fire were less than poor.

  He got the prickly feeling on his neck again, even reached up to touch it, hoping he was wrong, hoping it was just the wind hitting him above the collar.

  The rattlesnakelike thrum of wilted huckleberry shrubs gave him the warning. Alerted by the familiar noise off to the right, Blake’s Appaloosa gelding expected a snake and jerked against the reins. Blake fell backward and stumbled on the uneven terrain of the mossy wash where he stood.

  The arrow whistled by him and lodged in the red bark of an alder, now naked of all its leaves before the driving wind. It missed the startled lawman by scant inches.

  The wind had saved his life.

  Blake fell to the ground so quickly, an onlooker would have thought the arrow hit him. He pressed himself flat against the forest floor and tried to make himself as small a target as possible. It was a little less smoky in the small hollow, and he could smell a hint of the huckleberries above him, fragrant even amid the fires. The line of bushes that had warned him of danger formed a thick barrier along a three-foot hummock of moss and deadfall to his immediate right. This flimsy bulwark was all that stood between him and whoever shot the arrow.

  He thought of calling out for his father or Clay, but didn’t want to get them shot because of his stupidity.

  He couldn’t just lay there forever, though, and he knew his father. It wouldn’t be long before he’d come to check on him, especially being so worried about his mother.

  A sudden tingle ran up Blake’s spine, and he steeled himself when he heard a change in the wind above him. Danger was near now. He rolled onto his back.

  The one-eyed Apache stood above him, a long knife in his hand, coming up to check and see if he was dead. He didn’t have a bow, and was likely covered by someone who did from a safer vantage point. The attackers obviously didn’t want to risk alerting Trap or Clay by using a gun.

  Juan Caesar sprang as soon as Blake turned. The Apache was surprisingly agile for a man of his age. He landed on Blake with his knees, hard enough to take the wind from the boy’s lungs and crack at least two ribs. Blake was just able to catch the arm that held the knife. He pushed it off to the side so the knife landed in the duff only inches from his neck.

  Clawing at the one-eyed Apache’s back, Blake kneed him in the groin, trying to push him off before he could regain control of the knife. Caesar’s grip loosened enough for Blake to get a foot up and deliver a terrific blow to the Indian’s exposed belly with the flat of his boot. Caesar flew backward, staggering from the impact, and coughing as he tried to catch his breath in the thick smoke.

  The knife disappeared into the thick huckleberry shrubs. When the renegade chanced a look for it, Blake sprang on him. Juan Caesar was strong, but without a blade in his hands he was no match for Blake’s youth and stamina. Trap and his friends had wrestled with the boy since he was no more than a sprout. Man or not, Blake knew about hand-to-hand combat.

  Feinting with his left hand, Blake drove a crushing right hook into his opponent’s temple, capitalizing on his lack of vision. The Apache reeled, staggered by the blow. Blake’s right fist shot out again, catching Juan Caesar low in the jaw and spinning him around in the loose duff and pine needles. Worried about the second Apache, Blake grabbed the disoriented renegade in a choke hold from behind and drew him close. He continued his struggles and Blake tightened his forearm, stopping the circulation in the man’s neck.

  Blake looked right, then left, dragging Juan Caesar with him. The Apache was still conscious, but just barely. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in the thick smoke, and the gathering wind made hearing anyone approach impossible. He strained his ears and thought he heard his father’s whistle, but couldn’t be sure. It could just as easily have been the other renegade or Feak.

  Blake coughed from his exertions. The sticky smoke stung the back of his throat. Sweat ran into his eyes. He closed them and pressed his face against the back of Juan Caesar’s greasy hair to gain some relief. It smelled of grease and spoiled meat.

  Blake’s mind raced while he tried to think of a way out of his situation. If he let the renegade go, he’d revive in a few minutes and the fight would start all over again. Blake drew his revolver with his free hand, holding the Apache close with his left arm. He knew what his father would do in this situation. This was war. There was no time to take a prisoner who would not hesitate to put a bullet in him the next time they met.

  The shrill whistle came again, high and piercing over the wind. It was impossible to tell from which direction in the wind and whipping, moaning trees, but it was close. A crash in the brush made him spin to the right, his revolver at the ready. Two cow elk blew by on the wind, nothing but tan-rumped blurs. The noise of their passing was drowned out almost immediately by the forest that seemed to be alive with wind.

  Bits of limbs, needles, and leaves began to separate from the trees and be driven before the wind. Grit and sand, picked up in the rush, flew into Blake’s eyes, and he rubbed them with the back of his gun hand in an effort to keep them clear. His arm began to cramp from the constant effort of holding it around Juan Caesar’s neck.

  He felt the familiar tingling in his neck that his mother had taught him to recognize as a sign of danger. He dragged the unconscious Apache with him to get his back against the thick trunk of a ponderosa pine a few yards away. He heard mo
vement, saw a shadow ghost through the frenzied green and yellow shadows of smoke and wind-whipped trees.

  Someone was out there, circling him.

  * * *

  The brush was too thick to stay on horseback. Trap had to lead Hashkee over or around the numerous deadfall and blowdown snags that cluttered the thick forest. The mule was a better jumper than Madsen’s bay gelding, and Trap made good time while he studied the ground looking for any sign that might tell him he’d intersected his son’s trail. He looked mainly for horse tracks, knowing Blake’s big-footed Appy would leave infinitely more sign than moccasin or even boot prints.

  He knew Clay followed only yards behind, keeping a sharp eye through the smoke for anything “with teeth” as he would say. They were moving in a general direction away from the fire, a fact that made it easier to get both animals’ cooperation.

  The whine of a pistol shot above the wind brought Trap up short. He froze, straining to hear any other sign of danger. Hearing nothing but the wind, he dropped Hashkee’s reins and slid his Marlin out of the saddle boot before bounding off in the direction of the shot in a half crouch.

  Clay caught up to him at Blake’s Appaloosa, whose reins had tangled around the snaking branches of a vine maple. He carried his pistol, and led Trap’s mule and his own gelding with his left hand. The bay nickered at the sight of the other horse, and Hashkee gave a tedious groan, showing a white eye at having to work so hard jumping all the deadfall. Apart from being agitated over the wind and his natural aversion to the scent of fire, the Appy was in good shape—no blood or injury that Trap could find.

  Trap surveyed the ground at the horse’s feet. Few tracks remained on the windswept surface beyond the prancing circle the horse had dug around the vine maple. Another shot echoed through the trees.

  Trap looked at his friend.

  “Sounded like the boyo’s Remington to me, bud. That’s a good sign.”

  Trap nodded, his jaw set in grim determination, his eyes narrow.

  “Watch yourself,” he said above the wind.

  “Lead on.” Clay pointed in the direction of the shot with his pistol. “I’m right behind you.”

  Clay tied the two animals so they’d be around if they were needed, but would still be able to break free if they pulled hard enough and escape the fire if things took a turn for the worse.

  * * *

  Blake felt Javier’s presence before he heard him, and spun Juan Caesar around a fraction of a second before the shot.

  The older Apache stiffened. For a moment, Blake thought he was waking up, and attempted to apply more pressure with the V of his bicep and forearm. Suddenly weak on his feet, Blake stumbled, letting Juan Caesar slide to the ground in front of him in a dead heap.

  A young Apache stood before him only a few yards away, his stringy black hair whipping across his cruel face in the wind. A blue steel revolver still pointed directly at Blake.

  Blake tried to raise his own pistol, but found himself curiously weak, as if he were mired in the middle of a nightmare where someone was shooting at him and he could only move in slow motion.

  The young lawman willed his gun hand up to face the threat, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make it move. The Apache gave a crooked grin when the pistol fired harmlessly into the ground, then fell harmlessly out of Blake’s hand.

  Blake swayed on his feet, squinting to make out the form of the man who was about to kill him. The salty, copper taste of blood rose in his throat. The mere act of standing against the furious battering of wind suddenly seemed more of a chore than he could manage. He stumbled backward, grabbing for a handful of flimsy huckleberry brush as he fell.

  Javier walked slowly toward him, seemingly unperturbed that he’d killed his own confederate only moments before. It was enough to him that the same bullet had passed through and through to hit the lawman.

  “Caesar told me your white blood would make you weak,” the Apache sneered.

  Blake started to speak, but decided against it. Talking to a maniac like the one before him was pointless. His own pistol had landed less than two feet from where he sat heaving, his back against a rotting log. Blake tried not to look at it, knowing he would be dead in the short time it took him to get to it the way the other man covered him.

  The young Apache squinted against the wind and looked down in disdain. He slid his long-barreled Colt back into the flap holster on his belt and drew a long skinning knife. It was obvious he no longer considered Blake a threat worthy of a bullet.

  Blake pressed a hand against the jagged hole in his thigh. It didn’t seem to be bleeding as badly as he thought it would be considering his sudden weakness. Javier took a slow step toward him. Blake eyed the revolver again and steeled himself for the attack he knew was about to come. He couldn’t just sit still and let himself be carved up. His mind raced back to the men he’d seen butchered already by this man and his friends. No, he’d die fighting, no matter how weak he was. Even the thought of it made him stronger.

  The fire was closer now, the pungent smell of wood smoke heavier on the wind. Even the young Apache looked up to take note. Blake had shifted his weight to make a rolling move for his pistol when he heard another shot, this time from behind him, beyond the rattling huckleberry brush.

  Javier’s face twisted in angry surprise. He dropped to one knee and put a hand to his side. Up again in an instant, the young renegade bolted for a nearby line of fir trees and disappeared into the shadows.

  Blake clenched his eyes shut in relief and leaned his head back against the snag, expecting to see his father or Mr. Madsen at any moment. Instead he heard a bawling voice he’d never heard before carry through the whirling.

  “Everthing all right over there?”

  Blake froze, fearing it was Feak. Shooting their own didn’t seem to bother anyone in the murderous group of kidnapers.

  “This here’s Corporal Bandy Rollins, United States Army,” the voice yelled above the wind. It was tentative but friendly. “I’d be obliged to find out whose life it is I just saved.”

  Blake knew there was an Army presence in woods because of the fires. He raised his left hand from behind the snag and waved so Rollins could see where he was.

  * * *

  A beefy colored man in filthy military khakis knelt over Blake when Trap came into the clearing. A rifle leaned against a nearby tree, out of the black man’s reach, but Trap leveled his Marlin to be on the safe side.

  Blake raised his hand in a feeble gesture. There was enough grin on his face to let Trap relax a measure.

  “This mountain saved my life, Pa.”

  Bandy Rollins looked up grimly from where he attempted to dress the wound in Blake’s thigh. The soldier introduced himself without getting up.

  “I don’t know for certain if I saved his life yet or not.”

  Trap handed his rifle to Clay and knelt beside his son and the corporal. Blake’s britches were cut away to reveal a thumb-size hole in the front of his thigh. Bandy rolled him slightly so they could have a look at the back side of his leg. Bits of flesh hung in tatters, crusted with pine needles and dirt. Blood poured into a growing pool on the dirt.

  “I’m thinkin’ they nicked an artery, maybe even clipped the bone.” Rollins pressed his broad hand over the wound. He looked back in the direction of the wind. “We got to move him soon, though. He’d sure enough die if we stay here. We all will.”

  “I don’t think I can outrun this, Pa. I can’t even stand up.”

  “Nonsense.” Trap put a hand on his son’s forehead. “Your mama wouldn’t be very pleased with me if we let that handsome Nez Percé hair of yours get all singed.”

  Blake chuckled weakly, and then winced. “So you’re willing to admit she’s still alive.”

  Trap nodded. “I’m too scared of her not to. Now let’s get you on your horse and around this mountain to go with the fire crew. That ranger seems to know his business.”

  “You mean Mr. Zelinski?” Rollins’s face b
rightened.

  “You know him?” Clay toed Juan Caesar. Gave him a swift boot to the temple to make sure he wasn’t playing possum.

  “Yessir, I know him. My company was workin’ right alongside him till they got called back to Avery. There was two Indian boys with him. I’m worried somethin’ awful about ’em. I just know that Monroe character is up to no good. That’s why I’m here. I got permission to come back and tell them about the relief trains. I wanted to check up on my two friends.”

  “Mercy, Rollins.” Clay grinned. “You talk as much as I do.” He filled the corporal in quickly on the attempted lynching.

  “He’s takin’ the boys to a mine?”

  Trap put the finishing touches on a tight bandage around Blake’s thigh. “A place called the Ruby Creek Adit. Said they’d be safe there.”

  “I know the place,” Rollins said. “Let’s get this boy there. He needs to get somewhere fast so the bleedin’ will stop. The people are like ants, just running outta these hills for their lives. Seen a man and young woman as foolish as me, ridin’ back in towards the fire. Most likely they forgot somethin’ or another they consider more important than their own mortal lives.”

  Blake winced and looked up, blinking. “What did the man and woman look like?”

  “What are you talkin’ about, son?” Rollins patted Blake’s shoulder. “Hush now. Let’s get you up on a horse.”

  Blake reeled when he got to his feet. His face was set in a tense mask as he tried to disguise his agony. “With this leg, I don’t think I can fork a horse.”

  “Where did you see this man and woman riding back towards the fire?” Clay asked.

  “They were ridin’ along just below a hogback ridgeline ’bout two drainages over. Why?”