To Hell and Beyond Page 29

  He ignored her for some time. The shuffling of papers and the sound of his heavy, nasal breathing were the only sounds in the room.

  When he finished, Drum closed the folder of papers in front of him. An artificial smile flashed across his face. He came around to sit on the edge of the desk, peeling off his wire glasses with thick fingers. His knees hovered only inches away from her.

  “I’ve been reading your file,” he said as if to gloat.

  Maggie sat motionless, staring at the floor.

  “You know that it can only help you to cooperate with me.” He licked his lips.

  This Maggie understood, but she pretended like she didn’t. “I am cooperating with you, Reverend. All the students have always cooperated here at the school.”

  Drum rubbed his face and changed tacks. “Miss Sundown, you haven’t been here for two weeks and have been branded as a troublemaker already.” He nodded toward the papers on the desk at his side. “Your file has a complete report and affidavit drawn up by the delivery boys from Van Zandt’s Creamery.”

  Maggie didn’t know what an affidavit was, but if the wicked boys from Van Zandt’s Creamery wrote it, it couldn’t be any good.

  He continued. “I am not sure what Reverend O’Shannon intended to do about it, but my course appears to be clear. You assaulted local townsfolk. We can’t stand for that, can we?”

  “They chased me into the cellar,” Maggie said, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Drum shook his head. “I have to go by the facts, young lady, not your fanciful stories.” He inched to the edge of the desk. He was close enough now that she could smell the foul smell of the sausages he’d eaten for lunch on his breath. “I should tell you, the Van Zandts would see you hang.”

  He studied her face for a reaction. She gave him none so he plowed ahead. “I could help you,” he said. “I believe you would find me as powerful as I find you alluring.”

  “I do not understand what that word means,” Maggie lied. She’d never heard alluring before, but she understood all too well.

  He chuckled, obviously thinking she was falling under his spell. His voice was low and throaty. “It means I am attracted to you. I find you pleasant to look at.”

  He reached to touch her hair. Maggie’s stomach churned, but she sat completely still while his clumsy fingers slid slowly, lecherously down her cheek. When they were near enough to her mouth that she knew she couldn’t miss, she turned and sank her teeth deep into the flesh at the base of the reverend’s thumb and hung on.

  Drum tried to jerk the hand back, erupting in a fearsome growl. He clubbed Maggie brutally in the temple with his free fist, hitting her at least three times before the skin on his thumb gave way.

  Stunned, Maggie slumped to the floor. Her head reeled and the room spun around her. She tasted blood and flesh in her mouth. It took her a moment to realize it was Drum’s. She spat out the chunk of meat in disgust and crawled backward across the floor. If she could only make it to the door . . .

  The reverend advanced on her. His hungry look had turned to a blaze of pure hatred. Grabbing her by both shoulders with powerful hands, he hauled her up to face him.

  “I’ll see you do worse than hang, you deceitful little bitch. . . .”

  Maggie spit more blood—his blood—in his face and drove a knee hard into his groin.

  He groaned, but his grip held firm and he pulled her to him, pinning her arms by her side. He kissed her brutally on the mouth, stifling the scream that hung there with the press of his cold lips.

  Mrs. Tally opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Reverend, I . . .” Her mouth hung open as she took in the scene in front of her.

  Drum released his hold and Maggie fell to the floor, panting. He wiped the blood from his face with his good hand and made a feeble attempt to straighten his clothes.

  “I . . . What happened, child? Reverend Drum, you’re bleeding. What’s the matter with your hand?” Mrs. Tally’s face was ashen white.

  Maggie took the opportunity to scramble to her feet and stand behind the head matron.

  “Mrs. Tally, take this young trollop out of my sight. She still has a long way to go before she is anywhere near civilized,” Drum fumed. “We must yet kill everything in her that is Indian. We’ll begin with that long mop of unruly hair. See that it’s cut to a respectable length at once.” He took a length of white cloth from his desk drawer and began to wrap his hand. “Bring them around to God and away from their heathen ways of savagery.”

  Mrs. Tally bit her lip and turned to go. Maggie could feel the woman’s heavy shoulders trembling next to her.

  “I’ll personally inspect the haircut tomorrow morning,” he said through clenched teeth. “And Mrs. Tally . . .”

  “Reverend?” She stopped in her tracks but didn’t turn around. She swallowed hard.

  His voice was acid and venomous. “If you ever enter my office without knocking again, I’ll have Pugh and Foster escort you off the grounds so fast your head will spin.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The train out of Lebanon didn’t leave until after ten in the morning. It was a great, leaking beast that blew off more steam than it used to turn its massive wheels and lumbered along at a mind-numbing pace that tore a hole in Trap’s nerves.

  The hole in the boy’s gut grew deeper with every slow, excruciating mile the rattling train took him from Maggie Sundown.

  By the time they reached Carthage, the engine had about boiled dry and had to stop and take on water. It was early evening and the sun hung low on the western horizon.

  A cloud of mosquitoes and biting gnats pestered a gray Brahma bull across the split-oak fence. Trap squatted next to the bottom rail looking alternately at the dusty ground and the long line of trees to the north—back toward the school. He shooed a gnat out of his face. Behind him, the train vented a gasp of steam and covered the crunch of his mother’s footsteps until she was almost on top of him.

  “I can see you are badly troubled, Denihii.” She called him by the Apache nickname she’d given him when he was a small boy. It meant Tracker.

  “I am fine, Mother.” He knew she didn’t believe him.

  Hummingbird sighed and knelt on the ground next to her son. Trap would always remember that though his mother was the wife of a reputable Presbyterian minister and wore decent, respectable dresses, she never hesitated to sit on the ground.

  “It is a good thing to respect your father,” she began, studying a blade of broad grass. “But when your heart tells you something is good, there are times you must follow what it says.”

  Trap looked up at her. “I understand you want to be with your people.”

  Hummingbird smiled. “Trap, I left the Chiricahua when I was yet a girl. You and your father are my people. I go to Arizona for the same reason you do—to honor your father.”

  “But he said you . . .”

  She put up her hand. “It will be good to see my relatives. But I was not the one that asked him to go. The church was. He will not admit it, but there are some on the board of directors—as well as in the Army—who do not approve of the way your father ran White Oak. I’ve heard them say he used too soft a hand.” She cast her eyes down at the grass again. “Likely because of you and me.”

  It had always been her custom to speak frankly with her son, but she’d never spoken so openly to him about his father. “The church asked him to go to Arizona to get him out of the way.”

  “I didn’t know.” Trap found it a difficult thing to grow up—to learn that his father had a bit of an ego.

  The conductor called for all to board, and the engine vented more steam in preparation to move.

  Trap shook his head as if he could shake off his thoughts. “I didn’t know,” he repeated himself.

  “He wouldn’t want you to.” Hummingbird let Trap help her to her feet. She took his hand and pressed a wad of money into it.

  “What is this?” He stood with her beside him.

&nb
sp; “In the world of the whites a man should always have at least a small amount of money. You are all grown up now. So much like your father—and yet your own man . . .”

  The conductor called again, giving them an impatient glare.

  “Walk with me to the train,” she said, still holding his hand. “I have a little more to say. People will tell you that you must choose between your Apache and your white blood. Do not listen to them. Choose only the good from each. My forebears were tenacious and often ferocious people. Though it is not always evident, your father is much the same if he has to be.... As you will soon learn, both Indians and whites can be cruel beyond belief.”

  By the time they reached the train Trap was speechless. He’d never had a need for money, and couldn’t understand why he would need any now. He stared down at the wad of bills in his hand.

  “It is not much,” Hummingbird said. “But if you are careful, you will have enough to buy a good horse and a few other things you may need.”

  She took a small bundle of red cloth from under the smock she wore to protect her dress and placed it in Trap’s hand on top of the money.

  “This belonged to my father.” She stepped up onto the train so she was looking down at him. A shrill whistle split the air as the huge arms on the steam engine sprang to life and jerked at the metal wheels.

  Trap unrolled the cloth to find a gleaming, bone-handled hunting knife.

  “It is a hard world, my son. I wish I could give you more, but it has always been my experience that wits are your best weapons—and you have plenty of those.”

  She stayed in the doorway, blocking Trap’s path while the train began to pick up speed. She was kicking him out of the nest. A warm breeze tugged at a stray lock of hair over her high forehead. She smiled softly while she looked at him.

  Trap moved along at a fast walk, shaking his head.

  The train picked up speed in earnest now. Hummingbird reached out with a slender hand and touched Trap’s outstretched fingers. “I’ll talk to your father,” she said. She had to shout as the train began to move faster than Trap could walk. “I was foolish to let you come this far. Go back and get that girl, Denihii. In the future, when you see that something is right, do not wait this long to do it.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “It’s nothing short of dreadful,” Mrs. Tally sniffed. “The plight of womanhood in general, I mean to say.” She stood behind a stoic Maggie, a pair of shears poised over the girl’s head. “Understand, dear, that I am loath to speak out against the superintendent, but I see no reason to cut this beautiful hair except his spite for your rebuff.”

  Maggie sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes shut. She could hear the metal blades whisper as they came together. She felt the gossamer softness of each lock of hair as it fell down her shoulders and gently brushed her arms on the way to the floor.

  Mrs. Tally spoke through her tears as she cut. “I mean to say, I know it’s the way the Good Lord made us. We are after all the weaker sex—born to a life of servitude, the bearing of babies, and the pleasures of wicked men.” She stomped her foot. Maggie could hear her gritting her teeth. “But sometimes, when I meet a man like Drum, I wish I could take these snips and do some quick surgery.”

  She stepped back and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, a sure sign the normally fastidious woman was nearing a complete breakdown. “Still,” she sighed. “We have to be reasonable as women and know our own limitations. Sometimes it’s better to give in a little rather than suffer. What I mean to say is, if something is inevitable, perhaps one should make the best of it to survive the situation.” The poor woman’s face was drawn, and looked ten years older than it had the day before.

  Maggie said nothing.

  Mrs. Tally handed her a small mirror. “There now, I left it over your ears. You are still as lovely as ever. Perhaps he will leave you alone—now he knows I’m on to his game.”

  “You know that will never happen,” Maggie said. “I’ve made him angry. Cutting my hair is but a small thing compared to what he plans to do with me. This no longer has anything to do with his pleasure; it is about resentment.”

  Mrs. Tally flashed a sorrowful smile. “It most usually is, my dear. It most usually is.”

  “I will kill him when he tries to touch me again.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it, child. But I am just as certain the people in town will hang you for your trouble. The sad truth is. . . .” Mrs. Tally wrung her hands and stared at the floor, biting on her bottom lip. “What I mean to say is, if you were to let him . . . have his way, he might hurt you some in the process—but if you fight him, he’ll kill you for sure.” She suddenly looked up, new tears welling in her weary eyes. “I fear your options are but few and far between.”

  Maggie picked up the small mirror and looked at her new hair. It made her face look bigger, maybe a little older—but not as old as she felt. Fourteen was not so young in the great scheme of things. Back in the Wallowa she would likely have been married very soon.

  “Options,” she whispered to herself. The sound was so soft it must have sounded like a sigh to Mrs. Tally.

  There was another option. She could run.

  CHAPTER 13

  Maggie Sundown began to plan her escape the day she’d first set foot on the grounds of the White Oak Indian Academy. She’d stashed a water jug and a small carving knife she’d stolen from the kitchen under her bed. Her geography textbooks contained decent maps, and she had spent several evenings gazing at the angled lines that represented the mountains and rivers of her beloved Wallowa Valley. One map in particular showed hash marks representing railroads and a detailed rendition of the entire United States over a two-page spread. She’d torn out both pages, folded them carefully, and put them in the small poke with her food—some dried beef and two small jars of strawberry jam sealed with wax. The jam was sweet, and she reckoned a spoonful would keep her going for some time on the trail.

  She decided to leave during the evening meal, fearing that if she waited until after dark, Drum might call her to his study again before she could get away.

  The older girls took turns helping in the kitchen. It wasn’t Maggie’s turn, but she volunteered to trade with a timid Cheyenne girl to give her a little extra time out from under the headmaster’s nose.

  Drum’s eyes burned at her constantly throughout the entire meal. Her stomach knotted at the thought of food, but she knew she would soon need all her strength. When she’d cleaned every last morsel of chicken from her plate, she carried it to the kitchen, retrieved her meager supplies, and walked straight out the back door.

  Gray dusk had settled over the grounds by the time she made it down the little path that led to the stables. Cool air pinked Maggie’s cheeks. Gut-wrenching tension sent a trickle of sweat down the small of her back, and she looked behind her in spite of herself. The headmaster was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Tally was in the dining hall with the other students. If she noticed Maggie’s absence, she wouldn’t be likely to say anything.

  Pugh and Foster had disappeared into the root cellar before supper. There was a supply of medicinal liquor in there that would keep them busy for some time.

  Maggie knew she’d be easier to track on horseback, but she needed to get as far away from the school as she could in a night’s time. Most of the animals in the barn were heavy draft types, meant for pulling one of the school wagons or plows. The choice of which one to take was easy.

  Drum’s brown Thoroughbred nickered softly when she stepped into the stall. It was a leggy horse with a flowing mane and long head. Built for speed, but unlikely to have the endurance for long days on the trail like the spotted ponies of the Nimi’ipuu, the gelding had the lean look of a racehorse. For the time being at least, a racehorse was just what she wanted.

  She decided to saddle in the cramped stall, in case anyone happened to come in. Drum rode a light plantation saddle with no horn, a padded leather seat, and metal stirrups. It was not meant for strenuous c
ross-country riding, but it looked comfortable enough. Small brass D rings behind the low cantle enabled her to tie on an extra saddle blanket rolled to contain her poke of gear. The Thoroughbred turned its head and sniffed Maggie’s arm as she finished tightening the girth strap. She hummed softly, and the big animal released a rumbling sigh.

  Once she’d saddled the horse, Maggie slipped out of the blue-gray uniform skirt and picked up the fawn-colored skirt she’d had on the day she’d come to the school. It was lighter, but made with a fuller cut so she could straddle a horse without exposing most of her legs as she rode. She kept the gray kersey uniform blouse, but left the tail out and unbuttoned the top two buttons so it hung open at the collar. She fastened a wide leather belt around her waist and tucked the hunting knife in next to her side. Untucked, the blouse was just long enough to cover the wooden handle.

  The thrum of deep voices at the outer door sent Maggie’s hand to the handle of her knife. She ducked her head behind the horse and held her breath. Slowly, the voices faded as the speakers moved away.

  Maggie swallowed hard. She couldn’t stay in the stall much longer without being seen. She reached over the door and moved the metal latch. Her hand trembled and she took a deep breath to calm herself. If she could only make it out to the trees, she knew she could disappear in an instant.

  Poking her head around the stall door, she chanced a look up and down the dim alleyway of the barn. She led the gelding out, turned her back to the door, and put a small foot in the stirrup to climb into the saddle.

  A heavy crunch of gravel behind her sent a cold chill up Maggie’s spine. Her throat tightened. Reins in one hand and the stirrup leather in the other, she made ready to spring aboard the horse and run for it.

  “Washite,” a soft voice said from the doorway. It was Frank Tall Horse. “I’m glad you’re getting away from here.”

  Maggie gave a sigh of relief and turned to face him, the reins still in her left hand. The gelding seemed to feel her mood change, and hung its head to sniff the ground. Lips gave off loud pops as the horse nibbled at the bits of hay that littered the stable floor.