The big Irishman struck the match to the side of his pant leg with a quick upward movement of the hand and watched as it came to life in a stab of yellow-white flame. Holding the neatly wrapped bundle of six dynamite sticks in his other hand, a humorless smile spread across his sinister face as he put the flame to the fuse and watched it start to burn in a shower of sparks. Harry O’Neill’s six-feet, two-inch body of pile-driving muscle shook with anticipation at the thought of what he was about to do. The day was cool, but O’Neill felt a hot flash of evil move down his spine until beads of grime-filled perspiration broke out on his forehead.
A gust of cold wind coming up the steep canyon wall from below carried a few sparks from the dynamite fuse into a clump of dry grass at O’Neill’s feet, catching it on fire. But the Irishman ignored it, keeping all his attention on the man camped below while the quick-burning fuse grew shorter.
As O’Neill drew in a slow, deep breath, his cruel, hard eyes narrowed as one imagined a hawk might do just before the kill. But this darkly tanned face was no hawk’s face; covered with deep scar-like lines that gave it an ominous, almost sadistic appearance under a crop of short blazing red hair that somehow looked out of place was the face of a cold-blooded butcher-a killer that in a few seconds would blow the man called Madigan to hell and back. With one powerful throw, O’Neill hurled the deadly package in a high arc toward his unsuspecting victim below.
As if in slow motion, the smoking bomb sailed outward, leaving a wispy thin trail of white smoke behind it. O’Neill, unable to contain himself any longer at the imminent revenge he was about to experience, let forth with a burst of laughter that reverberated across the canyon like cannon fire. It was all the warning the man below needed.
In a fragment of a second, Madigan threw himself to the ground while palming his Colt in one easy motion. Like an athlete trained from years of practice, Madigan’s powerfully built body sprang into action. While his vision tunneled in on the target, he cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger of his.44. The two explosions sounded as one, and the concussion and searing heat drew the air from Madigan’s lungs, pinning him to the ground like a swat from a giant fly swatter.
On the canyon rim above, O’Neill was caught completely off guard, not even having time to duck out of the way. At the burst, the shock wave rolled up the canyon wall like a fast-moving dust storm slamming O’Neill backward off his feet and momentarily knocking him unconscious. Suddenly coming back to his senses, he was astounded at what had happened. Although he could not believe that any man was that fast and lethal with a six-gun, he own eyes told him it was true.
Picking himself off the ground, he cursed the air around him to vent what had happened while wiping the dust from his face and hair. O’Neill knew at this time and place there was only one decision to be made. The killer brushed the debris off the front of his shirt, then quickly caught his horse, swung into the saddle, and rode away at a full gallop, still damning the day like a man gone mad. If Captain Madigan was still alive, there would be another day, and with it, another opportunity. But for now the odds were no longer in O’Neill’s favor.
It had only been a few weeks since Madigan had resigned from the army to do some prospecting and he had no way of knowing O’Neill was a free man. Now lying here dazed, one thought kept creeping into his mind: he had to stay alive and find the man whose laugh he would never forget, the demented laugh of the only man crazy enough to carry out this deed, the one and only Harry O’Neill.
The explosion was just far enough away to hurt Madigan bad but not quite kill him. He could feel the warm blood dripping around his eyes and ears from the concussion, and Madigan knew it was a miracle he could still see at all. Every muscle in his body ached and from time to time he coughed up bright red blood. Rolling painfully over on his back he raised up on one elbow and turned his head to look around.
There laying in the dirt some fifty feet away were the bodies of his horse and pack mule. The explosion had been much closer to the animals and it was their bodies that had absorbed the full blast, shielding Madigan from its deadly destruction. Silently he swore again to kill Harry O’Neill if it took the rest of his life. Then everything faded to black.
He must have laid unconscious for hours before coming to again. When he did regain consciousness it was little more than a walking daze, a fog, from which everything reeled and danced before him. Without a horse and only the water in his canteens, it was safe to say he was in a bad situation. Being extremely weak from loss of blood didn’t help matters either. Even the smallest exertion made Madigan’s head reel and he was unsure whether any water would stay down, but he would not give up to the pain. He would force himself to go on-to live-if for no reason other than to make O’Neill pay for this and the other crimes he had committed.
Being a man that was used to taking care of himself, Madigan crawled to his canteen and took a long slow drink of the cold water, letting it settle in his stomach before chancing to move, then taking his knife, he cut his extra shirt into strips. Within the hour he’d cleaned and bound his wounds. Madigan felt a little better afterward and to his relief was no longer coughing up blood, although his insides felt like they were on fire every time he took another sip of water. Looking toward the west, he judged by the sun that it would be dark in one, maybe two hours at the most.
One thing Madigan knew for sure was that he would have to move out of the area quickly no matter how much agony he was in. After dark the animals’ remains would more than likely bring in a bear or pack of wolves. He was in no shape to tangle with either, so he carefully hid his saddle and pack where he would be able to find them later, after first hanging the food from the pack out of reach of any bear. A bear may not be able to see well, but it sure could smell food and unless it was hung out of reach, it would stop at nothing to get at it. Then Madigan put the rest of the jerky in his coat pocket and started off at a slow walk.
In the fog of Madigan’s confused mind, he remembered hearing it said that the smell of a wounded man would draw wolves from miles away. He didn’t know if it was true or not, but it wasn’t a pleasant thought as he stumbled slowly through the trees. While it was still light he could drive them off with his Winchester, but come nightfall the advantage fell heavily in the wolves’ favor. Madigan needed to find shelter soon. Being weak and wounded, he no doubt would be the number one item on some predator’s menu. Wouldn’t matter if it were a wolf, bear, or mountain lion. Any one of them would have an easy time of it with the shape he was in. He had to stay alert no matter what.
Slowly, the realization came into his dazed mind that this very morning he had passed a small rawhide ranch. It wasn’t much, just a rough hewn log cabin, cook shack, and bunkhouse with a few fences stuck in the middle of a small meadow. Not wanting to waste time, even though the thought of hot food was tempting, Madigan had kept to the ridge. But he had taken sharp notice of the smoke coming from the chimney of the cook shack.
Now, he reasoned, with any luck he could be back to the outfit by next morning, if the wolves didn’t get him first.
Night fell and with it a crispness that reminded him that spring was late this year, and there was still the possibility of snow in these higher mountain valleys. If it began snowing, Madigan’s chances of survival would drop drastically.
He was pondering this possibility when somewhere off to his left an owl hooted at something passing through the night. Several times deer crossed in front of him, stopping to take a quick look before moving on, somehow sensing that he was not a threat to them.
Then he heard the cry of a wolf a short distance away, answered by another, then another. At the howl of the wolf, Madigan froze in his tracks not daring to move while listening for any noise of the wolves coming closer. He glanced around in a desperate search for a tree that would get him high enough off the ground when the wolves came. Soon there was another cry, this time more distant than the last, then another even more distant, and Madigan realized to his great relief that he was downwind from the wolves and that they were more than likely honing in on his dead animals. Had he chosen to stay instead of moving on into the night, he would have been their prey and more’n likely part of their meal by morning. He prayed they wouldn’t cross his scent on their way to the carcasses of his horse and mule.
Soon a light mist began to fall. Pulling his coat tighter around his neck trying to stay warm, he switched his rifle from one hand to the other so that he could keep the other hand in a pocket to keep his fingers from going numb. Through the night he walked, gritting his teeth at the pain.
An hour after first light he spotted the rawhider’s cabin down in a small valley. Smoke curled up from the chimney meant it would be warm inside. And right now what he needed most was to get some warmth back in his bones. He just hoped the rancher would be friendly.
“Hello, the cabin!” he yelled with all the strength he had left when a hundred yards out. For a long minute nothing happened and he wondered if he’d been heard, then a rifle barrel was suddenly thrust out between the shutters of the one lone window in the front of the cabin.
“Who be it that disturbs me home?” came a voice with a strong Scottish accent.
From the sound of it, Madigan wasn’t going to be welcome. But welcome or not, he would freeze if he didn’t get warm soon.
“Sam Madigan, lately of the U.S. Cavalry. I’m hurt and cold,” he said in a weak voice. Another moment of silence.
“Well then, don’t just stand there like a fool, Captain. Come in where it’s warm and a fresh pot of coffee’s brewing on the stove.”
Madigan had just started toward the door when a strange sound began to drift eerily from within the cabin walls. He stopped to listen-that sound. He would recognize it anywhere. The man was obviously one of the worst players of the pipes Madigan had ever heard. The sound rose and fell, whimpered and squawked, then peaked with ear-splitting authority before falling off to a whisper, sounding like the death squeal of a mortally wounded rabbit.
Pushing the door open, he was not surprised to see Sergeant Golden Husbands sitting there huffing on the old bagpipes he’d carried with him since he was a boy fresh from the highlands of Scotland.
Looking up, the Scotsman grinned. “Thought I’d welcome you right proper, laddie,” he said thrusting a big paw into Madigan’s shivering hand.
“Been a long time, Sergeant. See you can’t play those windbags any better than you used to,” Madigan said weakly, nodding toward the patched and battered bagpipes.
“You never were one for the sweet sound of the highlands were you, laddie?” The Scot leaned over and turned up the coal oil lamp that set beside him on a small table. “Well, look at you, laddie! Seems you been sitting too close to the fire,” he said shaking his head in bewilderment. “We better get you patched up. How’d you be gettin’ those nasty burns, my friend?”
While the Scotsman cleaned and bound his wounds, Madigan explained what happened the day before and how he’d walked all night to get to the cabin. Goldie made him some bacon and eggs and afterward showed him to the cot in the corner.
“You can sleep the day through if you have a mind to. You don’t have to worry about O’Neill hunting you here,” the Scot said as he pulled the blanket over the wounded man. “I’ve got a couple of men working for me and I’ll have them stay close by in case that swamp lizard tries anything.
“Best thing for you is to get as much rest as you can. I’ll not play you to sleep with the pipes being you’re not a true music lover and all,” he said, chuckling.
“By the way,” the Scotsman asked, “why is O’Neill hunting you?” Madigan’s jaw tightened against the pain, then slowly relaxed.
“You wouldn’t have known about it, Sergeant, ‘cause you had already mustered out of the Cavalry by then. But about six or seven months ago O’Neill raped and murdered one of the enlisted men’s wives, buried her body, and went about his business as if nothing had happened. Most people believed the girl had run away with a drummer on one of the many wagon trains that came through the fort. You know it happened all the time, a young girl marries a soldier to get away from her folks, then finds life at the fort worse than what she ran away from. She was just about forgotten by everyone except her husband. Girls take off with drummers all the time, just a fact of life on the frontier.
“Then one night O’Neill was in town drinking with some of his friends. You know how he liked to drink. Always said he could hold it but couldn’t. Anyway, he really tied one on this night. Got to bragging and it slipped out that Alice Jane-that was the dead girl’s name-had let him have his way with her. Anyway, that’s the way O’Neill told it.”
“O’Neill never could keep his mouth shut when he had booze in his belly!” Goldie injected.
“This got back to the fort and we started a quiet investigation into the matter, but we couldn’t find anything with so many trains coming through the fort headed on the Oregon Trail, so we were forced to let it drop.
“Then old Hairless Jones-you remember Jones, one of the best trappers in those parts-came in one night with Alice Jane’s body wrapped in blankets. Seems O’Neill hadn’t put enough dirt over her after he killed her. Jones saw a wolf pulling at a piece of cloth sticking out of the ground and investigated.
“When Jones brought the body in, O’Neill was out of the fort on patrol. Somehow he got wind of the discovery and hightailed it out of there. I was the one sent to bring him back in to stand trial and that’s what I did.
“He was found guilty of murder and sentenced to be hanged the following day. Funny thing, all the time I was bringing him back to the fort he acted as if he blamed me for his troubles. Didn’t matter that he killed the girl and all that. Just blamed me for catching him. Later after the trial, he said he’d see me dead before he hanged. Just the threat of a mad man, I figured. Anyway, the next day he’d hang and that would be that. Only thing was, one of his friends slipped a gun to him that night and he shot the guard and got away.”
“Seems like he almost made good on that promise,” Goldie said. “Now you better try to get some sleep and let your body heal.”
Madigan nodded his head in agreement and laid back on the cot. Within a few minutes he was dead to the world. It was already dark when he awoke to find Goldie coming through the door carrying his saddle. The rest of his pack was laid against the wall next to the door.
“Had one of me boys ride up and pick these up while you was sleeping,” he said, pointing to Madigan’s things. Goldie looked at the pack and smiled. “See you still be carrying the Sharps.”
“Never know when I might run across a herd of buffalo. Did the wolves get to my horse last night?”
“A pack of them mangy critters did until a grizzly came along and ran them off. Between the wolves and the bear, they really made a feast of your animals. Made me hired man really nervous getting your things out of there. Wasn’t too worried about the wolves in the daylight, but figured the bear might still be hanging around for another meal. Did take a chance and looked around up on the top of the cliff, though. From the tracks he saw, O’Neill must’ve hightailed it out of there the minute he threw the dynamite. Made a beeline clean out of the county from what me man tells me.”
Madigan was quiet for a long moment. “She was a good horse,” he said sadly.
For two days Madigan stayed pretty much in bed, letting his strength return. On the third day he was up before first light, out chopping wood for the cook stove when Goldie slipped up to him.
“You’ll be in need of another horse and I may have just the animal for you,” he said cheerfully.
Motioning Madigan to follow, he led the way down a narrow path to a corral hidden in the trees. The bunkhouse stood a little to the side. They were well hidden, for Madigan had not seen them when he rode through the area the morning of the attack.
The bunkhouse door opened as they approached and a man in his early sixties holding a rifle stepped out and waved at them, then moved back inside out of the cold.
“That’s Jones,” Goldie said. “He’s a good man to have around in a fight. If O’Neill had come sneakin’ around here, he’d have to work to keep his hide. Jones had a run-in with that coyote himself a few years back and would like nothing more than to catch him in his sights.”
They approached a gate and stopped. In the corral stood the most magnificent buckskin stallion Madigan had ever seen. When the horse saw the men approach he snorted, then pawed the ground with his hoof, daring them to come closer.
“He’s a mighty fine looking animal,” Madigan said, impressed with the great horse before them.
“That’s what I thought too when I first laid me eyes on him. Took all three of us to corner him so I could get a rope over his neck.”
Madigan saw that the horse’s hind legs were hobbled and said as much. Knowing Goldie to be a gentle man, except in battle, he was puzzled as to why. The answer came shortly.
“When we first tried to catch him, we used a brush corral and chased him into it along with some of his mares,” Goldie explained. “He jumped the fence like he had wings. Later that night he sneaked back and chewed through the rope that held the mares, turning them all loose and ruining two months’ work for us. So when we finally got a rope on him we put the hobbles on-put ‘em on his back legs so he wouldn’t chew through them. You can bet it was a fight getting them on without getting our heads kicked in. Since then he’s been pretty quiet as long as we keep our distance.
“Just no other way to keep him from taking off again. Hated to do it to such a fine animal but there was no other way,” he said nodding toward the hobbles. “Anyway, he’s not my problem any more,” Goldie said with a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, laddie, you are his owner now! Way I see it, by giving him to you I’ll rid myself of two problems: I won’t have to train him, and he won’t be ‘round to stir up me mares any more.”
Madigan started to protest, but Goldie stopped him with a wave of the hand.
“Captain, I’ve not forgotten the time I was laying in that buffalo wallow with only one bullet left and Sioux all around ready to take me scalp.
“I was just getting ready to put that bullet in me brain when you came a riding and shootin’ right through them Injuns. If you remember, you brought me a horse that day and I’ve never forgotten.”
“You thick-skinned old Indian fighter! That was your own horse I brought you!” Madigan laughed.
“If you remember, Captain, it belonged to those Sioux when you grabbed it, so I’m just returning the favor. I’ll not take no for an answer,” he added, rolling up his sleeves in a mock show of anger.
Well, that buckskin was a mighty fine horse and Madigan wasn’t too fond of walking. And besides, it wasn’t going to be a picnic getting this horse to wear a saddle, let alone keeping himself in that saddle.
“I guess you talked me into it,” he said shaking his head. “I reckon now it’s either me breakin’ him or him breakin’ me.”
For the next two weeks Madigan worked with the buckskin in the evenings. During the day he’d ride out with Goldie or one of his men on one of the extra mares, cleaning out the water holes and doing whatever else needed tending.
Gradually the stallion came around to Madigan’s way of thinking, but not until he’d thrown him a good number of times. After a while he came to realize Madigan wasn’t going to give up, and he let him climb into the saddle with just a little resistance. He even seemed to like Madigan’s presence around him. Before long they were riding out for miles at a time, the powerful stallion enjoying it as much as the man.
Madigan spent so much time with the horse he almost forgot about O’Neill. At any rate, he wasn’t going off half-cocked for revenge anymore. Besides, Madigan knew that sooner or later O’Neill would come to him no matter where he was.
Then one cool morning it was time for him to say good-bye to Goldie and his men. By nightfall, he was twenty miles out on his way to Cooper Springs where he camped by a little stream while the buckskin grazed nearby.
He stayed for a few days at the little town of Cooper Springs, getting new supplies and a packhorse, then decided to get on with his life. A friend once offered him a job on his ranch in California. He’d never been to California but had heard many stories of riches to be gotten there for the taking. Madigan was willing to take his share as long as it didn’t belong to anyone who came first.
The ranch down California way seemed like a blessing. He knew it would mean hard work, but he never ran from good, honest work in his life. Madigan even planned to bypass the gold fields on his way to the ranch. Course, a man on the move for weeks on end may get a little crossed up now and then, so no tellin’ where he might wander through in the days ahead.
He was riding along lost in his thoughts when the buckskin shied, then perked his ears forward. The trail he was on didn’t show much use. Madigan liked it that way when he was a mind to get someplace. To his right, up a small slope, was a stand of pine along with a few boulders scattered here and there.
He moved the buckskin and his packhorse into the trees and waited, for the stallion also sensed something ahead that might mean trouble. When you lived as Madigan did, you learned to take a good long look before you leaped. So he waited for whatever spooked the buckskin to either show itself or move away.
There were grizzly in this part of the country, and the last thing he wanted to do was come upon a sow with her cubs in tow. If surprised, they might charge anything that looked like a threat to them.
When a grizzly came at you, there wasn’t much chance for you to outrun her. For short distances, Madigan heard tell they could outrun a horse. Maybe so, maybe not, but he wasn’t in a hurry to find out.
Wasn’t long before some dust showed down the trail. From the looks of it, he guessed two, maybe three riders were coming. Madigan slipped the thong off the hammer of his Colt, then checked to make sure it was loaded. It was, so he placed it back in its holster, but not as tight as it had been before. He also checked his Winchester. It never paid to get careless.
If it was trouble coming he would be ready, at least as ready as a man could be, and Madigan didn’t have long to wait. Three riders were walking their horses along the trail below him. He hadn’t been seen yet, so he backed the buckskin further into the trees and waited.
“What in the heck!” Madigan said disgustedly to himself when he saw that the riders trailed two women prisoners along with them. He bit his lip hard to keep back the anger when he saw that both the women were unclothed, hands tied together in front of them, their skin burned dark from the sun.
The prisoners, both on one horse, were forced to ride between the two men in the lead, while the other man followed up behind. It was a dangerous situation and Madigan would have to act fast if he was going to do the women any good. It seemed like forever before they got within range, so all he could do was wait. And the longer Madigan waited, the more furious he got.
Madigan let out a silent curse as he pulled his rifle out of its scabbard while he nudged the buckskin into plain view of the riders below.
“Hold up down there!” he ordered as he took a bead on the hombre closest to him. The rider was an ugly beast of a man with a long scar across his forehead, a Mexican with dirty hair to match his clothes. When he turned toward Madigan he smiled with black teeth, a stub of a dead cigar protruding from between his lips. The riders stopped.
“What you want up there? We do you no harm!”
“Cut those women loose!” Madigan ordered as he levered a round into his rifle.
Scar Face turned sideways in his saddle and nudged his horse forward out of line with the women. Wiping his arm across his forehead, he grinned back at Madigan.
“You not understand! These our wives! They been unfaithful to us. We only teach them a lesson.” While he talked the second man eased up beside him, the third man staying behind.
“We mean you no harm. Why you not come down so we can talk? Maybe you want women for yourself?”
Both men laughed, and as they did the second rider casually eased his horse up behind the man with the scar. At the same instant one of the women pulled her hands to her mouth in fear. It was all the warning Madigan needed. He fired, then quickly levered another round into the chamber of his smoking Winchester.44–40. It was not needed, for the bullet hit true, knocking the scar-faced man out of his saddle and into the rider behind him. Both fell to the ground with a thud and lay still.
What the hell did he get himself into this time, Madigan wondered as he assessed the situation, still keeping the rifle to his shoulder in case he needed to fire again.
In the moment it took for the last man to realize what had happened, the two women spun their horse around and kicked it into action, running their gelding headlong into the Mexican’s mount, knocking the rider off balance. As he fell to the ground in a heap, the two women were on him in an instant. Before Madigan could stop them, the younger of the two females threw herself over the Mexican’s body, pinning him down while the other woman picked up a large rock and brought it crashing down on his skull with a sickening whack, killing him instantly.
Two of the men were dead, of that there was no doubt. The man that was knocked off his horse when Madigan shot Scar Face was not moving either. Could be playing dead or have the wind knocked out of him, Madigan thought. He rode slowly down toward the man, keeping his rifle at the ready in case of a trick.
Getting closer, he could see where the bullet entered Scar Face’s chest. The man laying under him still worried Madigan though. He turned his horse so that he came around behind the outlaw in case the man might try something. This way the bandit would have to move his dead friend from on top of him to get a clear shot. Madigan wasn’t about to take any more chances than he had to.
All the worry was for nothing. As Madigan rode up behind the outlaw, he could see he was no threat to him or anyone else. The bullet that killed his friend had gone all the way through. As Madigan suspected, the second man was trying to pull one of the oldest tricks in the book-drawing his gun while unseen behind another. The Mexican’s gun was still gripped tightly in his lifeless hand.
He had leaned down for more cover at the same time Madigan shot through the man in front of him. Madigan’s bullet hit him full in the mouth and had blown out the back of his neck. The sight made Madigan sick to his stomach and he gasped for air.
The women were sitting by the man they had killed. As Madigan approached they eyed him suspiciously, but made no move and said nothing.
“You’re safe now,” he said as he stepped down from his horse while keeping a safe distance, for he had witnessed what the women could do. Bending over while keeping an eye on the women, he withdrew a knife from one of the dead men’s belts and threw it to them.
“Here, cut yourselves loose. I’ll get you something to wear.”
The women grabbed the knife and cut each other’s bonds. Madigan tried not to look at their nakedness, while at the same time being aware of any threatening moves they made. After cutting themselves free, they just sat there, their eyes following his every move.
To his surprise, the outlaws’ horses had stayed where the men dropped. He went over and took the bedrolls from two of them.
“Here, see what you can do with these,” he said as he tossed the bedrolls to the women. They gathered the blankets up and with the knife soon fashioned a serape by cutting a hole in the center of each blanket, then pulled it over their heads, tying the sides closed with short strands of rope.
While they were busy clothing themselves, Madigan took a short shovel from his pack to bury the bodies with. As he dug he still kept a watchful eye on the women who were now fully covered.
For the first time since he saw them, he realized that they were not Mexicans or Anglos. Their features were different from any he’d seen. They could be Indians, but none that he knew of. Maybe they belonged to a tribe of desert dwellers. Madigan did not know and he didn’t plan on finding out; for he would bury the outlaws and be on his way.
The outlaws’ horses would carry the women to wherever they wished to go. The horses! A sudden thought struck Madigan. Each horse carried saddlebags and each saddlebag was bulging. What were these men carrying? Did they rob a bank, or maybe a prospector that hit it big? He dropped the shovel and walked to a horse that was grazing beside the trail. The women still watched his every move.
Opening the flap, he was shocked into disbelief. As the sunlight flooded the inside of the bag, he was momentarily blinded by the reflection of gold! Not gold ore or gold nuggets, but hundreds of small gold figurines and utensils!
He quickly checked the other bag and found the same thing. He ran to the next horse, almost scaring it away. Madigan forced himself to stop. Moving slowly, he gained the animal’s confidence and was able to check the contents of its saddlebags as well. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as more gold was uncovered. It couldn’t be, but it was! He was breathing hard as the third pair of saddlebags revealed the same treasure. He had to stop to catch his breath. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars here-all his! He was richer than he ever dreamed of being. The job in California had no meaning now. He could buy the biggest ranch in the state of Texas if he’d a mind to!
Then, he remembered the women. They would know about the gold. Maybe it was theirs. Maybe he should kill them. Yes, he could kill and bury them. No one would know. He could melt the gold down and say he made a big strike and smeltered the ore himself. It was done sometimes. No one would care.
His hand went to his gun. Just two quick shots and he would have it all. He would be rich! Rich enough to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. The women seemed to sense what he had in mind. The fear showed in their eyes, yet they remained calm, unmoving.
Then reality hit him. He would not only be rich, he would also be a murderer! The women stood a dozen yards away, and for the first time Madigan saw how beautiful they were. They both had silky black hair, the younger one’s grew halfway down her back, and the other’s was shoulder length. They were both slim, but well developed, with skin that seemed smooth and unblemished, from what Madigan could see under the dirt, unlike most Indians whose skin was burnt dry from the sun and wind.
Then there were their eyes, those beautiful eyes. A man could lose himself in their eyes. And when he looked into the eyes of the younger one, a feeling came over him the likes of nothing he had ever felt before.
He also saw knew they were not afraid anymore. Somehow they knew he was not a man to kill for the sake of gold. Madigan stood there a long while, his mind full of shame for even thinking such a horrible thought.
Madigan instinctively knew the gold figurines belonged to the women, or the women’s people, and it meant far more to them than all the gold in the world could to him. He let his gun drop back into its holster. Then quickly, before changing his mind, he took a saddlebag from one of the Mexican’s horses and placed it over one of the other saddlebags. This way one horse carried two saddlebags and the other horse carried the third bag. He took the reins, and stooping, gathered up a canteen that fell when Scar Face was shot off his horse. He shook it; it was full. This he placed over the pommel of one of the saddles, then he handed the reins to the women.
“Here,” he said with a self-conscious smile.
I must be crazy, he thought. The younger one reached out and took the reins. For a moment their eyes met. This woman, like no other he’d ever known, stirred something within him and he knew he would never be the same again. The older woman said something to her that he could not understand, then turned to Madigan and in a kind of sign language asked him to wait for a moment while she took something from the saddlebag that had belonged to Scar Face.
Many Indians speak both their native tongue as well as English but prefer to not let on that they understand what is being said. Madigan expected this was how it was with these women, but did not let it show. They had good reason to not trust anyone right now.
What the older woman took from the saddlebag was a little figurine of what looked to him like a man. Unlike the others that he’d seen, it was made out of gold and silver. The figurine was masterfully made, the top half being gold, the bottom being of silver.
She reached for the knife that he’d given her earlier. Madigan quickly stepped back a few paces, not knowing what she was about to do. Both women smiled at his caution. With the knife, the woman pried the little man in half. To his amazement the figurine came apart, not in two pieces, but in three. One part was all gold. The bottom piece was silver, but from the middle came a ring of both silver and gold.
She held this out to him, indicating for Madigan to put it on his finger. He took the ring from her and tried it on. It fit perfectly. Both women placed their hands over his and slowly said what he took to be some kind of a prayer. Then the older of the two took from the top of the figurine a white powder. It came freely into her hand and she pinched some between her fingers and placed it on her tongue, then motioned for him to do the same. Madigan didn’t think it could hurt, so he followed suit. Then the women sat down on the ground, and he did the same.
What were these strange women doing? Why had they been captured in the first place? Where’d all the gold come from and where would they take it? There were many questions he wanted to ask but knew not how. He was torn between his conscience and his need to know. And maybe a little greed.
Madigan awoke from the cold many hours later. The women were gone, along with the gold, but to his surprise the horses were picketed by a small creek a few dozen yards away. He looked down and saw that the ring was still on his finger.
“So it was not a dream,” he said aloud. Trying to stand up, he felt lightheaded. The powder, he thought.
Judging by the moon overhead, Madigan surmised it must be around ten in the evening. He hadn’t eaten since morning and his stomach was growling something awful. Looking for a place to build a small fire, he was startled to find that wood was already piled within a small circle of stones. The wood was dry and all he would have to do was strike a match to start it ablaze. Whoever piled the wood had been careful to use wood that would not cause any smoke, although he wasn’t worried about anyone seeing it this late at night.
He also noticed that he wasn’t in the place where he had been when he first saw the outlaws earlier. Somehow, he’d been moved into a little depression in the earth surrounded by trees. Madigan doubted whether anyone would be able to see the light from the fire either.
He took a slab of bacon from his pack and sliced it into several long strips, then cooked it in his cast-iron skillet along with some beans he’d saved from another meal. He ate until he was full, then spread his blanket out for the night.
In the morning he would try to find some of the answers to the many questions that raced through his mind. While he lay there trying to think, he felt the strangest sensation that he was being watched. Still feeling surprisingly tired for all the sleep he’d gotten, Madigan closed his eyes and drifted off to dreams of golden towns where there was so much gold that plain dirt was valued far more.
He had always been an early riser, so at first light he was already drinking a hot cup of coffee. After finishing a second cup, he poured the remaining coffee over the fire, and walked down to the creek to rinse the pot out.
Madigan still felt that he was being watched, but shrugged it off as his imagination. He was in a hurry to get on his way and if, in fact, someone were keeping an eye on him, they would have to move fast to keep up. He planned to make a lot of distance before sundown.
Madigan had just finished saddling up when he heard voices not far away. He lay down in the dirt and inched his way forward through the low bushes until he could see where the sound was coming from. Down on the trail, not a hundred yards below him, were a dozen or more riders. None of them looked friendly, so he stayed hidden as best he could. All but two of the men were on horseback. The two on foot were bent over as they walked, looking for sign. Every few steps they would wave the riders forward. Madigan held his breath as they approached the place where he had buried the three men.
Instinctively, he slipped the thong from the hammer of his Colt, wishing that he’d also brought his rifle with him. To his surprise, the two men walked right over the grave as if it wasn’t even there!
Why didn’t they see the grave, he wondered. He’d made no attempt to hide it. Just dug a single hole for the bodies, rolled them in, then covered it up with dirt and piled rocks on top to keep the animals out. You could hardly miss it on horseback, let alone on foot.
Behind him the buckskin was growing restless and stomped his foot on the hard-packed ground. To Madigan it sounded like cannon fire and he hoped the men below didn’t hear it. He lay very still, waiting and watching while the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, every fiber of his being alive. Then the packhorse snorted!
At the sound of the noise, one of the trackers below looked up. He gave a sign for the other men to do the same. Those on horseback turned to see where the man was looking, and he was looking straight at Madigan! Several men drew their rifles, getting ready for any trouble that might come their way.
Madigan held his breath for what seemed like hours. He dared not move even an eyelid for fear of being seen. Silently he prayed the horses would be still. Then off to his side he caught movement. He could not risk moving, for to do so would surely give himself away to those below. Again Madigan caught movement off to his right, and a little behind him. Had a rider been sent ahead to scout the sides of the trail?
Madigan knew that he must have a plan; his life depended on it. He thought long and hard and decided if the time came, he’d roll to his left while drawing his gun. A quick shot and he would be on his feet and running, then up on the buckskin and he’d ride for the hills. He was bothered by the fact that he might have to leave some of his belongings behind, but better to be alive without them than dead with them.
The movement to his right was getting closer. Madigan tensed, ready for action. More of the men below had drawn their guns. On the count of five he would roll and fire, hoping to surprise whoever it was. He started to count to steady his nerves.
Three, four, he silently counted. . five. The Colt came easily into his hand and he thumbed the hammer back as he rolled. In one smooth motion he brought the gun up to bear on the target.
The man was crouched down, rifle in hand, trying to find where he was. His back was toward Madigan, but it was evident what his intentions were. Madigan half-smiled as he watched the man, but he knew that time was running out. If any of the men below got curious, they might ride up to see what was happening. Madigan could not afford to take that chance.
“What are you looking for?” Madigan asked quietly. To his surprise, the man whirled and fired at the sound of his voice. The bullet kicked up dirt less than two feet from where he lay on the ground. Madigan squeezed off a shot. The man was picked up and thrown back from the impact of the bullet. For an instant Madigan started to fire again, but the rifle dropped from the man’s grasp as he fell backward, like a tree fallen from a woodsman’s ax.
Madigan glimpsed the men below running for cover. In an instant he was up and running while firing another shot in the direction of the men below to make them keep their heads down a little longer. He jumped in the saddle and wheeled the buckskin around so he could grab the packhorse’s rope. The shooting had spooked the animals some and they were both ready to run. He pointed them toward the mountains to the west and gave the buckskin its head. Even though the packhorse’s load was light, it was all it could do to keep from holding the big stallion back.
Madigan knew that within a few minutes he would have to bring the buckskin to a walk to let the pack animal rest, and if worse came to worst, he would have to cut the animal loose and let the buckskin carry him to safety. Or he might try another trick. All he would need was a little room between the gunmen and himself.
Looking over his shoulder he could see no one following. So he brought the horses to a slow gallop to conserve their wind. Ahead of him was a broad plain that appeared to stretch for several miles before it began a climb into the east side of the Rockies. He headed out across it, and glancing back every so often, he soon saw a cloud of dust showing where there was nothing minutes before.
The riders obviously had discovered his escape and were now intent on catching him. A picture flashed through Madigan’s mind of a fox being chased by the hounds. The only difference was this fox wore long teeth.
Madigan guessed he must be at least a mile-and-a-half ahead of the men following behind. A little further and the horses could get a rest, and if things went well, he would give his pursuers second thoughts.