O’Neill couldn’t believe his luck. He and James Thomas had ridden out hours ahead of the rest of the gang. The trail was dusty and little wind stirred to move the dust away. They were in broken country, the trees slowly dying away leaving little else but rock and red-walled canyons. A thundercloud loomed over the mountains a few miles to the west, threatening rain and the possibility of flash floods.
Thomas, who rode slightly behind O’Neill, marveled at the rich color displayed around him, while O’Neill hardly seemed to notice or care. He was like a man possessed with one purpose, one reason for living-to find the treasure. But even more than that, he was obsessed with the idea of killing the man called Madigan.
The day was hot, and from time to time O’Neill’s temper flared, leaving Thomas to wonder why he had volunteered to come along. For two days they had ridden hard, only taking time to rest the horses and leave trail markers at crucial points along the way for the others to follow.
Every so often the two men would climb high on the rocks above to look over the trail ahead. This time it unexpectedly paid off. There on the trail below, resting his horses, was the man O’Neill hated most in the world-Sam Madigan, the man O’Neill had sworn a vengeance to kill.
“Give me your rifle,” O’Neill demanded of Thomas in a gruff voice, already reaching a dirty hand for the rifle the other man held. O’Neill had been too lazy to carry his own.
Thomas hesitated before unwillingly giving it up. Did O’Neill see something on the trail below or was it just a ploy to disarm him, Thomas wondered. He thought about the events of the last few days and grew uneasy inside.
As the two men rode westward, Thomas would catch O’Neill mumbling to himself. It was hard to make out what he was saying, but Thomas was able to piece together enough to know O’Neill didn’t want to share the gold with anyone more than he had to.
At times O’Neill would stare at Thomas with a cruel smile on his face, then quickly turn away saying nothing. It gave Thomas the creeps. Now O’Neill had his rifle.
“What’s down there?” Thomas asked, expecting trouble from the man before him.
“Madigan! Sam Madigan! I’m going to kill that bastard before he can get away again,” O’Neill growled, levering a round into the Winchester.
This was the perfect opportunity O’Neill had been waiting for. Dropping flat to the ground, he crawled slowly to the edge of the cliff, careful not to stir up any dust and give himself away to the man he was about to kill.
It could not have been better. From his position high on the rocks above, O’Neill had a clear shot. The sun was high and slightly over his back and anyone looking in his direction would be blinded by the light.
Ever so cautiously, he slid the barrel of the rifle into position, and braced it against the broken remains of a tree that had long since perished.
O’Neill’s breathing was hard and fast. He deliberately drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, then another several times more before being satisfied that he was calm enough to make the kill.
Carefully lining the sights on his target below and taking one last breath, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped in his hands, the explosion deafening to his ears, the blast momentarily obscuring his view of the man below. When the smoke cleared enough to see, he was rewarded with the sight of his most hated enemy lying on his back in the dirt below.
“I hit the bastard!” O’Neill yelled excitedly throwing the rifle back to Thomas. “Let’s get down there and finish him off.”
It was a long and dangerous climb down to their horses over loose and crumbling rock with little, if any, handholds to steady themselves by. It had been much easier going up, and O’Neill cursed the distance as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Once in his haste he slipped toward the edge of the cliff but caught himself just in time. Only his hat suffered the fall and O’Neill cursed again. Finally they were down.
Riding cautiously, they approached the spot where Madigan lay, their guns at the ready. “Damn, he’s gone!” yelled O’Neill as he suddenly turned his horse and rode for cover, not wanting to be the victim of his own trap. Spinning his horse around a large boulder, O’Neill quickly dismounted and threw himself up against the side of the huge rock.
Nothing stirred except Thomas running up beside him.
“Where the hell is he?” Thomas demanded.
“Your guess is as good as mine. One thing’s for sure, he’s not dead!” O’Neill swore, a terrified tone to his voice.
“What you gonna do now?” Thomas sneered, not liking the position he’d been forced into by none of his own doing.
“You can start by shutting your yap while I think this thing through,” O’Neill said irritably. “He’s out there and he’s hurt. I know I hit him, so he can’t have gone far!”
The sudden shock of the bullet threw Madigan to the ground with a crushing blow. For a time he lay there unable to move. The sun in his eyes forced him to close them while he gathered his thoughts. That he’d been shot he was sure, and the realization of it made him all the madder for being so careless.
Madigan doubted it was Indians that did the shooting. He had seen no sign of unshod ponies for the last two days, and the Navajo had been at peace with the white man for several years now. Of course, you could never rule out some renegades being loose in these parts, but they usually rushed you as a bunch.
As the initial shock quickly wore off, Madigan forced himself to his feet. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood and he felt unsteady. The buckskin was standing a few feet away, and Madigan staggered over to the horse. Whoever tried to kill him would not be long in trying to finish the job, so his only chance was to escape.
The shot had come from high up in the rocks. The way he figured it, the would-be killer, after watching to see if Madigan moved, was thinking he’d killed him with the first shot. More than not, the killer was on his way down to make sure.
The buckskin moved nervously toward his master, smelling the blood on Madigan’s shirt. Taking hold of the saddle horn, it took all of Madigan’s strength to pull himself into the saddle. Once there, the big horse moved off on his own accord, it being all Madigan could do just to stay on. The packhorse followed a short distance behind.
Fighting to stay conscious, Madigan vaguely heard hoofbeats in the distance, then nothing as a curtain of darkness fell over him.
Pete LaRue and his partner had been riding slowly through the twisting canyon floor when the distant sound of a rifle shot came echoing off the canyon walls.
What do you make of that?” Shorty asked his friend.
“Maybe a hunter, although I haven’t seen a deer track since we entered these canyons.”
Me either,” Shorty replied matter of fact. “You think it might be O’Neill and the boys?”
“Who else would it be way out here? Nobody but fools be riding in this country,” LaRue said, shaking his head in disgust.
Lightning cracked off in the distance. “Looks like we’re in for a storm. Better find some shelter on high ground before it gets here,” LaRue suggested.
The two men spurred their horses to a gallop, hoping to find an overhang of rock to shield them from the inevitable downpour. Finding such a place, they picketed the horses out of the elements before stretching out on their bedrolls to wait out the rain that was already upon them.
“At any rate,” Shorty began, “the storm will wipe out our tracks. And since we haven’t been keeping strictly to the trail, it’ll make it hard for O’Neill to follow us, if that’s what he’s doing.” The two men laughed at the thought of O’Neill left with nothing to follow.
“Course, he may not be following us at all,” LaRue said seriously. “Didn’t he say the gold was somewhere around here?”
“That’s right,” Shorty confirmed. “Now about that gold. How do you propose we find it?”
LaRue thought for a moment. “I remember where the old prospector’s cabin is. The prospector was killed less than a mile from it with an arrow the likes of nothing I’ve seen any Indian use before. The way I figure, the gold has got to be within a few miles of that spot. Why else would the old man have been killed? He prospected around these parts for years without any trouble, then the day he dies he has a gold figurine clutched in his hand.” LaRue stared off into the distance in deep thought. Finally he spoke again. “I think he stumbled onto the location of the treasure and was killed to keep its whereabouts secret.”
“Could be,” Shorty said, nodding his head in agreement. “But that doesn’t tell me how we’re going to find it for ourselves and at the same time keep our skins intact.”
“I wish I knew,” LaRue admitted. “I wish I knew.”
The rain came down in a great deluge, and the two men pressed further back under the overhang to stay dry while the horses put their backs to the wind in an attempt to ward off the chill.
It was growing stormier and LaRue gathered some dead brush from a dry crevice in the rocks and made a small fire. Both men agreed that it was wise to make camp here for the night. They were soon settled in for the long hours ahead, while the rain beat a drumroll on the ground a few feet away.
Madigan came to again, barely clinging to the saddle. The big buckskin was stepping out slowly, picking his way through a trail bordered by huge boulders and strewn with rubble from crumbling rock. Blood slowly dripped down the front of Madigan’s shirt and onto his leg, spreading out in a darkening stain.
Madigan’s head swam in a sea of pain that was so intense he felt he could not go on any further, yet he had to. The survival instinct within him was strong and he could not give in to the pain any more than he would give in to the man who had shot him. Whoever it was would surely be on this trail trying to finish the job, and Madigan didn’t want to stick around and give the bushwhacker another chance at him.
The ground opened up on both sides of the path as Madigan leaned over in the saddle to better stay on. Lightning flashed in the distance and the wind began to stir up some. It was evident a storm was brewing and Madigan felt a little relief knowing the rain would wash out his tracks. If only he could keep ahead of his pursuer long enough to let the rain do its work.
He rode on for several more miles before he felt the first raindrops upon his back. The wet coolness was refreshing and gave him new strength to ride on. The big horse beneath him sensed the urgency to find shelter and broke into a fast trot toward some rough-looking country ahead.
Coming to a dry creek bed, Madigan hesitated before crossing. The banks at either side were steep and it would be difficult for the packhorse to scale the far embankment. With the rain, it was only a matter of time before the roaring waters of a flash flood filled the creek to overflowing, taking everything caught in its path along with it. There would be little warning when the waters came, maybe a few seconds at best, no more.
Madigan agonized over the decision. If he started the horses across and the waters came upon them, there would be but seconds for them to get up and out the other side before being washed away to their doom. Madigan had little fear of the buckskin not making it. He was a powerful animal able to take care of himself, even with a load on his back.
It was the packhorse Madigan worried about. Loaded heavily with supplies, it might not be able to carry them up the other side. Still, if he could get to the other side, Madigan would be safe from anyone following as long as the rain held out. In his weakened state, he didn’t have a prayer of fighting them off. He would have to try to make it across.
The rain increased in intensity as they slid down the stream side to the creek bottom already turning to a quagmire of slippery mud from the barrage of water falling from the heavens. The buckskin kept his footing, but the packhorse, top-heavy from the supplies on his back, was soon down and trying to scramble back to his feet.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he was up and moving toward the far side of the stream, but not before Madigan heard the ominous sound of roaring water bearing down on them. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Madigan whirled the buckskin around behind the other animal and gave the packhorse a slap on its rump. The horse lurched ahead and made it halfway up the bank before losing its footing and sliding back to the creek bed.
Taking a quick look upstream, Madigan could see debris being thrown in the air from the surge of water crashing down from the mountains not far away. There was only one thing left for him to do: cut the pack loose and save the horse. Luckily, his Sharps, along with ammunition and a few other things he used every day, were tied in a smaller pack on top. Grabbing loose the ties, Madigan pulled this pack in front of him while he cut the main pack from the animal’s back letting it fall free. In a split second the two horses raced up the bank and a hundred yards beyond to freedom.
They were safe for moment, and Madigan turned in his saddle in time to see a gigantic wall of water rush past where moments before they were trying, almost in vain, to climb out of its way. A great emotional release rose within him, overshadowing the anger he felt at losing the supplies.
O’Neill and Thomas held their ground behind the large boulder they hoped would shield them from the onslaught of bullets they felt was sure to come.
“I know I hit him,” O’Neill said as he turned to Thomas, expecting him to confirm what he himself was not sure of.
“You saw him go down, didn’t you?” he pleaded.
Thomas stared at O’Neil, who he was beginning to despise. O’Neill, the great leader, the one that was going to make them all rich or get them all killed. O’Neill, the coward!
Thomas was no newcomer to violence, growing up in east Texas, the son of a card cheat and womanizer, his mother a drunk that often found herself waking up in the morning with a stranger. Finally, it was the wrong stranger and she wound up being beaten to death.
After she died, James and his father drifted from town to town playing the cheap dance halls of the cattle towns, keeping just ahead of the law. When James was twelve, his pa got caught dealing from the bottom of the deck by a big, raw-boned cowhand named Ed Piker. In an instant, the older Thomas lay dead on the floor, still clutching the card that cost him his life.
With his pa gone, James wandered from one cow camp to another learning the trade of the cowboy. He learned another thing too-how to handle a gun. Later he found there was more money to be made with a gun than punching cows, and he left the cowboy life for that of the gunslinger.
Now years later, here he was, forced to back up a madman who he was sure wouldn’t think twice about shooting him in the back if it would serve his purpose.
If I get out of this mess I’m in, I think I’ll just keep riding, Thomas thought to himself before answering O’Neill.
“No, I didn’t see anything, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” Thomas smiled inwardly at not giving O’Neill any satisfaction. O’Neill scowled but said nothing. Within minutes his life had changed from triumph to what very well could be tragedy.
Madigan was out there somewhere close by and he had the advantage of knowing exactly where the other two men were. O’Neill began to sweat. How did this happen?
One minute his enemy was in his sights, at O’Neill’s mercy. Now it was the other way around and he wondered if he would live to see another day.
O’Neill glanced around nervously, trying to find a way out of the predicament he had gotten himself into. One side of the boulder he was behind lay up against a cliff that rose over a hundred feet straight up, blocking an escape in that direction.
In front, the ground lay flat, ringed by broken rock, large boulders, and crevices cut deep into the face of the cliff side opposite O’Neill’s hiding place. From his viewpoint while on top of the mesa, O’Neill knew that the canyon narrowed further on, making a perfect spot for an ambush if one so desired.
Considering this, his best chance for freedom would be a mad dash back the way he had come, hoping against all hope that surprise would be on his side. A man bursting out at a dead run might gain a few precious seconds, and those seconds might be all that would keep him alive.
Without warning, O’Neill swung to the saddle and spurred his mount out in the open. Laying over in the saddle to make a smaller target, he slapped leather to the charging animal and hung on, expecting the sound of gunfire at any second. None came.
James Thomas was not in the least bit shocked at being deserted by O’Neill. The man was a coward through and through. And like all yellow bellies, he would not think twice about betraying his friends. So O’Neill’s actions were for the most part foreseeable.
Thomas did have to laugh at the sight of O’Neill hunched over the saddle, his big butt in the air as if it was some kind of shield to hide behind. Thomas thought about shooting O’Neill himself, then letting O’Neill try to explain to the others how he got a bullet in the butt.
As for James, he had taken all he was going to take and was about to ride out of the picture forever. He’d drift down El Paso way. The cowboy life wasn’t a bad life and the company was a whole lot better.
The storm lasted through the night, lightning casting grotesque shadows on the walls and rocks around them, filling the hollow where LaRue and Shorty slept with mysterious dancing spirits of the night. The wind moaned over and through the rocks, singing a song of loneliness to the Navajo gods.
The small fire had long since gone out, leaving the coffee pot to get cold, while Shorty shivered, trying to sleep. Always the one to be cold even on the warmest of nights, he was now rolled up in his two wool blankets and freezing.
Lightning cracked, and Shorty sat up abruptly. Was it the noise of the lightning that woke him or was it something else? Times like these were the one thing Shorty could never get used to.
It wasn’t the darkness around him that bothered him, he thought as he adjusted the blankets around his legs; it was the confounded damp, miserable nights he was forced to endure that were the worst.
He was just getting ready to roll over and go back to sleep when he was again startled awake. He listened, but wasn’t really sure he had heard anything.
On nights like these a man’s mind tends to wander, and he might believe he heard something when it was only the wind. It was no use trying to sleep, so he tossed the blankets aside and got to his feet.
Gathering a pile of sticks, he quickly built a small mound of wood for a fire, when a noise from the darkness again caught his attention.
He immediately froze, straining to hear. For a long minute he listened before he heard it again. He tried to remember what it reminded him of. Then it hit him. It was the sound of a dozen horses walking by in the night.
He should have known instantly. But with the wind and rain, it was hard to hear clearly. Yes, he was sure of it now. Somewhere close by, a small band of horses was moving by in the dark. Whether the horses had riders was impossible to tell and by morning their tracks would be washed clean by the rain.
Shorty peered into the night trying to see, but to no avail. Except for the occasional flashes of lightning, the night was just too black to see anything. Gathering a couple of small pebbles, he tossed them at his friend a few feet away.
“I’m awake,” LaRue whispered.
“Did you hear them?”
LaRue came slowly to his feet and joined Shorty where he stood, gun in hand.
“What do you make of it?” LaRue asked.
Shorty thought for a moment, still straining for the slightest sound. All was quiet now.
“Sounded like maybe a dozen horses moving through,” Shorty answered. “Beats me what they’re up to. Horses usually seek shelter in weather like this.”
“Indians?”
“Not likely. At least not this time of night. And from what I was led to believe, most of them don’t ride horses in these parts. Could be wrong about the horses-wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong. But then again I never knew of Indians running together in such large numbers in the dark. They don’t like to move around in the dark-something to do with the spirits of the dead out at night.
“Of course. If not Indians, who else could it be?” LaRue moved closer to his friend before hazarding an answer. “Could be the ones we’re looking for.”
“If it’s them, we don’t have far to look. It seems they’ve found us.”
“The question is,” LaRue said in a serious voice, “what do they intend to do with us, now that we have them right where they want us?”
“Or it could be O’Neill and his bunch,” Shorty threw in. “It’d be just like him to make them ride all night, wet or dry.”
“He’s crazy enough at that,” LaRue confirmed.