Behind a huge oak tree a few yards from the edge of the trail, the lean, dark figure of a man in war paint stood watching. Before him a lone rider on a magnificent buckskin was advancing slowly, a heavy-laden packhorse trailing along behind. The man rode along easily, almost nonchalantly. Yet the Indian knew that the rider would not be taken by surprise, for it was told in all their lodges of how this soldier fought bravely the Sioux, Shoshone, Ute, and sometimes the ruthless Apache.
This white warrior that sat his horse with the pride and confidence borne from many years and many battles would not be taken off guard. But the Indian had planned ahead. He was now joined by several other tribesmen who had come from an even larger group several hundred yards away. Then they waited for the enemy to get within striking distance.
Their plan was a simple one to say the least. Since none of the Indians dared engage in hand-to-hand combat with this man, they planned to let him get within bow range and kill him by arrows shot from a number of directions.
Madigan’s reputation was great amongst plains Indians, and even with these who lived and hunted the valleys between the mountains. Though it was considered a great honor to touch one’s enemy while he was still alive and able to fight back, none of the Indians felt the urge to count coup on this great enemy before them.
The great buckskin had warned Madigan of the danger long before he sensed it himself. To turn back would almost certainly bring the Indians down around him in great numbers. For to face a brave enemy was one thing, and Madigan knew, like wild animals sometimes afraid to attack head-on if their prey is strong, they would not hesitate to chase him if he ran. The scene was set and he could do nothing but play it through and hope for some break in his favor.
As they got closer to the Indians’ hiding place, the big buckskin’s ears perked up and he let out a blast of air through his wide-flared nostrils. His eyes darted from tree to tree, searching for the foul humans he smelled. These humans had the smell of fear, and the big horse wished to be given his rein so that he could carry his master fast and far from this place of fearful creatures wishing to do them harm.
Madigan and the horses were only a hundred feet away when the leader of the Indians started pulling back on his bow string. The long shaft of the arrow slid smoothly through his fingers as he drew it further back toward a spot on the right side of his chin. A few more feet and Madigan would be in the precise spot the Indians had picked for their attack. The brave glanced quickly around to make sure the others were also ready with their bows. He had carefully chosen each of them along with their hiding places to give the best possible chance of a clean kill on this enemy he was sure was about to die.
Where were the others? A moment before they had been within sight of him, yet out of sight of the enemy. Now they were nowhere to be seen, and the rider was just a few feet from the spot where they had planned to ambush him. He could not wait any longer. The Indian drew his arrow back the last few inches before he would let it fly toward its intended victim. There was no time to wonder or worry where the others were. A few more seconds and it would be too late. He must shoot now or the enemy might be lost. He would deal with the others later after he, Broken Bone, killed this mightiest of enemies by himself.
It was the Indian’s guess that the others had run, being afraid of the power this man was supposed to possess. Broken Bone would show them, show them all, that his medicine was more powerful than that of this man. He carefully aimed for a point just below Madigan’s neck, making sure to adjust his aim to allow for the movement of the horse and rider. Slowly the tension of his fingers relaxed and the arrow strained to be free.
The shaft of the arrow caught the sunlight as it flew silently through the air towards its target, flashing gold and silver as it arced downward on its flight of death. At first it seemed to go too high in the air, then at the last possible moment it dropped its nose and accelerated, only to end its errand by slamming into the Indian’s body, pinning itself and the man to the big old oak tree.
At first there was no pain, just the sensation of pressure followed by a feeling of something warm running down the Indian’s side from where the razor-sharp broad head had cut a wide channel through the man’s flesh. His fingers released the final pressure from the rear of his own arrow letting it fly free from his bow. But it was no longer aimed on a path of destruction. For when the golden arrow had entered his side, it had taken most of the Indian’s strength away. The bow in his hand dropped, allowing Broken Bone’s arrow to bury itself harmlessly in the ground at the Indian’s feet.
Broken Bone, now more dead than alive, watched as the bow fell from his hand, not understanding what had happened. This man Madigan was surely the most powerful of all men. For who but he can kill his enemies without raising a hand against them? Broken Bone’s legs bent beneath him and he sagged against the tree, held there by the arrow with the silver-and-gold point.
As Madigan rode toward the suspected ambush sight, he casually reached down and slipped the thong from his Colt. The buckskin pranced nervously under him, wanting to be done with this place. From under his hat brim Madigan surveyed the countryside on either side of the trail, looking for a hint of where the attack that he felt was imminent would take place. He was not a man to panic, yet he was no fool either. At this moment to be some other place was his greatest desire, but wishes have a habit of not coming true. So he rode on, ready to spring into action in a moment’s notice.
The great horse under him, in his haste to be through this area of danger, kicked a small rock that went skittering off to the side of the trail. The sound it made was deafening to Madigan’s ears and he was sure that at any moment Indians would appear from everywhere. He instinctively reached for his gun, but stopped himself before he had drawn it out of its holster.
Did the Indians see the move? Would it spook them into action? He held his breath and waited for a rush of bodies from everywhere. To his great surprise and relief, the attack never came. Was he imagining things, he wondered. Had he been on the trail too long? Madigan doubted it, for the buckskin had sensed peril also.
Something was there or had been, of that he was sure. But where had they gone, or were they waiting for a better chance somewhere up the path? He urged the horse into a gait, wanting to get out of this area as soon as possible. If by doing so he was hurrying into an ambush further ahead, he’d be ready. The prospect of a fight did not bother him as much as the unknowing.
The great horse again settled down to a slow walk and Madigan relaxed. Whoever or whatever it was that had scared the buckskin was no longer a threat. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was just putting the hat back on when he saw it, a flash of light maybe a mile in front and over to one side.
Playing a hunch, he quickly turned in time to see another flash of light back where he had first sensed trouble. Now Madigan knew for sure what he had suspected for the last few days. He was being watched, by whom he did not know. At any rate, they were taking a big risk following him through this hostile country. Could it be that the Indians he felt were there waiting in ambush had also seen the signals and decided to wait on those that were following?
Most of the flashes he had seen were ahead. It was only now that he had seen one behind him. It was as if they were waiting for him to come to them. For what reason he did not know. But strange as it may sound, he did not fear them, whoever they were.
As he rode on thinking about the events of the day, he leaned to one side in the saddle to watch for tracks ahead. Puffs of dust were kicked up from the buckskin’s hooves and they hung in the still mountain air as the great horse padded along.
There were no tracks to be found except from an occasional deer or elk. Then they crossed the print of a very large cougar and Madigan was glad that there was enough daylight left to be able to get miles from the big cat’s territory before having to make camp for the night.
Had it been the smell of the cougar that had unnerved the buckskin? Maybe his discomfort at being close to the mountain lion had projected to Madigan. Yes, he reasoned, that was what had frightened them. The presence of a big cat is always reason to worry. Madigan laughed at himself. Must be old age creepin’ in already, he thought. Couldn’t have been Indians after all. A lone rider seemed like easy prey for them, and they had had the perfect opportunity to take his scalp any time in the last hour. He was sure it was the puma after all. But then again, there were the flashes of light behind him.
Madigan brought the buckskin to a halt and strained his ears to listen for any sound that might give away an attack in progress. Nothing. Only the chirp of a bird in the distance reached his ears. If there had been Indians, then whoever they were waiting for had eluded them. No, it must have been the cougar after all. He pulled his rifle out of its boot just in case he ran into the feline somewhere ahead.
A sharp tug on the packhorse’s reins alerted him to trouble. Looking back he saw the pack animal regain its feet from a near fall. It had stumbled over some loose rock and now was limping. Just great, he thought. This whole trip had been nerve-racking. Now a lame pony with a big mountain lion close by and probably a hungry one at that, not to mention the distinct possibility of Indians. At least the Indians didn’t eat you.
It wouldn’t do to go any further. The packhorse’s limp was getting worse and Madigan figured he had better find a place to camp for a few days and let the hoof heal. He scouted the surrounding countryside. There were a lot of fir trees in the area interspersed with stands of scrub oak. Every so often a small canyon would appear on either side of the trail.
If a man was careful he could camp up one of those canyons and have a good view of the trail below while keeping out of sight. Might even get lucky and find one with water in it. That’d make things a whole lot easier. If not, he had several large canteens in his pack and he could always sneak down to one of the many creeks and fill them up. Even with the horses drinking there’d be enough water for a full day, and hopefully the injury would be healed up in a day or two and they’d be back on their way again.
Madigan picked a place to his left where he saw a small tear in the rocks above that was only noticeable when he was directly across from it. If he had not been looking for just such a place, he’d have missed it altogether. A rock base led up to the opening that Madigan was sure the horses could manage if he was careful. So by continuing down the trail until it crossed a rocky stretch, then doubling back to the side of the trail a dozen yards, he’d leave no telltale tracks to give himself away. In the process of backtracking, he had the opportunity to fill his water canteens and did so. Madigan only hoped the rip in the rock led to a decent camping spot that might give him shelter from prying eyes.
It was more than he had hoped for. The narrow passage opened up into a small box canyon with a waterfall at one end. To the north was a stand of fir, and behind that was a flat area just large enough to conceal the camp from anyone who might venture into the canyon. If he used dry wood for the fire, he would not have to worry about any smoke giving him away. There was even a good patch of grass along the stream for the horses to graze on. After the last week, it looked like heaven to Madigan and he was quick to settle in.
After unloading the pack, he checked the packhorse’s hoof. There on one side of the frog was a small cut that went unseen earlier when he examined the hoof for any injury. He took some water and washed it out, then took a small patch of tar that he carried for just such a purpose and put it in the sun on a rock to get hot and melt. He then unsaddled the buckskin and made camp. By this time the tar was good and hot. With a stick he placed some of this over the cut, smearing it around good to make sure it covered the whole injury, then he cooled it with some water. Now nature would have to do its magic.
While riding in, Madigan had studied the canyon walls; which were steep and went up forever. About ten feet from the top were between fifty to seventy nesting pigeons. It couldn’t be better. If anyone got above camp, the birds would warn him long before there was danger. The only place that really needed to be guarded was the entrance, and unless someone had seen him go in, there wasn’t much chance of it being found by anyone riding by. And if someone did come through, the buckskin never seemed to sleep and would give the alarm.
Before long, Madigan felt fat and sassy. His belly was full of beans and side meat and he found a soft place to settle down for the night. He wondered how many canyons like this little paradise there were around here. No doubt the Indians have camped in many of them, but he found no sign of any such camps within these walls. He finished the piece of jerky he’d been chewing on for desert, then spread the bedroll out in the soft, green grass. The horses grazed a few feet away. Madigan took one last look at the campfire to make sure it was out and closed his eyes for what he truly believed would be one of the best sleeps of his life. In a few minutes he was out to the world.
The nudge from the great buckskin awakened Madigan around two in the morning. He came instantly awake while reaching for his gun. Then he listened for all he was worth. At first he heard nothing. Then through the crisp mountain air he heard the faint sound of a baby crying.
Out here all alone a man’s mind can do funny things to him, so Madigan made no judgments until he was sure of what he was hearing. Minutes seemed to go on for hours, then he heard the sound again only this time much closer. Although it sounded like a baby crying, Madigan recognized the sound of that made by a mountain lion, or puma as they are called in the Southwest. From the pitch, Madigan knew it was a big cat. Probably the same lion whose tracks he’d seen earlier in the day.
The buckskin grew more restless but stood his ground; it looked as if the packhorse was about to run. Madigan got up and carefully caught her by the halter. Taking a short rope he tied her to a stout tree where she would be out of danger and not get in his way if he had to get off a quick shot.
Madigan levered a round into his Winchester.44-.40. There was little moonlight in the deep canyon so he knew he must find some way of spotting the cat if it came any closer. Finding his pack in the dark, he quickly pulled out a leather bag filled with black powder. When prospecting, one never knows when some powder will be needed to blast out an opening somewhere. So through habit he always kept some handy.
The mountain lion cried again, this time from just outside the entrance to Madigan’s hiding place. Now he was sure it was on the scent of the horses and that the big cat was hungry. He also knew that where the horses’ scent was strong, his would be too. Normally human scent stops a cat dead in its tracks. But if they are hurt or old and cannot hunt their normal prey, they turn to easier game. From its cry, he did not believe this cougar to be old.
Then a chilling thought struck him-rabies! He had seen many fox along the way, and wherever there was an abundance of fox, there was a high probability that there’d be some diseased animals close by. If a puma caught one of these sick animals, it would contract the sickness also.
A mountain lion with rabies feared nothing. And this cat was heading Madigan’s way! Another thing that tended to confirm his theory was the fact that this cat was making more noise than normal for a cat on the prowl. Something was wrong and he’d better be prepared to defend himself and the livestock.
First thing he did was to get a fire going, which only took him a couple of minutes. The light from the fire was somewhat reassuring, but it only lit an area of about twenty feet. The lion could get within a few yards of him and he would not be able to see it. He waited for the cougar to scream again to make sure it was still outside the small canyon, then he stepped quickly into the darkness and paced off another twenty-five feet.
Scooping out a small depression in the dirt, he poured most of the black powder into it. Then he carefully poured a trail with the rest of the powder back to where he’d be waiting for the big cat. This took some time, as he had to be sure not to leave any breaks in the powder line. Now he nervously sat down with rifle in hand to wait.
It is a unique experience to sit out in the wilderness a hundred miles from help, in the dark, with a rabid mountain lion tracking you down. There isn’t a gun made that looks big enough at these times. Madigan thought about getting the Sharps out, but if he missed the first shot, he would not have time for another.
Madigan’s lever action Winchester in.44–40 caliber would do the job if his aim was good, as long as it didn’t jam. In his haste to try for Harry O’Neill several days before, he’d inadvertently smashed the rifle into a tree in the dark. When he tried for one last shot at the bushwhacker as he was riding out, his rifle had jammed.
The next morning he cleaned it thoroughly and found that the bolt going through the cocking lever was bent. As long as he worked the lever slowly it worked all right, but if he got in a hurry it would jam. There was nothing he could do about it until he got to a town with a gunsmith. He made a mental note to work the lever as slowly as possible if a second shot was needed.
A series of short screams brought Madigan to full alert. Somewhere a short distance from him the big cougar was stalking his next meal-Madigan! The packhorse that he had wisely tied a short distance behind him was terrified. The buckskin was jittery but kept his ground. Madigan poked a stick in the fire behind him and strained to see into the darkness.
Even with all the noise the packhorse was making, he could hear the labored breathing of the puma in the darkness. He had not yet seen the glow from the cat’s eyes, which meant it was keeping well out from the fire. Madigan’s guess was that the cougar was just far enough along with rabies to slow it down some and cause it to lose its fear of man, but not far enough along to lose its natural fear of fire.
A few more hours and the cat might have just rushed in and attacked him without warning and that would have been that. Like he thought earlier, this whole trip had been very nerve-racking. He was thinking that he’d have been better off to have stayed with the army where he only had to fight Indians and Generals for a living.
The buckskin’s ears pointed forward, looking off to Madigan’s right where the fir trees were thickest. No wonder he was unable to see the feline’s eyes. The big cat was using the trees as cover and was probably right now getting ready to make his charge. The hair on the back of Madigan’s neck crawled as he grabbed a glowing stick from the fire and touched off the black powder. Even as the powder flared up, illuminating the area in a blinding flash, he only had time to see the mountain lion in full flight before it would be on him.
Madigan had no time to aim as he pulled the trigger, then dove for the ground, rolling in an effort to escape the cat’s savage claws. He knew he had missed, but the cougar was blinded by the flash and it also missed. Madigan quickly came to his knees aligning the rifle in the direction of where the cat had landed. He jerked the Winchester’s lever down to eject the spent shell and reload another.
To his shock the lever came off in his hand! He dropped the rifle and grabbed for his Colt but found only an empty holster. His side arm had been thrown clear as he rolled to avoid the puma’s attack. He retrieved the rifle and grasped it by the barrel to use as a club.
The cat was now in plain view from the light of the fire, saliva frothed from its mouth. It was crouched, ready to leap, when to Madigan’s utter astonishment, the buckskin whirled around and with a bone-crushing kick, sent the mountain lion sailing through the air.
Madigan wasted no time in looking for his Colt. Finding it by the fire, he swooped it up and fired a quick shot in the direction of the cat in hopes of scaring it off. He spent the rest of the night watching and waiting for the cougar’s return.
First light revealed one very large and very dead mountain lion less than twenty feet into the trees. The buckskin’s kick had caved in its ribs and it had probably been dead before it hit the ground.
It took some time to bury the animal and it was hard work in this rocky soil, but he finished the job after about an hour.
“Don’t want any more critters feeding off the carcass and getting sick too,” he muttered to himself. One mad mountain lion was enough to last Madigan a lifetime!
The tar was helping to heal the packhorse’s hoof and he figured in another day they’d be on their way again. And he could use some rest see’n how he didn’t sleep much last night, but there was something that bothered him about being so close to that dead cougar, even though he had buried it deep. Never knew when its mate might come ‘round, if it had a mate. The trouble was, if it did she’d sure as hell have the sickness too.
Madigan made plans just in case. First thing he did was to find some dry wood that would burn brightly. To this he added some dried branches covered with pitch from the fir trees. He made two piles of this dried wood, one at each side of camp. Now if any more trouble came his way, he could fire the wood and have plenty of light to see by for a good shot. Madigan was hoping he didn’t have anything to worry about. With the stream running through the canyon, he had no worries about water and the grass was enough for the two horses for a week or more.
About noon the next day, he decided to take a look at the trail. Never hurt to do a little scouting when you were held up for a few days. The sun was high and the shadows were short; Madigan liked it that way. A short shadow was much harder to see and right now Madigan didn’t want to be seen by anyone.
Just inside the entrance to the canyon there were some large boulders and past them a rock ledge went up the side of the cliff. Above the ledge there was an overhang, putting most of the ledge in shadow. Madigan took a good look around, then ascended to the ledge, keeping well back in the shadows so to be out of sight of anyone below.
Keeping a lookout for snakes, he was able to climb almost to the top of the cliff. By standing, he could just barely get a handhold and was able to pull himself over the top. From here it was a beautiful sight all around, and he lingered for a long while. No one was in sight below, so he moved back away from the edge and had a look at his surroundings.
From his high perch he was able to see down into the hideaway. There far below him, were the two horses grazing, and behind them the creek cascaded down the mountainside ending in a crystal clear pool of blue-green water. Madigan was pleased to see that his campsite was not visible until he moved around to the other side of the canyon rim. As Madigan got close to the far rim, he was greeted with the frenzied flight of dozens of pigeons fluttering through the air in a madcap dash to be free from his intrusion. A better alarm he could not hope for.
It was getting hot, so Madigan made a quick check around and started back down. He had just dropped onto the ledge when he caught sight of movement far down the trail from which he had come the day before.
From his vantage point, he had a sweeping view of more than three miles on either side of him. Straining to see into the light, he made out two riders and a packhorse. They were in no hurry and as he watched they would look over their shoulders from time to time. Looked like they figured to be followed. Why else would they be keeping such close track of their back trail, Madigan thought.
Madigan kept to the shadows and watched, not wanting to be seen coming down from the ledge. He only had his Colt with him. He had left the Sharps in camp, so if the riders saw him and were unfriendly, they had the advantage and could pick him off with their long guns. Finding a place to sit down out of the sun, Madigan settled in his lofty perch for however long it took for the riders to get out of sight.
Just up the trail from the opening to his canyon there was a small creek with a clear pool of cold mountain water. When the two men got to the stream they dismounted and started to make camp. This in itself didn’t bother him as they were far enough away so that the opening to Madigan’s canyon was not visible to them. As long as they didn’t get curious and start looking around, he had nothing to fear. Like most travelers in this country, they’d likely be on their way at first light.
Madigan waited for them to busy themselves before he slid to the base of the cliff and entered the canyon. The buckskin’s ears perked up as Madigan approached. Only after recognizing his master did he start grazing again.
The moon was just coming over the rim of the canyon and the night chill was already in the air when Madigan rolled out his bedroll for the night. He was tired, more from the lack of doing anything all day than from anything else. He was about to take off his boots when the buckskin looked up toward the narrow canyon entrance and blew a rush of air from his nostrils. Madigan quickly changed his boots for the moccasins he always kept with him.
Something out there had caught the great horse’s attention and he figured he’d better check it out. As he crept out into the open, the moonlight was casting eerie shadows around him and he had the feeling that he was no longer alone.