Edging his way through the narrow corridor from his hideaway, Madigan crept silently toward some rocks that would shield him from searching eyes. In the moonlight he could see the long ribbon of trail below. To his left a small campfire was burning where the two men had camped. Although he could see it from his vantage point, he doubted whether anyone on the trail below could.
To the east a horse whinnied. Madigan peered into the direction of the sound. It took some time before his vision adjusted to the changing light. Milling around about a quarter mile away, he was just able to make out a party of riders. Even in the bright moonlight he was only able to see their movements. All else was lost at this range.
Before long a form broke off from the rest and moved slowly to the west. Waiting, Madigan was soon able to see the silhouette of a single rider as the man passed less than a hundred yards from him. It didn’t take much to figure the drifter didn’t want his presence known.
The absence of hoofbeats on the hard rock told him that the rider had tied pieces of leather or the like around his horse’s hooves so they would make little noise as he rode along. It was a trick Madigan had used once to sneak away from some Indians that had it in mind to collect his scalp. Whoever the rider was, he hadn’t been born yesterday. Watching him ride past, Madigan wondered what he was up to. Then he remembered the two men camped ahead.
It didn’t take him long to realize the man had a mind of getting the drop on the camp in the dark, while the two men wouldn’t be expecting trouble to come their way.
After the rider went by, Madigan followed on foot at a safe distance, so as not to make his presence known to the bushwhacker. A short distance from the camp, the rider dismounted taking a double-barreled shotgun from his saddle boot. Keeping to cover, he advanced on the camp carefully, the shotgun kept at the ready. Now it was plain to see what he was up to. This hombre had murder on his mind! And the two gents at camp were in for a nasty surprise.
Madigan closed in, keeping as much as he was able to the shadows. He was but five feet from the bushwhacker when the man unexpectedly turned around. Madigan froze, sure the man had seen him. For a long while they stood facing each other, sweat running off Madigan’s forehead as though it were a hundred degrees in the shade. He didn’t dare so much as breathe. Madigan swore he could see all the way down the shotgun’s two barrels. All that was left was for the bushwhacker to pull the trigger. Madigan didn’t have a hope in the world of beating him to the draw.
There in the moonlight the man’s face was like a mask of doom. Every line, every pore, was clear to Madigan, from the man’s narrow set eyes to his cruel mouth. Was this the face of death, Madigan wondered.
The dryness in his mouth was like a desert wind. But what was most startling was that he was not afraid. It was as if there were no longer any need to fear. Madigan was going to die and there was nothing more to be done. Fact was fact. The bushwhacker had him, nothing more, nothing less.
Madigan braced himself for the shock of the explosion. As he did, the man’s cruel mouth slowly changed to a smile.
“Is that you, Ed?” the mouth whispered.
Not being one to pass up an opportunity to live, Madigan quickly replied in a whisper. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Stay put while I blast these guys,” the mouth returned.
“Right!”
The cutthroat lowered his gun and took a half-step around, then stopped. For a brief moment he seemed to be thinking. Without warning he swiveled around and came toward Madigan, the shotgun still lowered. A couple feet from Madigan the killer looked like he was about to say something, but it was too late.
Madigan unleashed a right to the man’s jaw that sent him to the ground. Another was not needed, the man was knocked cold. Madigan kicked the shotgun away from the man, reached down, and took the man’s handgun and knife. Why hadn’t he realized Madigan wasn’t his friend before he got so close? Turning, Madigan realized the full moon had been just over his shoulder. Its light was enough to make Madigan only a silhouette from where the man had been standing. Madigan once heard the saying that moonlight was for lovers-to him it was for life.
Now Madigan had another problem. The bushwhacker’s friends were back there waiting for him to do his bastardly deed before they came in, and it was a sure thing Madigan didn’t want to be here when they arrived. He not only had to be gone from this place himself, but he had to warn the two men in camp without giving himself away.
The man on the ground had planned to kill them as they slept by firing both barrels from the ten-gauge Greener into them at close range. The killer’s friends down the trail were waiting to hear the blast before they continued on in, and even then they’d drift in slowly just in case things didn’t go as planned. So far, nothing had disturbed the men in camp, but Madigan would change that shortly.
Taking up the shotgun, Madigan checked around to make sure of his exit, since finding a quick way out of here was essential to his survival. Satisfied with an escape route back to his camp that provided plenty of cover, he quickly walked back to the man on the ground. The killer was still unconscious, much to Madigan’s satisfaction.
Yanking back the twin hammers on the scatter-gun, Madigan fired both barrels into the air. If that didn’t wake somebody up they must already be dead, he thought. He had done all he was going to do to help the two strangers. They were now on their own, and Madigan hoped they could cut it.
Madigan dropped the ten-gauge, ran through the darkness, and didn’t stop running until he was safely above the trail and at the opening to his hideaway.
At the blast and sudden flash of light from the shotgun, Shorty was up and running for cover, LaRue hot on his heels. The two men quickly took cover under the branches of a big old fir.
“What the hell was that?” questioned LaRue.
Shorty was already checking his guns. “I don’t know. You hurt anywhere?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve been wounded in the foot. It hurts something dreadful and I can feel blood. It must be pretty bad. It feels all mushy.”
“Can’t do much about it now. You think you can hold on for a little longer?” Shorty asked.
LaRue felt his foot again and grimaced. “I haven’t got much choice, do I?”
Before them their empty camp shone in the light of their campfire, cooking utensils scattered about where the men had dropped them.
The men laid waiting for whatever was to come, but after several minutes no other sound was heard, and as far as they could tell, nothing had moved.
“I’m going out there and see what’s up. Better for me in the open facing someone than here where they can pick us off come daylight,” Shorty said.
He charged off into the darkness, his passage marked only by an occasional twig breaking. LaRue tried to cover him but soon realized it was useless to even try. In the moonlight, there was no way of knowing who was who until it was too late.
Before long, LaRue was aware of someone coming toward him from around the other side of camp. All he could do was wait.
“Pete! It’s me, Shorty,” came the low voice through the night. In a short time Shorty was again at LaRue’s side.
“Find anything out there?”
“Yeah, I found John over the other side of camp knocked out cold!”
“What was he doing over there?”
“Don’t know, never asked him, but his ten-gauge had been fired. That’s what we heard no doubt.”
“Then O’Neill can’t be far behind. Probably sent John ahead to finish us off while our backs were turned. How the hell did he get knocked out? Did he trip and fall you think?”
“Not hardly. I thought the same thing, but he’s on his back and his mouth is torn up some. Besides, no rocks within ten feet of him and his side arms are gone.”
“Might have got thrown from his horse and wandered in close to camp before passing out,” LaRue offered.
“Maybe, but he wouldn’t have been able to get his shotgun if he was thrown. More likely he was sneakin’ up on us and somethin’ or someone attacked him.”
The two men looked at each other, both wondering the same thing. Who had put Smith down and then left in the night? LaRue was the first to voice his thoughts.
“You don’t think Madigan is about, do you?”
Shorty nodded toward where John Smith lay. “I know it wasn’t Indians who did it. John’s still got his hair in one piece and his throat’s not cut. Whoever it was no doubt saved our lives, and now I suggest we clear camp before the rest of the boys come moseying around. They sure as heck heard the shot and will be sneaking in any time now.”
Pete agreed. It was a good idea to get out while the getting was good.
“Better kick some dirt on the fire. No use giving our location away if we don’t have to. How’s your foot doing?”
“Wasn’t as bad as I thought,” LaRue answered sheepishly. “In my hurry to take cover I must’ve burnt it when I stepped in the frying pan full of beans. That’s the last time I take my boots off before it’s time to turn in. You hungry? Still got some of those beans left.”
Shorty wanted to laugh but didn’t dare for fear of being heard.
By first light Shorty and LaRue had moved several miles down the trail and had their horses picketed in a high, hidden meadow overlooking their back trail.
“We better get some sleep while we can. I’ll stand first watch,” LaRue said. An hour later LaRue woke Shorty up from his nap.
“Look what’s coming up the trail,” LaRue said. He motioned to Shorty to keep hidden while he came to look. On the main trail O’Neill and his men were riding by. John Smith sat loose in his saddle rubbing his chin. The saddle boot where he kept his ten-gauge was empty. The shotgun now belonged to Shorty.
O’Neill wheeled his horse around and came up beside Smith. “You sure you don’t know who hit you?” he asked, a look of disgust on his face. Smith looked down at his saddle horn, afraid to look O’Neill straight in the eye.
“Like I said, I thought it was Ed and a couple of the boys. They were standing in the shadows with the moon behind them. The next thing I know someone grabs me from behind and holds me while the other hit me with the butt of a rifle. That’s all I remember until you found me. What more can I tell you? I didn’t have a chance against three of them laying in wait for me like that. They just didn’t play fair!”
“Three of them, huh? They’re not as dumb as I took them to be. Somehow they found themselves a friend,” O’Neill said. “Course, if they were smart they would have killed you when they had you.” And saved me the trouble later, O’Neill thought to himself.
Smith was glad when O’Neill rode on ahead, leaving him to nurse his chin. At the next town he figured to bug out and leave O’Neill and the others to whatever fate they had coming to them. After last night Smith just wasn’t in the mood for this kind of life anymore.
Shorty grinned at the sight of the haggard band of outlaws moving by. “I don’t know whether it’s better to be behind them or in front, but we best keep our eyes peeled from here on.
“Any ideas on how we can beat this thing? I don’t think O’Neill’s the kind of man to let things lay. And there’s the matter of whoever saved our bacon last night,” Shorty said. “I don’t suppose Smith will forget whoever it was that knocked him out last night either. He’ll be wantin’ another chance to even the score.”
“Right now we got a friend out there, and I for one don’t mean to make an enemy of him. If he was able to get Smith like he did, then there’s nothing stopping him from getting us any time he wants. I think our best bet is to stay right here for a day and rest up. By that time O’Neill’s bunch will more than likely move on and forget about us.” LaRue pursed his lips in thought. “What about tracks? They’ll be lookin’ for ‘em and when they don’t find any, they’ll know we gave them the slip. What then?” LaRue asked.
Shorty watched as the last rider rode out of view before speaking. “More ‘n likely, he’ll figure we went the other way. Not much chance of any of the men wanting to go back lookin’ for us. Not with all that gold on their minds O’Neill is suppose to know the whereabouts of.”
“See what you mean,” LaRue said. “Course, O’Neill won’t want to chance us doggin’ his back trail, so he’ll likely set an ambush just in case.”
Shorty smiled a rare smile. “That’s why we wait around for another day. When we don’t show in four or five hours, he’ll be convinced we gave up and headed back east.”
Madigan made his way back to his camp in the little canyon without incident. But before he called it a day he waited at the entrance until he heard the rest of the riders go by. Now that they had gone on, he had little fear his own camp would be disturbed in the night, and he hoped the two men below had used the chance he had provided to the best of their advantage. It had been close to half an hour before the others rode in, so they had more than enough time to clear camp and be on their way.
The buckskin grazed peacefully as Madigan pulled his blanket over himself for a much needed rest. When was he going to learn that one of these days doing good deeds like that was going to get him killed? Probably never, he thought.
The next morning he examined the packhorse’s hoof and was relieved to see it was healing nicely. He’d give it one more day to make sure it was all right, then continue on his way. A cool breeze blew all day and Madigan spent the time fishing in the little creek in the canyon. It produced some fine rainbows which he promptly ate.
After that he took a bath in the waterfall’s chilling water, nearly freezing his rear off. His clothes also got a good cleaning, something they more than needed. Leaving them to dry, Madigan laid his blanket down in the shade and took some shut eye.
The next morning dawned bright and clear and he was anxious to be on his way again. The crisp mountain air gave him an appetite for once, but before fixing breakfast he checked the packhorse’s sore hoof by walking her around camp with a light load on. There was no sign of a limp, so he set his mind to hurry and eat so that he might make some distance before the heat of the day.
An hour later he was packed and started on his way. It would be a long time before he found anything like this secluded shelter again, and there was a great hesitancy in his heart to leave this beautiful place that had hidden him so well from his enemies. But the time had come to push on, and though he did so unwillingly at first, he was soon lost in the excitement of the new sights and sounds of the ever-changing panorama before him.
Now Madigan was a man of caution, and when he traveled, he kept out of view as much as possible. This habit of his had kept him away from trouble more than once.
He was doing just that-keeping from sight-when up ahead and to his right he glimpsed two riders and a pack animal advancing toward the main trail. They were coming down through the pucker brush from behind an outcropping of rock. The two were moving along easy like, not stirring up any dust, while keeping a close watch on the trail in front of them. Madigan figured it must be the two he’d saved a few nights before.
There was plenty of cover around, so he just let them ride on ahead while he held back for a spell. At least they had sense enough to get off the trail for a day and let trouble leave the area. Now he’d do the same, just drift along nice and slow while they rode on ahead and put some miles between him and them. Been so long since he’d really talked with anyone that wasn’t trying to kill him that he was tempted to catch up and say howdy, but knew better.
Before long, he came to what looked like a game trail angling off to the north and up the side of the mountain. Madigan realized it might afford him a better look at what was up ahead while allowing him to stay hidden much of the time. He decided to follow it a ways, if nothing else it would help to put more miles between him and the two riders ahead. Dropping to the ground, he led the two horses along the narrow, twisting path between sparse stands of fir. Once he startled a big buck with a doe in tow and watched it go bounding off through the brush with a speed that never failed to amaze him.
After a short distance the path widened and he mounted up again. At times the going got rough, but the buckskin took it in stride, only stopping from time to time to wait for the packhorse to struggle over an obstacle that the buckskin was able to hurdle easily.
Before crossing a creek that flowed across his path, he allowed the animals to drink their fill of the sweet mountain water before mounting up again. Madigan thought that the trail would’ve allowed him a view of the lower ground before this, yet each time it looked as though it was about to come out on a vantage point, it turned away. At the very least, by doing so he was never in view of anyone below.
Realizing he’d have to go to the top before he’d have his look, he impatiently hurried the buckskin on with a slight kick to his ribs. Just a tap really, but the great horse got the picture and soon they were nearing the top of the trail where the ground flattened out into a kind of terrace that hung to the side of the mountain like some kind of perch for a giant bird.
Now, Madigan was no fool. So when he got within a hundred yards or so of the top, he picketed the horses and went the rest of the way on foot. If he figured the place for a good lookout, there was no reason someone else hadn’t done the same.
He slipped the thong from his Colt just in case and walked wearily out of the brush onto the flat clearing. If a view was what he wanted, then that was exactly what he got. Only it wasn’t of the valley floor below. Instead, as he stepped into the clearing, he was immediately confronted with the sight of twenty or more Utes with blood in their eyes. A chill ran down his spine. Madigan was trapped with no place to go! There wasn’t one of them Indians that didn’t have an arrow pointed right at him!
Behind him the buckskin snorted and shortly afterward Madigan heard a thud and figured the great horse had gotten himself a Ute that had approached too close. He only hoped they’d turn the horse loose and not kill him where he stood. It was a sure bet that he’d not be needing a horse any more. He felt a sharp prick in his back, then a hand lifted his gun from its holster. The same hand also found and took his knife. Now totally disarmed, Madigan felt his heart sink as never before.
He was taken to a large tree in the center of the opening where dry brush and dead wood were soon piled around the base, and Madigan didn’t have to be told what they had in mind for him. At different times in his travels he’d come across burned-out trees in the middle of clearings such as this, and had wondered why a single tree was destroyed and not others around it, as would be the case in a forest fire. Madigan had thought of the possibility of lightning but the tree would not be blown apart like a lightning strike does.
Now he realized those trees had been used to burn the hated whites that had dared challenge the Indians and lost. Madigan envisioned someone years from now riding through and wondering about this tree. Would he know that a man had died while tied to it as it burned? Whether he did or not made no matter to him.
A sharp blow knocked him off his feet and for a moment bright lights danced in his head. He felt himself falling, then nothing.
Madigan didn’t know how long he was out but it couldn’t have been long. He’d been carried to the tree and was held to its trunk by a rawhide rope wrapped around it and himself. Only his hands were free, but he could do nothing with them to help himself.
Some of the Indians were dancing what he took to be some kind of a death dance, their painted bodies glistening in the sun. Others were using a fire bow trying to get a fire going and from time to time they’d look up at Madigan and laugh. The rest of the Indians just stood around or sat watching him with a look of amusement on their faces. To Madigan it was not amusing at all.
He questioned his hands being left untied, but the answer was soon coming when several Indians came toward him with another length of rope. As they came closer, one of them thrust the point of a lance under his chin-Madigan assumed it was to keep him from struggling-while they tied his hands behind him. The blade of the lance was held with such pressure that it cut flesh, and a small trickle of blood ran down his neck to be lost somewhere in his shirt.
Madigan struggled with the idea of forcing his body forward onto the razor-sharp blade of obsidian, thus ending his life quickly, giving the savages no satisfaction of their own. Yet something deep within kept him from it.
Madigan stood there unmoving as a loop of rope was placed about his left hand and jerked tight pulling his arm up behind him. He felt his right arm being lifted so that it too could be tied. All at once an unnerving shriek filled the air. The tension on his left hand suddenly released, allowing it to drop to his side along with the short piece of rope attached to it.
Every Ute stopped what he was doing. They all gathered round the one Indian, who had just before been tying Madigan’s hands behind him. The Indian kept jumping up and down pointing to Madigan’s side where his right hand now hung. Several of the Indian’s comrades came closer for a better look at what he was pointing to. They too were soon jumping and shouting and pointing. Finally the Indian, who Madigan took to be the leader, came over and grabbed his right hand.
Madigan watched him closely. The brave first looked at Madigan, then his eyes swept downward to his hand, then back to his face. His cold, black eyes that a moment before had been filled with contempt now were filled with fear. Madigan was vaguely aware of the old Indian releasing his hand, and in a single move the brave and his band moved back into the brush that surrounded the opening.
In seconds they were gone. In his haste to be away, his guard had dropped the lance at Madigan’s feet. Bending over, he got hold of it and used it to cut himself loose.
Was this some kind of a trick? He hoped not, for he was not in the mood for jokes at the moment. What had it been that had scared them so?
He started to rub his left wrist where the rope made it raw, and in doing so, saw the ring on his right hand, the silver and gold band the women had given him after he rescued them. Was this what had frightened his capturers away? Indians are a superstitious lot, and if it was the ring, then it must mean big medicine to them. Ring or not, Madigan was glad to be free and wasted no time getting his gun back from where it had been dropped by the edge of the clearing.
Being a man who always finished what he started, he walked briskly to a spot where he could see the ground below and to the west. There far ahead were the two riders; no one else was to be seen. Madigan was more than a little nervous about sticking around after his meeting with the Utes, so he wasted no time in getting back to where the horses were tied. A dead Ute lay to the rear of the buckskin and it was obvious the big stallion wanted to be rid of this place as fast as he could.
It took a lot less time to descend the side of the mountain than it took to come up. Once back on the main trail Madigan took out his rifle and made sure it was loaded. Funny, it hadn’t felt so hot a few minutes ago!