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.
Chapter 2
About three hundred yards ahead of him was a waist-high boulder with a small stand of scrub oak around it. As soon as he saw it, Madigan knew this was the place he was looking for. He rode up and looked the spot over carefully. Seeing that it would do nicely, he dismounted and tied the horses to a tree a few yards behind the large rock. At this point, he couldn’t afford to be in a hurry. So he purposely paced himself, not too fast, not too slow. Madigan had a job to do and it would require rock steady nerves.
From his pack he pulled out a long leather sheath and laid it gently on the ground. Next he felt around for the small tin box that was so carefully packed for just such an occasion. Finding it, he laid it alongside the covered.50–90 Sharps. Madigan carried these to the rock and took the gun out of its sheath.
Madigan had always enjoyed the feel of this heavy buffalo gun, from its polished black walnut stock- fitted perfectly to the massive breech block mechanism with the heavy side hammer to the end of the long barrel with the three steel bands clamping it and the wood forearm together. This was a tool meant for one purpose-to kill at long distances. And this was precisely what he needed now.
Checking the barrel for any obstructions, but finding none, he opened and closed the breech to make sure it worked properly. With the rifle in one hand, Madigan opened the tin box with the other and withdrew a brass cartridge. He forced himself to keep his mind on the job at hand and not the riders that he knew would be coming fast.
The first bullet looked good, so he quickly checked another and then a third. Now it was time to give the men following him the shock of their lives. As he’d guessed, they had closed to about a half a mile, maybe just a little over, but close to the distance he wanted.
Chambering a round, Madigan took off his hat and placed it on the rock in front of him to protect the rifle’s finish from getting scratched. Figuring the wind to be about two notches from the north, he adjusted the sights for the distance. Then he held two beads to the left and squeezed off a shot. He was aiming for the leader, but knew if he missed, as he probably would at this range, the bullet would still have a good chance of getting one of the men following behind.
The kick of the rifle set Madigan back for a moment and he had to wait for the smoke to clear before he could see again. But when the smoke cleared, he was greeted with the sight of a clean miss. He chambered another round and was about to pull the trigger when the front rider tumbled out of his saddle. In his haste, Madigan had forgotten how long it took for the heavy bullet to go that distance.
Immediately the rest of the riders turned and raced back to the trees like the very devil was after them. Madigan quickly walked to his pack and grabbed his field glasses to get a better view. To his satisfaction, the man on the ground was not moving. He watched as the others headed for the only cover within reach, the tree line
about a quarter mile back from where the man had fallen.
That the bullet carried enough power to kill at that range was a marvel to him. So maybe another try might just even things up a bit more and, at any rate, it sure couldn’t hurt.
Even if the bullet only kicked up dust close to his pursuers, it would scare the hell out of any sensible man. Madigan aimed the big rifle over the area that he saw the riders go into. Only this time, he held the sights at a point halfway up the trees they were hiding amongst.
He had already killed four men with three bullets, and to hope for another score would be asking a lot. Whether it was curiosity or survival instinct he didn’t know, but Madigan was already pulling the trigger before he’d given it much thought.
This time he was ready as the blast knocked him backward. Madigan quickly set the gun down and grabbed his glasses to see where the bullet would hit. To his astonishment, three riders had broken out of the trees at a full run. It was clear that they planned on running him down before he could get mounted and away.
They must have figured that he would shoot once, then try for the mountains a few miles away. The interval it took him to get his glasses was all the time needed for them to believe they were right and that he was riding off. They were wrong, and it cost them dearly. For an instant they rode hell-bent-for-leather, then as if in slow motion the last man jerked sideways in his saddle and slid to the ground.
“Damn,” Madigan whispered to himself, “this is a straight shootin’ cannon.” Anyway, he wouldn’t have to worry about the riders for the moment. The only horse coming towards him was riderless. He waited to make sure they’d given up, at least for the time being. Come nightfall he knew they would ride out and try to get behind him. But as long as they didn’t see him leave, they would not take another chance while it was still light.
This close to the mountains it would get dark fairly early. Madigan guessed there were maybe nine hours of usable light left. He wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances, so he took his Winchester out of its scabbard and replaced it with the Sharps. He would keep an eye out for anyone following, and with the Sharps close at hand, he would be ready.
Keeping the small grove of trees between him and his pursuers, Madigan walked the horses due west toward the Rockies, and, he hoped, shelter from his enemies. Every once in a while he would turn in the saddle to see if there was any telltale dust that would give away any riders coming up hard behind him. There was none.
As Madigan rode, he mulled the events of the day over in his mind. He felt no guilt at having to kill, but it did bother him some that he’d been forced to without any say-so in the matter. Now he was forced to run for his life.
Another thought kept entering his mind-the two women and the gold. He couldn’t help but think that he was being pulled into this situation by some mysterious force beyond his control.
For now, all he could do was ride along and try to stay alive. He soon rode into the forest at the base of the Rockies, following a trail that turned south by southwest. The trail was rocky and sometimes steep, just wide enough for one horse at a time.
The last hour had been a gradual climb, and Madigan had to rest the horses often. There was still a good six hours of daylight left, but he was aware that he would have to make camp while enough light still remained, as it would be suicide to ride this narrow trail in the dark. He was at least four hours, maybe five, ahead of the gunmen and they would not be able to see any better in the dark than he would.
At the start of the trail he was now on, there were at least two others branching off in other directions. One of these went to a hidden lake a few hours’ ride into the mountains, while the other led to a pass much higher than Poncha Pass, which Madigan now rode towards. Unless these men were familiar with the area, they would have to guess where each trail went, and Madigan made sure that he had left no tracks on the trail below for them to follow.
For the moment he relaxed and breathed in the fragrance of the high mountains. The air had a coolness about it, yet it was more refreshing than cold. He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his neck and was soon lost in the splendor of the sights that surrounded him.
As he rode along he whistled and sometimes sang. This was bear country and he didn’t want to startle a grizzly. He remembered a mountain man once telling him that unless you were hunting bear, always make some kind of noise to let them know you are there. “Give a bear a chance to get out of your way and you’ll likely not be bothered by them,” the old trapper told him so long ago.
The trapper also told Madigan that bears seem to have good days and bad days, just like humans. On a good day they run at the first sound from you. On a bad day you could very well end up being the bear’s dinner.
“Be prepared for the worst, then when it comes you won’t be surprised,” the grizzled old mountaineer said. Although the old man of the mountains had given Madigan that advice some ten years past, he still remembered it as though it was yesterday. Another thing the old man mentioned about bears: “Never go into the brush after one. They may be playing you for a sucker, settin’ you up for an ambush. No animal can do it better than a big black or grizzly!”
Several times since he started on this trail, Madigan had passed bear sign. Afterward, he would have an uneasy feeling when the trail went around a bend, and the more he thought about what the old-timer said about bears, the louder he whistled. When he tired of whistling, he sang. He was sure the horses were glad when he started to whistle again.
It was getting late, so when a little clearing came into view he decided to make camp. By walking a few feet from camp, Madigan came to an outcropping of rock from which he had a clear view of the valley floor below. He figured he must have come close to fifteen miles since starting up this trail and hoped he could get some much needed rest.
Madigan lifted his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the flats below. A dust cloud marked the passage of the riders on the valley floor far to the east, and Madigan knew they would not dare try to go any further than across the valley until daylight.
Even as he stood watching, the light was fading at an alarming rate. Madigan walked back to camp satisfied that he would be safe for the night. He would trust the buckskin to warn him if any predators got too close. Before retiring, he took the precaution of tossing a rope over a branch and pulling his food pack out of reach of any fur-covered creature of the night. One last cup of coffee and it was time to turn in.
Madigan was up as usual the next morning in time to watch the sunrise in the east. It promised to be a glorious day. If it hadn’t been for the wild bunch following him, he would have stopped at the next stream to catch himself a passel of trout. The thought intrigued him, but to stop now meant almost certain death. The fish would have to wait for another time; for now he’d better plan on what he was going to do to get out of the frying pan himself, without getting into the fire.
As soon as the sun got high enough for him to see the valley floor below, he glassed the area thoroughly. About midpoint across the plains below, there was dust rising. So, they chose to go but a short distance last night, he thought. They were probably afraid he might try to sneak around behind them. All the better for me, he surmised.
Each time Madigan passed a stream tumbling down into a pool of fresh mountain water, he had thoughts of trout and the fishing trips he and his folks had taken to the mountains around Tennessee. The Tennessee mountains weren’t anywhere near the size of the Rockies, but to a seven-year old they looked mighty big.
He remembered his mother’s excitement at the prospect of going for a week into the mountains with him and his father. Madigan’s mother was a beautiful woman and would have followed her husband to the edges of hell. And, in fact, did three years later. Madigan would remember the terror of that day for the rest of his life. Sometimes he’d be wakened by the nightmares of what happened so many years before.
His family had been on their way to a new life out West when the Indians struck. It w
as a terrible thing for a boy to witness, and Madigan could still hear his mother’s screams as she kneeled over his father’s body as it lay in the dirt where he’d fallen from the Kiowas’ arrows. Then the Indians came and took her. There were three of them. They were ugly beasts, painted with war paint and splattered with dried blood, and they smelled of sweat and death. Madigan watched them from the wagon where she had hidden him. After they raped his mother, they cut her throat. He had wanted to cry out but was too afraid, so before they came to the wagon he crept away and hid in the trees. By then it was night and they did not see his tracks.
In the morning he waited to make sure they were gone, then took a shovel and buried his parents in the desolate land where they died. Ashamed of himself for not trying to help them, Madigan made a vow that he would find their murderers and either kill them or be killed trying.
For two days he followed the Kiowa. Hungry and tired, he made himself keep on, not knowing what he would be able to do when he caught them. The renegades did not know they were being followed and made no effort to hide their tracks, while something deep within the boy kept pushing him harder and harder to find these men and make them suffer as much as possible before he killed them.
The Kiowas did not go far-only until they found another wagon to raid. They found liquor and drank themselves unconscious. While they were passed out drunk, Madigan tied each of them to a wheel of the wagon. When they came to, the boy showed each a tintype of his mother and father so that they would know who he was and what he must do.
Then he took a cask of coal oil from the wagon, for it was a peddler’s wagon they raided this time, and poured it over the confused men. When he lit the match, the realization of what he was going to do hit the Indians and they struggled to break free from their bonds, but he’d tied them tight and there was no escape for them. The ten-year old boy dropped the flame into a small pool of oil under the wagon, and in a flash the flames engulfed the wagon and Indians together.
Madigan Page 3