Madigan

by R. Howard Trembly

  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.

  Chapter 7

  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 th
e 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.