Green grass stretched across a valley of about twenty-five hundred acres, interspersed by long, smooth paths. Along the far side of the valley, where the cliffs seemed to climb right into the clouds, stood a two-story adobe building covered with ornaments of what could only be gold. The reflection in the morning sun was almost blinding.
Scattered in small groups around the building were smaller buildings also of adobe. To the south of these structures there were many livestock corrals filled with goats, pigs, chickens, and to the surprise of the men, peacocks, their tails bristling with color.
O’Neill was quick to point out that the gold was to be found in the two-story building, and it would be their objective to seize the building and remove its contents for their own use.
One thing puzzled O’Neill as he scanned the valley with his field glasses: there was no sign of life. Where were the inhabitants of this mysterious valley before him? Had they all fled in fear of their lives, leaving the treasure to be carried off without a fight? O’Neill pondered these questions for quite awhile as his men waited silently behind him.
Finally a rooster crowed somewhere in the distance and a goat bleated in answer as if signaling for a time for action.
“Let’s go!” O’Neill said abruptly as he stepped out into the light of the new day.
They had walked into the valley for only a few hundred feet when from behind they heard a heavy object crashing into place. When the dust settled they saw a huge bolder was now blocking the tunnel’s entrance, and on a ledge overhead, partially hidden by a stone wall, were ten bronze men armed with the same bows the Indian in the tunnel had carried.
Several guns snapped out of their holsters, and in an instant, bullets began flying toward the would-be ambushers who simply dropped out of sight where the bullets could not reach them.
O’Neill soon realized it was of no use to attack the Indians. They were well hidden from his guns and since the Indians used a ladder to obtain the ledge, then pulled it up after them, there was no way to drive them out of their hiding place.
“Several men cover us with your rifles while we get some distance from that ledge,” O’Neill ordered. “Then we’ll cover you.”
Soon the men were safely out of range and could walk with a little more ease. The village lay a quarter mile to the west and between it and O’Neill’s men was a many-layered fountain surrounded by a low wall made of reddish-brown bricks.
As the men got closer, they could hear the water flowing down from one tier of the fountain to the next. At any other time it would have been a pleasant sound, but here and now it blocked all other sounds from reaching the men’s ears. And one of those sounds was the movement of warriors crawling up to the other side of the low wall in front of them.
O’Neill was a crafty man, and as he walked, he thought the situation over in his mind. The wall ahead bothered him. Although he saw no movement, he sensed something was not right. Except for the Indians that blocked the tunnel, everything was just too peaceful.
The closer he and his men got to the wall, the more that little voice deep inside told him that it meant danger.
“Everybody stop,” O’Neill said at last. “Morgon, bring your pack over here. The rest of you get ready with your rifles.”
Taking the pack, O’Neill quickly opened it and withdrew several sticks of dynamite.
“Damn it! I never knew that’s what was in that pack when O’Neill told me to carry it,” Morgon said to the man beside him. The man looked up and smiled nervously.
“If I’d known, I’d a walked a mite further away from you.”
It didn’t take long before O’Neill had the dynamite wrapped together and a short fuse protruding from it.
“You men ready?” O’Neill asked as he took a match and put it to the end of the fuse. The men dropped to one knee and brought the rifles up to their shoulders. At the same instant, O’Neill hurled the dynamite over the wall in front of them. It no sooner dropped from sight behind the barrier than a dozen bronze bodies jumped up and took to their heels in a mad scramble to get away from the explosion that was sure to follow.
“Fire!” O’Neill screamed and the men let loose a barrage of bullets that literally mowed the retreating Indians down before they got ten feet from the wall. When the smoke cleared, all the Indians lay on the ground either dead or wounded.
Suddenly with gun in hand, O’Neill ran forward and dropped over the barricade.
“The dynamite!” someone yelled as O’Neill bent down behind the wall. When O’Neill came to his feet again he had the deadly package in his hand. The fuse was still smoking as he tossed it back toward Morgon, who instinctively caught it before he had time to think about what he was doing.
“No blasting cap,” O’Neill laughed as he walked past Morgon, — *who was still holding the dynamite in trembling hands.
“We’ll set up camp by the fountain. One of you men figure a way to shut that damn thing off,” O’Neill ordered, jerking his thumb at the fountain. “I don’t want to be surprised because we can’t hear anything. The rest of you men push those dead Indians over the outer wall and make sure its downwind of us.”
One of the men hesitantly came over to O’Neill. “Boss,” he said, “some of them Injuns ain’t dead yet. What you want done with them?”
“Use your knife and make them dead!” O’Neill ordered.
Lewana watched the killing of her warriors with horror. Her plan had been foolproof, yet instead of O’Neill and his men being her captives, they were now firmly entrenched within rifle shot of her village. She hadn’t planned on O’Neill’s use of dynamite to gain the advantage or on his cunning mind.
Since her escape, with the help of the man called Madigan, she knew that O’Neill or someone like him would return to threaten her people. And this was confirmed when two of her most fearsome warriors’ bodies were found a few days before, one with his throat cut and his body hidden amongst some rocks by the outside entrance to their valley. The other was shot in the head and left where he fell just inside the hidden valley. She had heard the shot, but her warriors were too late to catch the killer before he escaped.
This new situation called for another plan, one that dare not fail. For to fail a second time would most certainly mean death for her people. Watching O’Neill’s men methodically cut the throats of the wounded warriors assured her there would be no mercy if these men captured her village.
She could offer them gold, she thought, for surely that is what they came to steal, but would that be enough? No, there were many beautiful girls in the village and these men would not be satisfied until they had forced their intentions on every one of them.
Lewana shuddered at the thought of these dirty, vulgar men touching the women of her tribe. No, gold would not be enough. She would have to find a way to rid these trespassers from her sacred valley once and for all. And that might require time-time that was fast running out for her and her people.
As Lewana pondered what to do next, a feeling of helplessness came over her. O’Neill, with his superior weapons, was at the one strategic location where he could control the valley around him. With the greater range of his rifles, he could pin down the men on the ledge or in the village while at the same time being out of range of the Indians’ arrows.
There was fresh water for them to drink, and depending on their food supply, they could stay for weeks if need be, keeping her people from tending their stock or moving about at all, except on the far side of the village itself where the buildings gave some protection.
Lewana quickly scanned the ledge over the giant boulder blocking O’Neill’s retreat. Those ten men perched up there would last no more than a few days, as there was neither food nor water with them.
That boulder! She would give anything to remove it and hopefully give O’Neill and his men a chance to pull back. At the time it had seemed like a good idea to block the tunnel, not realizing that once the boulder was in place it would be the same as locking yourself in a ro
om with a hungry lion.
Her thoughts went back to the time on the other side of the mountains when the tall man with the quick gun saved her and her friend Mila, and how she had ordered her warriors to find him and protect him from danger if at all possible. She remembered how she hurried to him when one of her warriors returned with the news of his being shot and dying in the old prospector’s cabin not far from the hidden valley. She did what she could for him that night with the help of Mila, and when she was called away, he was resting easily.
The next day, when she and Mila returned, they found two more horses in the corral. Fearing for Madigan’s life, she sent Mila back to the hidden valley to get help. If Madigan was in danger, she would have her people do what they could.
As night had fallen, Lewana and a warrior crept silently over to the cabin and peered through the window. What they saw gave Lewana much relief, for the two newcomers were obviously friends of the tall man who sat at the table eating with them. She stayed only long enough to make sure he was safe, then left as quietly as she had come, not even giving her presence away to the great horse in the corral. Yet her heart ached, for she might never see him again. That was several days ago.
The sound of gunshots brought Lewana suddenly back to the present. One of the trapped Indians from above the entrance lay sprawled in the dirt at the base of the giant boulder. This brought the number to twenty-seven dead, and there was no end in sight. Something desperately needed to be done.
“Bring me a white flag,” Lewana commanded the man next to her. “I must speak to these men before we lose any more of our people.
“But you cannot,” the Indian said. “You are our leader. Let one of us go and speak with the evil ones. Your life is too much to risk.”
“As your leader, I am the only one who can speak for the people. Is my life worth more than your children’s? If I do not find a way to stop this senseless killing, these evil men will not stop until we are all dead.”
“But there must be another way,” the man protested. “They are many and their food will soon be gone. They will then have to come in close to our village where our arrows will take them in their tracks.”
Lewana drew in a deep breath. “And what of our men on the ledge? They have no food or water. They will die soon if we do not get them out of there. No, I see no other way but to talk with them and hope they will take gold and leave.”
“And if they will not?” The question came from Mila, who stood slightly behind Lewana. Lewana turned to face her friend. “Then it will be up to you. Come and I will tell you what I want done.”
An hour later Lewana was walking toward O’Neill’s stronghold with the white flag above her head. She was frightened but hid her fear behind a mask of grim determination, for to show fear to these men would bring shame on herself and her people. It might also give O’Neill the confidence to attack the village and Lewana wanted no more of her people to die.
As she moved closer to the fountain, one of O’Neill’s men raised a rifle and aimed it in her direction. She braced herself for the bullet only to see the man lower the weapon quickly as O’Neill stepped beside him.
So, O’Neill was interested in hearing her out, she told herself. Then a chilling thought came to her. Did he want to talk. . or did he want her? She knew in her heart that if he tried to take her, she would find a way to kill him or herself, although she must live long enough for help to arrive, if it was coming. She dared not, could not, believe the tall man would not come if he was able.
Once before, when she was his captive beyond the mountains, she had feared being taken against her will by O’Neill. The only thing preventing it then was the other men he rode with. That they all wanted her and Mila, she knew. The only thing that prevented her and her friend being ravished then were the saddlebags full of gold and the men’s fear of being closely pursued by her people.
Still, O’Neill made it very plain what he had in store for her and Mila when they were safely away from the mountains. Luckily, the man called Madigan intervened.
Funny how the air smelled so fresh today, and she couldn’t remember when the sky looked so blue or the clouds so white. Was this the day she was to die? Everything depended on Mila now. And on the man with the fast gun.
It was four days since LaRue and Shorty showed up at the cabin. Madigan’s wound was healing fast, and most of his strength had returned. All his life Madigan had worked hard and it kept him in top physical condition. Now it was paying off.
This morning Madigan was up early cutting wood for the cook stove from a pile of logs the old prospector must have dragged in for just such a purpose. The night before LaRue had told Madigan of the old man and the arrow with the golden tip that killed him.
Madigan still had trouble breathing deeply, but with time that would come. It felt good to do some hard work for a change, with being laid up and all. He picked up a bundle of kindling, and took it inside, where he was greeted by the smell of breakfast and hot coffee brewing. Cuttin’ wood can make a man mighty hungry, and that bacon sizzling in the skillet made his mouth water. He was startin’ to like the idea of eating breakfast.
They just finished eating when the buckskin snorted a low warning. In an instant the three men grabbed their guns, ready for any threat that might come. What they saw when they looked out the window was an Indian woman accompanied by two warriors.
“Looks like we may be in for an Indian attack,” LaRue said as he checked his gun.
“I’m not so sure,” Madigan said. “Something about the woman looks familiar. Give me a minute and it’ll come to me.” Yes, there was something about her, something clawing at the back of his mind. He just couldn’t seem to bring it up where he could get a hold on it yet. Must not be in as good a shape as he thought. Ever since he was shot, things were a little confused in his mind.
Madigan’s guess was the woman was in her early thirties. She looked to be Indian but with features different than any tribe he’d seen before. That she was a pretty woman, no one could deny. She was tall for an Indian, maybe goin’ five-feet-nine or a little taller.
Her skin was dark as an Indian’s, yet it was more like white skin tanned from the sun than the reddish skin of the North American Indian, and her hair was more a dark brown than black.
Suddenly it hit Madigan like a poke in the face. She was one of the women he had saved weeks before on the east side of the Rockies. He hadn’t recognized her right away because at the time he saved her from the Mexicans, she was dirty, battered, and he thought, shamefully, naked.
Now, she was one of the prettiest women he ever did see, and she was just standing out there waiting. Waiting for what, Madigan did not know.
Lewana stepped to the top of the wall without hesitating, then down to the inner circle where O’Neill stood waiting, waiting like a hungry cat for a mouse.
“Well, look who we got here. Couldn’t stand to be away from me any longer, huh?” he sneered.
“I have come to talk.”
“Talk? Talk! We can talk any time. What I got in mind for you won’t take any words. Yes, sir, no words at all,” he grinned, lust showing in his eyes. “Soon as the men get the tent up in the morning, you and me are gonna have us a little roll in the sack. among other things,” O’Neill said. He would have preferred to vent his lust within the hour, but with the ever present threat of attack, he’d just have to wait till morning.
Lewana was now visibly shaken and she didn’t care who saw it. She had walked right into his arms without a fight and she was terrified at the thought of him touching any part of her. She slowly let her hand slide back to a large fold in her flowing blue skirt, feeling for the small dagger concealed there. Unfortunately one of the men noticed her movements and pointed it out to O’Neill.
Suddenly O’Neill reached over and took the knife from its hiding place. “Gonna use that on me, are you? I ought to cut your throat with it, but I got other ideas for you!” he screamed, throwing the knife away in one swift motion.
“You better use it then!” she blurted in anger and fear. “I’ll die before I let you have me!”
She had hardly finished the words before O’Neill’s right hand clubbed her alongside her head, knocking her unconscious.
“You don’t have much to say about it,” he said over her still form. “Somebody get some rope and tie the bitch up. I don’t want her running off when I’m ready for her.”
This was better than O’Neill could have ever hoped for. Here at his feet was the Indians’ leader. Now he felt he had the key to the gold. With Lewana as his hostage, the people would surely lay down their arms and deliver the gold to him anywhere he wished.
What he hadn’t reckoned on was the resolve of the girl at his feet. She wasn’t chosen their leader for nothing. And she knew well the risk she was taking when she started out under the white flag.
When Mila showed up at the little cabin in the hidden canyon, she didn’t know what to expect. Lewana had told her what to say once she got the attention of the tall gunman. But one just didn’t walk up to a cabin unannounced. A man, or woman for that matter, could get shot. With her limited experience with the white man, Mila had only seen cruelty, except for this man whom she had come to speak with.
The problem was that he was not alone any longer, and for all she knew, he might be laying inside unconscious. If this were the case, how would the others act upon seeing her and the warriors standing in the open?
Her fears melted away when Madigan stepped out from the cabin door and raised his hand in the sign the Indians used for peace. Seeing this man once again reminded her of the time he saved her and Lewana from the outlaws. It seemed so long ago.
This man before her was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His gray eyes always seemed somewhat amused, except, she thought, when he was forced to kill. Then she remembered how they had suddenly gone cold and seemed to pierce right through her.
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