R. Trembly - Madigan

“A Sharps!” LaRue shouted while spurring his mount back for the cover of the trees. “He’s got a Sharps! He can pick us off before we can get within half a mile of him!” he yelled to the other men who had also retreated to the safety of the trees.

“No man can shoot that well! It’s close to half a mile he’s shoot’n from!” one of the men hollered back.

“Then what do you think hit Jack?” LaRue asked.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t no bullet. Maybe he’s just playing dead. Maybe he’s afraid of whoever killed Gonzales.”

Marty Manning, who on several other occasions had challenged LaRue for leadership, was doing the talking. It made no difference that what he said made no sense. He had the men’s attention and that’s what he wanted.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with Jack, but I’m tellin’ ya, nobody can shoot and hit anything that far!”

“You ever hear of a Sharps?” LaRue asked disgustedly.

“You mean one of those buffalo guns?”

“That’s the one I mean. Just before Jack went down, I heard a noise that I’ve heard before. It was the sound of a heavy bullet fired from a Sharps! No other sound like it in the world!”

“You sure about that? A rifle can’t hit something at that distance!” Manning sneered.

“I’m sure. Of course it would take one hell of a shooter. You saw what it did to Jack out there. I’d say the man at the other end of that rifle knows what it can do and he knows how to use it!” LaRue was nervous and Manning picked it up in the tone of his voice.

“Are you maybe getting too old to lead us? Maybe you want to let this man get away so you won’t have to face him!” There was a taunt in Marty’s voice, a challenge to LaRue. He antagonized LaRue some more. “I’ll show the men what you really are-a coward, afraid to go after one man.”

LaRue was angry inside but he let little of it show. He knew from years past that Manning was the real coward and, like scum everywhere, his mouth was bigger than his brains.

“Just how would you handle this situation, Marty?” LaRue asked.

LaRue had taken Manning off guard, and for a long moment Marty was silent.

“He’s riding out on us right now as we sit on our butts talking! I’d go after him, that’s what I’d do!” Marty turned his horse toward the open plain. “Who’s man enough to go with me?” he shouted. Before LaRue could stop them, two other riders answered by kicking their horses out into the open, Manning following a short distance behind.

Just like Marty, thought LaRue. Stay in the rear while others put their lives on the line. The thought hadn’t left LaRue’s mind when off in the distance a puff of smoke told him that the man was still waiting.

“Hit the dirt!” LaRue ordered.

For Marty Manning it was too late. As LaRue and his men watched from their hiding places, Marty was knocked off his horse. LaRue wondered if Marty had known what hit him. The other men yanked their mounts around and raced back to the sanctuary of the trees.

At least LaRue would have no more trouble with Manning, and from the looks of the others, he wouldn’t have any problems from them either.

“What do we do now, boss?” one of his men asked sheepishly.

“We wait till dark, then we circle around and try to get the drop on him from behind.” LaRue felt in his heart that the man with the long gun would be gone by then. But after just losing two more men to him, he wasn’t about to do anything stupid.

“Any of you think you got a better idea?” he challenged. No one replied. “Then make some coffee and beans. We have a long wait ahead of us.”

LaRue watched as the men busied themselves getting the camp in shape. What circumstances had brought him to be leading such a bunch of rogues as this, he could only wonder at.

“What about Manning?” someone asked.

“If you want to go out there and get him, be my guest.”

“Not me! I don’t want to join him,” the man said shaking his head.

“Then why’d you ask? Go over there and make some coffee like I told you. When I want you to do something, I’ll tell you. Until then, keep your mouth shut!”

LaRue was back in control and he wasn’t about to ease up on his men now. That two of them chose to ride out with Manning was a sign to him that he’d been too easy on them. He’d given the men time to think, and when men started thinking, they also started to question their leader’s abilities. When that started there could only be trouble. Pete LaRue would not make that mistake again.

After the men had a chance to eat, he called them together. “Here’s my plan,” he began as they gathered around him. “The way I see it, that man out there has all the advantages. We don’t know whether he’s still there or not. The later it gets in the day, the more we have the sun in our eyes. We try to ride before dark and he might just sit out there and pick us off like fish in a barrel.”

Several of the men looked out across the high plains. The sun was already low enough on the horizon to force them to shade their eyes. LaRue was quick to pick up on this.

“See what I mean.” It was more of a statement than a question. “Now we might wait till dark and then try to get behind him. But I don’t think he’ll still be there.

“What do you mean, boss?”

“I think he’ll be long gone. We can’t see him leave because of the sun in our eyes, but he’ll have a clear view of us until dark. Our best chance will be to wait for dark, then ride for the mountains. In the morning we can pick up his tracks. Once we do, we’ll take the extra horses, and the two best riders can ride him down using the horses in relay.” LaRue looked around at his men. They all seemed in agreement.

As LaRue glanced around at the different faces, he again wondered at the circumstances that had brought him to lead such an unruly bunch as the outcast before him. Something he would wonder at many times in the days to come.

“Get some rest!” he ordered. Then he leaned back against a tree to think. How many years was it since he felt the comfort of a good meal and warm bed? Or a woman to hold and call his own? Like Mary. How he longed to hold her in his arms, to kiss her and feel her body press against him, to hold her hand as they walked in the moonlight. He could still hear the cheerfulness of her voice when she talked about their plans together.

Her voice. . the thought brought back the realization that he would not hear her voice ever again. The pain of her death shot through him, and for a minute he felt as if he might weep. He fought hard to hold back the tears. Why did she have to die? She was so young, so beautiful, with a vivaciousness about her he’d never seen in anyone else. His heart ached with the loneliness of her death.

It was still an hour before sunset. LaRue wished it to be dark already so he could be on his way again. At times like this when for one reason or another he was forced to mind his time, he was torn with the memories from the past.

He closed his eyes again and drifted back to happier times when his life held promise of better things than cold nights on the trail in the company of rogues and thieves.

LaRue’s mother was Irish, big-boned and blunt in manner, yet gentle in nature. His father often called her a study in contrast. Pete’s father was French, a bare-knuckle boxer by trade, but well read in the arts.

Pete could still visualize his father, battered and bruised with a paintbrush in hand, painting the most delicate flowers on a white canvas pulled tight across a frame of his own making.

They were lovers those two, and a gentler pair the Lord never made. But in the ring his father was a killer and his wife sitting in the crowd would not be outshouted by the best of men.