R. Trembly - Madigan

Pete looked over at his friend and nodded his head. “Thanks,” he replied.

About four o’clock, as they were riding over a ridge, one of the men came forward and pointed toward the sky ahead.

“Looks like something’s dead or dying up ahead. Them buzzards don’t circle like that unless they’re getting ready for a meal.”

“How far off you make it?” LaRue asked.

“Three, maybe four miles at the most. Want me and some of the men to ride on up ahead and check it out? Maybe our men got that bastard and now the birds are waiting for them to leave so they can get to eatin’.”

“Go on up if you want, but don’t stray further than you have to. And keep an eye out for a good place to make camp. Be getting dark in a few hours.”

Several of the men rode on ahead and were soon lost from sight over the next ridge. LaRue and the rest rode at an easy pace. They were in no hurry to stir up any more dust than necessary. It wasn’t long before they came upon one of their riders sitting along the trail.

“Where’s the others that rode up with you?” LaRue asked.

The man said nothing, just flicked his thumb in the direction of the trail ahead. In a minute LaRue dismounted alongside the other men who’d gone on ahead to see what the buzzards were about.

“Over there,” one of the men said waving towards some thick brush. Pete walked a dozen feet before he was greeted with a sight that made his stomach crawl. The partly-eaten bodies of the two riders he sent on ahead were laying together where they’d been dragged by the bear.

“That bear might still be around close, so keep your eyes open. Not likely he’ll leave his dinner this soon. Must’ve scare him off when you came riding up,” LaRue said. The men looked nervously around, not wanting to meet the same fate as their friends.

“Get them buried and let’s get out of here before it comes back for a try at the rest of us,” LaRue said as he walked back to his horse. “The rest of you men that aren’t digging the graves, get your rifles and stand guard. Anybody seen the horses?”

“They weren’t here when we found the bodies. The bear must have scared them clean into the next territory! Be lucky if we ever see them again.”

The bear watched from cover high on the hill above the men. He was content to just watch. His belly was full.

The events of the morning had unsettled Madigan. He wanted no more of this game that he had been drawn into through no fault of his own. When he planned the destruction of the two riders that were following him, it almost seemed as a joke in his mind. Now after witnessing the brutality of the bear’s attack, it was as if a terrible sickness had overcome him.

Madigan felt a guilt that transcended his very soul. To say he was remorseful would be to understate the way he felt by tenfold. But it was over and done and his hope was that he was also done with the men trying to kill him. For being a survivor first, Madigan knew that he could and most probably would kill again to protect himself from being killed.

The buckskin beneath Madigan carried him strong and sure along the narrow trail as it ran along, first through forest of majestic pine and fir, then dropping here and there to a cool meadow of high mountain grass where he would stop to let the animals graze and gather their strength for the never-ending climb ahead.

On the occasions when he stopped to let the horses rest, it was always at the far side of the meadow, right at the tree line so as to be able to duck out of sight at the first sign of trouble. He only picked the meadows large enough to afford him a long-range shot but would be too great a distance for anyone except another man with a Sharps. Madigan had very little fear of falling prey to any of the men that dogged his back trail, for had they been in possession of a long-range rifle, they would have turned it on him while he was still on the high plain.

He even dozed while the horses munched on the sweet, green grass around him, for the big buckskin was always vigilant and would warn him long before any danger got close. He also thought of the girl with the long, black hair and when he did so, he’d get a stirring within him that made him very uncomfortable.

So it went for the next few days. By the time he reached Poncha Pass on the morning of the third day, he had almost put the outlaws out of his mind, but having been a scout and Indian fighter, Madigan never really allowed himself to forget completely. To forget would be to bring almost certain death upon himself.

Still the days were bright and the air was clear and cool, quite a contrast to the valleys and plains far below, and he enjoyed just riding along daydreaming of the dark-haired girl and the ranch he hoped to someday own.

Madigan was riding along enjoying the scenery when something, a hunch or impulse if you will, caused him to turn around in his saddle. At first he was not sure if he had seen the flash on the mountain above him or had just imagined it. He watched for a while longer, but to no avail, so he dismissed it from his mind. Sometimes in the clear mountain air the sun will catch the wings of an eagle in flight, and although one cannot see the bird, the reflection can be, and is, quite bright. Yet, his instincts told him to check again to make sure.

He crossed Poncha Pass early in the morning and would cross the San Luis River sometime the next day if he was lucky, but Madigan wasn’t in much of a hurry. He enjoyed being alone in the wilderness and wasn’t looking forward to getting back to civilization any sooner than he needed to.

When he reached the San Luis, he planned to camp a day or two and get a belly full of fish. He no longer feared the men that had been following him as he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them since the bear attack. There might be a few Indians around, but most of them were plains Indians and didn’t get into the mountains much except to hunt once in a while. Just the same, he’d keep an eye out for any trouble headed his way, but Madigan was sure that for the next few nights he would get some pretty good sleeping done.

Several times he lingered along a stream or grassy meadow, breathing in the vastness between the Rockies and the Great Divide. So when night fell he was not as far as he had planned to be and made camp along a fast running stream whose noise drowned out all other sounds around him. If not for being so tired as he was, he would not have picked this spot, but would have moved to quieter ground where he might have been warned of approaching danger.

Madigan must have been more tired than he thought, for he made other mistakes that he would not ordinarily make. One was to leave his Colt hanging on a branch a few feet away instead of under his blanket as he normally did. He also didn’t bother to remove the Sharps from the scabbard by the saddle. Neither gun was far away, just out of reach if he needed them in a hurry.

Yet living as Madigan did, even in his fatigue, he still took some precautions. So it was as he drifted off to deep slumber, a slumber that he might not wake up from.

As far as he could tell it must have been around two in the morning when he awoke with a start. There in the light of the moon stood two forms. One held the Sharps. And it was pointed straight at Madigan’s head!

“So the sleepy one is awake. What will he do now, this man called Madigan?”

Madigan took a deep breath and let his vision clear so that he could see the outline of the man who was talking to him.

“You know me?” he asked, trying to peer into the darkness to see if there were others hidden in the shadows. He could see no one else.

“Yes, I know you. I wasn’t sure till I found the Sharps, but now I’m sure. You’re the bastard Captain Sam Madigan from the U.S. Cavalry.”