R. Trembly - Madigan

By now it was plain to see the young cowboy was just about gone, his breathing was shallow and he coughed every few words. But he forced himself to go on and Madigan listened.

“Where did he say he had all this gold that he and his men stole from those Indians?” The man looked up, a look of amusement on his face.

“He said you have it!”

“Me?! Why would he think that?” Madigan tried to look astonished at his statement, remembering full well the two naked women and the saddlebags full of gold.

“O’Neill said he and the rest of his men were bringing the gold to Denver to change it for money. They planned to melt it down so it looked like it had been smeltered, then sell it to the Denver mint.

“Why would they bring it all the way to Denver through the mountains when there were other places much closer to where they started?”

They didn’t have much choice. They were wanted men, so they couldn’t go west without taking a chance of being arrested,” the cowboy answered.

“How did I get involved in this story of his?” Madigan asked, curious at the answer.

“O’Neill said they had crossed over the Rockies and were just through crossing a high plain with the women in tow, still naked he said, but who would believe that, when he had to make water while the others rode on ahead. Just as he was catching up to them, he heard firing and saw two men fall. He took to cover and said he saw you ride out and even though the last man had his hands in the air, said you shot him too!”

“Sounds like something O’Neill would concoct up,” Madigan said. “Then what was I supposed to do?” Madigan asked with tightened jaws.

“He said you raped the women and then shot them and left the bodies there to the wolves while you rode off with the gold. He said it took him close to four hours to bury everybody or he would have come after you right away. By then it was too late and he lost your trail, so he headed back to get help.” Madigan looked at the man in silence for a while, wondering why he bothered to tell him all this.

“And you believed him? I mean, that I killed all of them and took the gold?”

“At first I might have, then he told me he knew who you were. After he told me you were Sam Madigan, the scout, the one they call the man hunter, I began to doubt him. Figured he had another reason to blame you.”

“With a far-fetched story like that, how did you believe any of it in the first place?” Madigan questioned, irritation showing in his voice.

The cowboy slowly reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a small gold figurine. “Because of this! He had half a saddlebag full of these. When you’ve been hungry for a few weeks your mind does funny things, and at the time I would have followed him to hell and back.” He moved his right hand to the wound in his chest. “I guess you might say I did follow him to hell, but it doesn’t look like I’m coming back, does it?”

He took the little gold man in his hand and turned it over and over as he talked. “Is there any truth to O’Neills’ story?” the wounded man asked.

“Some. But I didn’t kill the women or anybody that had their hands up. And I didn’t take the gold. I gave it back to the women, although I often ask myself why. You, my friend, have died in vain. For I have nothing except a few guns and some supplies that would have interested O’Neill or anyone else.”

“I had so many plans and now I’m dead,” the cowboy said with remorse.

Before the cowboy died, he asked Madigan to bury him away from the stream. “Too many animals come down to drink and I don’t want to be their dinner,” he had said. He also gave Madigan the little gold man.

Madigan buried him there on a little knoll back from the stream, then piled stones over him and cut a rough cross for his grave.

The next day Madigan left the cowboy there and rode out toward the Great Divide and a future of uncertainty. But one thing he took to heart: if he ever came across O’Neill he would kill him without mercy, not only for what O’Neill had done to Madigan so many weeks before, but for this boy that needlessly lay buried beneath the ground.

Madigan skipped breakfast as usual, so later in the day, when the sun was high overhead, he stopped by a small creek and dropped in a line. No sooner had his bait hit the water than a hungry trout took the hook and the fight was on.

Madigan played with him for a while then, when the fish tired, pulled him in. He was just reaching to pull the trout out of the creek when, in the water’s reflection, he saw a flash of light high overhead on the mountainside in front of him. If he had not been looking into the water he would have missed it altogether. He quickly looked up but could see nothing. This time he was sure it was not the reflection from an eagle’s wings. It was a flash from something metal.

O’Neill kept riding until he was sure he was safe from the man he had planned to kill. Now in the quiet of the night he took his scarf and pressed it against the fresh wound on his face. It was bleeding badly and it took some time before he got the flow of blood stopped. Another inch to the left and he would not be alive, but he was. And he was determined to make Madigan pay for this mark that he’d be forced to wear for the rest of his life.

It didn’t matter that O’Neill had brought it on himself, for cowards such as he never took the blame when due. All that mattered was that someday, somewhere, he’d put a bullet in the back of the man who had done this to him.

That his friend died did not bother him in the least. He had planned on killing him anyway after he got what he wanted, so he felt no loss. Except, of course, now he would have to find another to take his place.

O’Neill got down from his horse and, not bothering to unsaddle, tied him to the branch of a tree. He then curled up in his blanket and went to sleep, leaving his horse to dry in its own sweat. Morning found him stiff and sore, the left side of his face caked with blood. He was hungry and scared, for he had never spent much time in the mountains alone, even while he was in the army, always preferring to surround himself with others for protection. He pulled his watch from his pocket with trembling hands and realized that he had slept till mid-morning. O’Neill cussed at his luck. “Should have shot that bastard Madigan when I had the chance,” he mumbled to himself.

Later in the day after constantly looking over his shoulder, O’Neill saw the smoke from a campfire ahead of him. Reasoning that it couldn’t be Madigan, he stopped long enough to pull the dried scab from his face. After making sure there was plenty of fresh blood, he laid over in his saddle and started towards the camp.

“Rider coming in!” someone yelled. O’Neill slumped over in the saddle, closed his eyes, and let his horse lead him in. In a few seconds he heard footsteps running toward him. He took a deep breath and leaned over still further until he fell to the ground.

“He’s hurt! He’s covered with blood! Get him over to the fire!” a voice commanded.

O’Neill kept his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness. It worked, and soon he was being carried to where several blankets had been placed on the ground.

“Put him down gently, boys. No tellin’ how bad he’s hurt,” LaRue ordered.

“Water, I need water,” O’Neill moaned through half-closed lips. A man brought a canteen over and held it to his mouth.

“Not too much at first,” the man said. “Just take it easy for a while. We’ll take care of you.”

O’Neill opened his eyes enough to see that the man that had brought him water was not much taller than a young boy. He started to laugh but stopped himself in time, making it seem like a cough instead, but not before Shorty caught the beginnings of the laugh and became instantly suspicious of the stranger before him.