R. Trembly - Madigan

On the third day it came. LaRue had been scouting ahead when he saw a rider coming. As the rider approached he saw that it was his friend Shorty and that he was in a hurry. A packhorse trailed behind him. LaRue put his rifle back in its scabbard and greeted the small gunman as he came closer.

“I’m up here, Shorty. What’s with the packhorse?”

Shorty drew up abreast of Pete. “It’s that O’Neill fellow. He’s talked the rest of the men into setting an ambush for you when you come back to camp. With all the talk he’s been doing about knowing where the gold is, the men agreed to follow him.”

“Then why the ambush? If they all agreed by their own choice, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“He says you’re in cahoots with Madigan and that if they don’t kill you first, you’ll set a trap for them after they have the gold. You know there’s not a smart one in that lot, so they believed him to the letter.”

“How’d they plan to get me?”

Shorty smiled at his friend’s question. “In the back, of course! Someone convinced O’Neill that you were too fast to take straight on, so he devised a plan to get your attention, then shoot you in the back while you were helpless to do anything about it.”

“They knew we were friends. How’d you manage to get out with your body in one piece?”

“Real easy. At first they thought I was out of camp with you. When they realized that I was back and had heard what they were planning, they offered to cut me in for a big share if I’d kill you.”

“Why didn’t you? May make you a rich man.”

“Or a dead one! Just be a matter of time before someone took a rifle shot at me. From the rear, of course!”

“Why did they let you leave? You were outnumbered and they still let you go?”

Shorty grinned at his friend. “Anybody tell you that you ask a lot of questions?”

“You’re the first. But how did you get away?”

“Simple. I told O’Neill if he gave me any trouble I’d kill him first, then kill as many others as I could before they got me.”

“And O’Neill believed you?”

“Not at first, but the others made him believe it. None of them wanted to join him in the ground.”

“So they just stood by while you packed up and left?”

“Not exactly. I made several of them pack up for me while I watched them and the rest of the bunch,” he said with a grin. “Now I have a question for you. What the heck do we do now? O’Neill’s got the men and most of the supplies. If he really does know where the gold is, which I doubt very much, he’ll have it before we can do anything about it. We’re only two against all of them. And another thing that’s been on my mind: what do you think he’ll do to any of those poor Indians that get in his way?”

“You mean Indian war parties?”

Shorty pulled his horse to a stop. “No, not war parties. I’ve heard rumors of a peaceful tribe of fair-skinned Indians that used to live in cliff dwellings. Then they moved one night to a valley that only they knew about. Maybe O’Neill found that valley. If he did, I wouldn’t give a snowball’s chance in hell for those people.”

What Shorty was saying got LaRue to thinking. Could it be the last of the Aztecs that Shorty heard rumors about?

“One more thing,” Shorty said, pausing. “You know I’ve never killed a man just to be killing, but in my book O’Neill needs killing and I’m thinking I’ll be the one that does it!” With that, Shorty kicked his horse into action. LaRue moved his own horse alongside his friend.

“It’s not like you to hold a grudge. If you want to go back and kill O’Neill, I’d be the last to stand in your way. Just doesn’t seem like you, that’s all.”

“I don’t mean to go back after him. It’s just that I have a feeling that he and I will meet again, and when we do, it will be him or me. Now let’s put some ground between us before he sends someone out looking to cook our goose.”

“You got a point there,” LaRue agreed. The two men rode on in silence. There was nothing more to say.

Behind a huge oak tree a few yards from the edge of the trail, the lean, dark figure of a man in war paint stood watching. Before him a lone rider on a magnificent buckskin was advancing slowly, a heavy-laden packhorse trailing along behind. The man rode along easily, almost nonchalantly. Yet the Indian knew that the rider would not be taken by surprise, for it was told in all their lodges of how this soldier fought bravely the Sioux, Shoshone, Ute, and sometimes the ruthless Apache.

This white warrior that sat his horse with the pride and confidence borne from many years and many battles would not be taken off guard. But the Indian had planned ahead. He was now joined by several other tribesmen who had come from an even larger group several hundred yards away. Then they waited for the enemy to get within striking distance.

Their plan was a simple one to say the least. Since none of the Indians dared engage in hand-to-hand combat with this man, they planned to let him get within bow range and kill him by arrows shot from a number of directions.

Madigan’s reputation was great amongst plains Indians, and even with these who lived and hunted the valleys between the mountains. Though it was considered a great honor to touch one’s enemy while he was still alive and able to fight back, none of the Indians felt the urge to count coup on this great enemy before them.

The great buckskin had warned Madigan of the danger long before he sensed it himself. To turn back would almost certainly bring the Indians down around him in great numbers. For to face a brave enemy was one thing, and Madigan knew, like wild animals sometimes afraid to attack head-on if their prey is strong, they would not hesitate to chase him if he ran. The scene was set and he could do nothing but play it through and hope for some break in his favor.

As they got closer to the Indians’ hiding place, the big buckskin’s ears perked up and he let out a blast of air through his wide-flared nostrils. His eyes darted from tree to tree, searching for the foul humans he smelled. These humans had the smell of fear, and the big horse wished to be given his rein so that he could carry his master fast and far from this place of fearful creatures wishing to do them harm.

Madigan and the horses were only a hundred feet away when the leader of the Indians started pulling back on his bow string. The long shaft of the arrow slid smoothly through his fingers as he drew it further back toward a spot on the right side of his chin. A few more feet and Madigan would be in the precise spot the Indians had picked for their attack. The brave glanced quickly around to make sure the others were also ready with their bows. He had carefully chosen each of them along with their hiding places to give the best possible chance of a clean kill on this enemy he was sure was about to die.

Where were the others? A moment before they had been within sight of him, yet out of sight of the enemy. Now they were nowhere to be seen, and the rider was just a few feet from the spot where they had planned to ambush him. He could not wait any longer. The Indian drew his arrow back the last few inches before he would let it fly toward its intended victim. There was no time to wonder or worry where the others were. A few more seconds and it would be too late. He must shoot now or the enemy might be lost. He would deal with the others later after he, Broken Bone, killed this mightiest of enemies by himself.

It was the Indian’s guess that the others had run, being afraid of the power this man was supposed to possess. Broken Bone would show them, show them all, that his medicine was more powerful than that of this man. He carefully aimed for a point just below Madigan’s neck, making sure to adjust his aim to allow for the movement of the horse and rider. Slowly the tension of his fingers relaxed and the arrow strained to be free.