R. Trembly - Madigan

The shaft of the arrow caught the sunlight as it flew silently through the air towards its target, flashing gold and silver as it arced downward on its flight of death. At first it seemed to go too high in the air, then at the last possible moment it dropped its nose and accelerated, only to end its errand by slamming into the Indian’s body, pinning itself and the man to the big old oak tree.

At first there was no pain, just the sensation of pressure followed by a feeling of something warm running down the Indian’s side from where the razor-sharp broad head had cut a wide channel through the man’s flesh. His fingers released the final pressure from the rear of his own arrow letting it fly free from his bow. But it was no longer aimed on a path of destruction. For when the golden arrow had entered his side, it had taken most of the Indian’s strength away. The bow in his hand dropped, allowing Broken Bone’s arrow to bury itself harmlessly in the ground at the Indian’s feet.

Broken Bone, now more dead than alive, watched as the bow fell from his hand, not understanding what had happened. This man Madigan was surely the most powerful of all men. For who but he can kill his enemies without raising a hand against them? Broken Bone’s legs bent beneath him and he sagged against the tree, held there by the arrow with the silver-and-gold point.

As Madigan rode toward the suspected ambush sight, he casually reached down and slipped the thong from his Colt. The buckskin pranced nervously under him, wanting to be done with this place. From under his hat brim Madigan surveyed the countryside on either side of the trail, looking for a hint of where the attack that he felt was imminent would take place. He was not a man to panic, yet he was no fool either. At this moment to be some other place was his greatest desire, but wishes have a habit of not coming true. So he rode on, ready to spring into action in a moment’s notice.

The great horse under him, in his haste to be through this area of danger, kicked a small rock that went skittering off to the side of the trail. The sound it made was deafening to Madigan’s ears and he was sure that at any moment Indians would appear from everywhere. He instinctively reached for his gun, but stopped himself before he had drawn it out of its holster.

Did the Indians see the move? Would it spook them into action? He held his breath and waited for a rush of bodies from everywhere. To his great surprise and relief, the attack never came. Was he imagining things, he wondered. Had he been on the trail too long? Madigan doubted it, for the buckskin had sensed peril also.

Something was there or had been, of that he was sure. But where had they gone, or were they waiting for a better chance somewhere up the path? He urged the horse into a gait, wanting to get out of this area as soon as possible. If by doing so he was hurrying into an ambush further ahead, he’d be ready. The prospect of a fight did not bother him as much as the unknowing.

The great horse again settled down to a slow walk and Madigan relaxed. Whoever or whatever it was that had scared the buckskin was no longer a threat. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was just putting the hat back on when he saw it, a flash of light maybe a mile in front and over to one side.

Playing a hunch, he quickly turned in time to see another flash of light back where he had first sensed trouble. Now Madigan knew for sure what he had suspected for the last few days. He was being watched, by whom he did not know. At any rate, they were taking a big risk following him through this hostile country. Could it be that the Indians he felt were there waiting in ambush had also seen the signals and decided to wait on those that were following?

Most of the flashes he had seen were ahead. It was only now that he had seen one behind him. It was as if they were waiting for him to come to them. For what reason he did not know. But strange as it may sound, he did not fear them, whoever they were.

As he rode on thinking about the events of the day, he leaned to one side in the saddle to watch for tracks ahead. Puffs of dust were kicked up from the buckskin’s hooves and they hung in the still mountain air as the great horse padded along.

There were no tracks to be found except from an occasional deer or elk. Then they crossed the print of a very large cougar and Madigan was glad that there was enough daylight left to be able to get miles from the big cat’s territory before having to make camp for the night.

Had it been the smell of the cougar that had unnerved the buckskin? Maybe his discomfort at being close to the mountain lion had projected to Madigan. Yes, he reasoned, that was what had frightened them. The presence of a big cat is always reason to worry. Madigan laughed at himself. Must be old age creepin’ in already, he thought. Couldn’t have been Indians after all. A lone rider seemed like easy prey for them, and they had had the perfect opportunity to take his scalp any time in the last hour. He was sure it was the puma after all. But then again, there were the flashes of light behind him.

Madigan brought the buckskin to a halt and strained his ears to listen for any sound that might give away an attack in progress. Nothing. Only the chirp of a bird in the distance reached his ears. If there had been Indians, then whoever they were waiting for had eluded them. No, it must have been the cougar after all. He pulled his rifle out of its boot just in case he ran into the feline somewhere ahead.

A sharp tug on the packhorse’s reins alerted him to trouble. Looking back he saw the pack animal regain its feet from a near fall. It had stumbled over some loose rock and now was limping. Just great, he thought. This whole trip had been nerve-racking. Now a lame pony with a big mountain lion close by and probably a hungry one at that, not to mention the distinct possibility of Indians. At least the Indians didn’t eat you.

It wouldn’t do to go any further. The packhorse’s limp was getting worse and Madigan figured he had better find a place to camp for a few days and let the hoof heal. He scouted the surrounding countryside. There were a lot of fir trees in the area interspersed with stands of scrub oak. Every so often a small canyon would appear on either side of the trail.

If a man was careful he could camp up one of those canyons and have a good view of the trail below while keeping out of sight. Might even get lucky and find one with water in it. That’d make things a whole lot easier. If not, he had several large canteens in his pack and he could always sneak down to one of the many creeks and fill them up. Even with the horses drinking there’d be enough water for a full day, and hopefully the injury would be healed up in a day or two and they’d be back on their way again.

Madigan picked a place to his left where he saw a small tear in the rocks above that was only noticeable when he was directly across from it. If he had not been looking for just such a place, he’d have missed it altogether. A rock base led up to the opening that Madigan was sure the horses could manage if he was careful. So by continuing down the trail until it crossed a rocky stretch, then doubling back to the side of the trail a dozen yards, he’d leave no telltale tracks to give himself away. In the process of backtracking, he had the opportunity to fill his water canteens and did so. Madigan only hoped the rip in the rock led to a decent camping spot that might give him shelter from prying eyes.

It was more than he had hoped for. The narrow passage opened up into a small box canyon with a waterfall at one end. To the north was a stand of fir, and behind that was a flat area just large enough to conceal the camp from anyone who might venture into the canyon. If he used dry wood for the fire, he would not have to worry about any smoke giving him away. There was even a good patch of grass along the stream for the horses to graze on. After the last week, it looked like heaven to Madigan and he was quick to settle in.