R. Trembly - Madigan

After the rider went by, Madigan followed on foot at a safe distance, so as not to make his presence known to the bushwhacker. A short distance from the camp, the rider dismounted taking a double-barreled shotgun from his saddle boot. Keeping to cover, he advanced on the camp carefully, the shotgun kept at the ready. Now it was plain to see what he was up to. This hombre had murder on his mind! And the two gents at camp were in for a nasty surprise.

Madigan closed in, keeping as much as he was able to the shadows. He was but five feet from the bushwhacker when the man unexpectedly turned around. Madigan froze, sure the man had seen him. For a long while they stood facing each other, sweat running off Madigan’s forehead as though it were a hundred degrees in the shade. He didn’t dare so much as breathe. Madigan swore he could see all the way down the shotgun’s two barrels. All that was left was for the bushwhacker to pull the trigger. Madigan didn’t have a hope in the world of beating him to the draw.

There in the moonlight the man’s face was like a mask of doom. Every line, every pore, was clear to Madigan, from the man’s narrow set eyes to his cruel mouth. Was this the face of death, Madigan wondered.

The dryness in his mouth was like a desert wind. But what was most startling was that he was not afraid. It was as if there were no longer any need to fear. Madigan was going to die and there was nothing more to be done. Fact was fact. The bushwhacker had him, nothing more, nothing less.

Madigan braced himself for the shock of the explosion. As he did, the man’s cruel mouth slowly changed to a smile.

“Is that you, Ed?” the mouth whispered.

Not being one to pass up an opportunity to live, Madigan quickly replied in a whisper. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Stay put while I blast these guys,” the mouth returned.

“Right!”

The cutthroat lowered his gun and took a half-step around, then stopped. For a brief moment he seemed to be thinking. Without warning he swiveled around and came toward Madigan, the shotgun still lowered. A couple feet from Madigan the killer looked like he was about to say something, but it was too late.

Madigan unleashed a right to the man’s jaw that sent him to the ground. Another was not needed, the man was knocked cold. Madigan kicked the shotgun away from the man, reached down, and took the man’s handgun and knife. Why hadn’t he realized Madigan wasn’t his friend before he got so close? Turning, Madigan realized the full moon had been just over his shoulder. Its light was enough to make Madigan only a silhouette from where the man had been standing. Madigan once heard the saying that moonlight was for lovers-to him it was for life.

Now Madigan had another problem. The bushwhacker’s friends were back there waiting for him to do his bastardly deed before they came in, and it was a sure thing Madigan didn’t want to be here when they arrived. He not only had to be gone from this place himself, but he had to warn the two men in camp without giving himself away.

The man on the ground had planned to kill them as they slept by firing both barrels from the ten-gauge Greener into them at close range. The killer’s friends down the trail were waiting to hear the blast before they continued on in, and even then they’d drift in slowly just in case things didn’t go as planned. So far, nothing had disturbed the men in camp, but Madigan would change that shortly.

Taking up the shotgun, Madigan checked around to make sure of his exit, since finding a quick way out of here was essential to his survival. Satisfied with an escape route back to his camp that provided plenty of cover, he quickly walked back to the man on the ground. The killer was still unconscious, much to Madigan’s satisfaction.

Yanking back the twin hammers on the scatter-gun, Madigan fired both barrels into the air. If that didn’t wake somebody up they must already be dead, he thought. He had done all he was going to do to help the two strangers. They were now on their own, and Madigan hoped they could cut it.

Madigan dropped the ten-gauge, ran through the darkness, and didn’t stop running until he was safely above the trail and at the opening to his hideaway.

At the blast and sudden flash of light from the shotgun, Shorty was up and running for cover, LaRue hot on his heels. The two men quickly took cover under the branches of a big old fir.

“What the hell was that?” questioned LaRue.

Shorty was already checking his guns. “I don’t know. You hurt anywhere?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve been wounded in the foot. It hurts something dreadful and I can feel blood. It must be pretty bad. It feels all mushy.”

“Can’t do much about it now. You think you can hold on for a little longer?” Shorty asked.

LaRue felt his foot again and grimaced. “I haven’t got much choice, do I?”

Before them their empty camp shone in the light of their campfire, cooking utensils scattered about where the men had dropped them.

The men laid waiting for whatever was to come, but after several minutes no other sound was heard, and as far as they could tell, nothing had moved.

“I’m going out there and see what’s up. Better for me in the open facing someone than here where they can pick us off come daylight,” Shorty said.

He charged off into the darkness, his passage marked only by an occasional twig breaking. LaRue tried to cover him but soon realized it was useless to even try. In the moonlight, there was no way of knowing who was who until it was too late.

Before long, LaRue was aware of someone coming toward him from around the other side of camp. All he could do was wait.

“Pete! It’s me, Shorty,” came the low voice through the night. In a short time Shorty was again at LaRue’s side.

“Find anything out there?”

“Yeah, I found John over the other side of camp knocked out cold!”

“What was he doing over there?”

“Don’t know, never asked him, but his ten-gauge had been fired. That’s what we heard no doubt.”

“Then O’Neill can’t be far behind. Probably sent John ahead to finish us off while our backs were turned. How the hell did he get knocked out? Did he trip and fall you think?”

“Not hardly. I thought the same thing, but he’s on his back and his mouth is torn up some. Besides, no rocks within ten feet of him and his side arms are gone.”

“Might have got thrown from his horse and wandered in close to camp before passing out,” LaRue offered.

“Maybe, but he wouldn’t have been able to get his shotgun if he was thrown. More likely he was sneakin’ up on us and somethin’ or someone attacked him.”

The two men looked at each other, both wondering the same thing. Who had put Smith down and then left in the night? LaRue was the first to voice his thoughts.

“You don’t think Madigan is about, do you?”

Shorty nodded toward where John Smith lay. “I know it wasn’t Indians who did it. John’s still got his hair in one piece and his throat’s not cut. Whoever it was no doubt saved our lives, and now I suggest we clear camp before the rest of the boys come moseying around. They sure as heck heard the shot and will be sneaking in any time now.”

Pete agreed. It was a good idea to get out while the getting was good.

“Better kick some dirt on the fire. No use giving our location away if we don’t have to. How’s your foot doing?”

“Wasn’t as bad as I thought,” LaRue answered sheepishly. “In my hurry to take cover I must’ve burnt it when I stepped in the frying pan full of beans. That’s the last time I take my boots off before it’s time to turn in. You hungry? Still got some of those beans left.”

Shorty wanted to laugh but didn’t dare for fear of being heard.