R. Trembly - Madigan

Realizing he’d have to go to the top before he’d have his look, he impatiently hurried the buckskin on with a slight kick to his ribs. Just a tap really, but the great horse got the picture and soon they were nearing the top of the trail where the ground flattened out into a kind of terrace that hung to the side of the mountain like some kind of perch for a giant bird.

Now, Madigan was no fool. So when he got within a hundred yards or so of the top, he picketed the horses and went the rest of the way on foot. If he figured the place for a good lookout, there was no reason someone else hadn’t done the same.

He slipped the thong from his Colt just in case and walked wearily out of the brush onto the flat clearing. If a view was what he wanted, then that was exactly what he got. Only it wasn’t of the valley floor below. Instead, as he stepped into the clearing, he was immediately confronted with the sight of twenty or more Utes with blood in their eyes. A chill ran down his spine. Madigan was trapped with no place to go! There wasn’t one of them Indians that didn’t have an arrow pointed right at him!

Behind him the buckskin snorted and shortly afterward Madigan heard a thud and figured the great horse had gotten himself a Ute that had approached too close. He only hoped they’d turn the horse loose and not kill him where he stood. It was a sure bet that he’d not be needing a horse any more. He felt a sharp prick in his back, then a hand lifted his gun from its holster. The same hand also found and took his knife. Now totally disarmed, Madigan felt his heart sink as never before.

He was taken to a large tree in the center of the opening where dry brush and dead wood were soon piled around the base, and Madigan didn’t have to be told what they had in mind for him. At different times in his travels he’d come across burned-out trees in the middle of clearings such as this, and had wondered why a single tree was destroyed and not others around it, as would be the case in a forest fire. Madigan had thought of the possibility of lightning but the tree would not be blown apart like a lightning strike does.

Now he realized those trees had been used to burn the hated whites that had dared challenge the Indians and lost. Madigan envisioned someone years from now riding through and wondering about this tree. Would he know that a man had died while tied to it as it burned? Whether he did or not made no matter to him.

A sharp blow knocked him off his feet and for a moment bright lights danced in his head. He felt himself falling, then nothing.

Madigan didn’t know how long he was out but it couldn’t have been long. He’d been carried to the tree and was held to its trunk by a rawhide rope wrapped around it and himself. Only his hands were free, but he could do nothing with them to help himself.

Some of the Indians were dancing what he took to be some kind of a death dance, their painted bodies glistening in the sun. Others were using a fire bow trying to get a fire going and from time to time they’d look up at Madigan and laugh. The rest of the Indians just stood around or sat watching him with a look of amusement on their faces. To Madigan it was not amusing at all.

He questioned his hands being left untied, but the answer was soon coming when several Indians came toward him with another length of rope. As they came closer, one of them thrust the point of a lance under his chin-Madigan assumed it was to keep him from struggling-while they tied his hands behind him. The blade of the lance was held with such pressure that it cut flesh, and a small trickle of blood ran down his neck to be lost somewhere in his shirt.

Madigan struggled with the idea of forcing his body forward onto the razor-sharp blade of obsidian, thus ending his life quickly, giving the savages no satisfaction of their own. Yet something deep within kept him from it.

Madigan stood there unmoving as a loop of rope was placed about his left hand and jerked tight pulling his arm up behind him. He felt his right arm being lifted so that it too could be tied. All at once an unnerving shriek filled the air. The tension on his left hand suddenly released, allowing it to drop to his side along with the short piece of rope attached to it.

Every Ute stopped what he was doing. They all gathered round the one Indian, who had just before been tying Madigan’s hands behind him. The Indian kept jumping up and down pointing to Madigan’s side where his right hand now hung. Several of the Indian’s comrades came closer for a better look at what he was pointing to. They too were soon jumping and shouting and pointing. Finally the Indian, who Madigan took to be the leader, came over and grabbed his right hand.

Madigan watched him closely. The brave first looked at Madigan, then his eyes swept downward to his hand, then back to his face. His cold, black eyes that a moment before had been filled with contempt now were filled with fear. Madigan was vaguely aware of the old Indian releasing his hand, and in a single move the brave and his band moved back into the brush that surrounded the opening.

In seconds they were gone. In his haste to be away, his guard had dropped the lance at Madigan’s feet. Bending over, he got hold of it and used it to cut himself loose.

Was this some kind of a trick? He hoped not, for he was not in the mood for jokes at the moment. What had it been that had scared them so?

He started to rub his left wrist where the rope made it raw, and in doing so, saw the ring on his right hand, the silver and gold band the women had given him after he rescued them. Was this what had frightened his capturers away? Indians are a superstitious lot, and if it was the ring, then it must mean big medicine to them. Ring or not, Madigan was glad to be free and wasted no time getting his gun back from where it had been dropped by the edge of the clearing.

Being a man who always finished what he started, he walked briskly to a spot where he could see the ground below and to the west. There far ahead were the two riders; no one else was to be seen. Madigan was more than a little nervous about sticking around after his meeting with the Utes, so he wasted no time in getting back to where the horses were tied. A dead Ute lay to the rear of the buckskin and it was obvious the big stallion wanted to be rid of this place as fast as he could.

It took a lot less time to descend the side of the mountain than it took to come up. Once back on the main trail Madigan took out his rifle and made sure it was loaded. Funny, it hadn’t felt so hot a few minutes ago!

O’Neill was growing uneasy and his temper was starting to show. He had been waiting hours for LaRue and Shorty to appear. The sun overhead was merciless in its dance across the sky, baking those below that watched for the victims they hoped to sacrifice for the quest for gold.

“Hell, they ain’t coming!” Morales complained as he wiped his brow with a dirty sleeve. “They probably hightailed it back East where they’d be safe.”

O’Neill thought over what Morales said for a moment before making a decision. It was hot out all right, and this place had no water close by. O’Neill deliberately picked this spot to bushwhack LaRue and his friend, knowing they would be in a hurry to get through this wasteland.

There was nothing here but rock and brush with a few burned out snags to testify to a fire that almost certainly had devoured most of the other trees. Without a sufficient supply of water, the trees were having a tough time coming back. The brush, needing less moisture, was thriving, thus making a large meadow of little else. Further to the west a small hill, more of a knob really, rose to a height of thirty feet. O’Neill had the horses hidden behind this. Then he ordered his men to go out in the brush and wait.