R. Trembly - Madigan

Roy had mentioned one other thing. When the man spoke to his friend, he had a very slight accent. Roy took it to be French like he had heard once down in New Orleans. At any rate, these two were a curious mixture, of what Madigan did not know, but something told Madigan he would soon find out.

Sam Madigan thought over the situation for a few minutes before making up his mind on what to do next.

“How’d you like to make another five-dollar gold piece?” he asked Roy.

“Who do I have to kill?” Roy asked with a grin, his lined face lighting up at the prospect of another five dollars.

“No one. Just get back to the store and pick up the things I have on this list.”

Roy gave Madigan a curious look as he handed him the paper. “Boy, this must be my day,” he said. “But you don’t have to pay me. I’d do it gladly for you.”

“Thanks anyway, Roy, but let me give you the money. You’ll be taking a chance with all the cutthroats in town. If they see you, they’re sure to ask questions. And that could mean trouble for you.”

“Don’t worry about me being seen,” Talley said. “I’ll go in the back door. Besides, those boys aren’t about to get out of the sack before noon.”

“By the way, does he stock much ammunition?” Madigan asked, remembering he was running low.

“Yep, in fact he might even have some for that big gun of yours.”

“Get me a couple of boxes of.44–40’s, and if he does have any of the big stuff, get me all he has of the.50–90’s. It’s getting hard to come by, so I always try to stock up when I can,” Madigan explained. He handed Roy a twenty-dollar gold piece. “That ought to just about do it,” he stated.

“I’m thinkin’ more than enough,” Talley said. Madigan watched as Roy pocketed the money and was soon out of sight as he turned the corner of a building at the far end of town.

Madigan took another look about him, then got busy getting the horses ready to leave as soon as Roy got back with his supplies.

From the balcony of the Pleasure Palace, a man stood smoking a long, foul-smelling cigar. The smoke rose up and drifted lazily around his face in the still morning air. From time to time the man would fan the smoke away from his eyes, then take another long pull on the stogie as he looked slowly down Main Street, first one way then the other.

He was about to go back inside to the warm bed where his woman for the night waited, when he noticed movement far down the road. It was early and the morning sun was still low in the east, throwing long shadows between the buildings on Main Street. Whatever it had been was now hidden in one of those shadows.

The man waited and was rewarded with the sight of an old man scurrying across the street to disappear along the far side of the store. As the man watched, the scar on the side of his face began to grow red in the morning light. Why would the old man be in such a hurry to cross the street, O’Neill wondered to himself. There is more to this than meets the eye he thought, and it might be wise to check it out.

“Honey, come back to bed,” came a voice from behind him. For a moment the temptation was almost too great, but O’Neill fought back the desire and hurriedly pulled on his boots.

Descending the stairs two at a time he was quickly out the door, and a short time later he found himself at the back door of the store. Carefully he peered around the corner of the open door. There within was the old man talking to a younger man who O’Neill took to be the storekeeper. They were not expecting company, so they talked freely.

“Sherm,” the old man was saying, “I need this list of goods filled as quickly as you can. You still got that ammunition for those buffalo guns?”

“Sure do. Can’t get rid of it. What you want with that stuff?” the younger man queried. “The only time I ever sell that ammo is to the few mountain men that come through on a grizzly hunt now and again.”

“Got a friend that wanted me to get some for him, but keep it to yourself for awhile will you, Sherm?”

“Anything you say, Roy. How much does he want? I have several different calibers. Which does he use?”

Fifty-ninety’s. He’ll take all you got.”

“That will be three boxes then. That’s the most I’ve sold of this stuff at one time since I opened this here place up! What’s he use it for?”

“For shootin’ things with.”

“Hell, I know that, Roy, but why three boxes? Take a hell of a man to go through one box in a year, less’n he’s wearing one of those old buffalo robes to protect his shoulder. Ever fire one of these things off, Roy?” Sherm asked, holding up a huge.50–90 cartridge.

“Not without a gun,” Roy smarted back.

“You know what I mean! You ever shoot a Sharps.50–90?”

“Yeah, once, and that was enough. My shoulder was black and blue for a month of Sundays. But this boy does all right with it, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

Sherm studied Roy for a moment before speaking. “Only one man I ever heard could shoot a.50–90 like you and me shoot a.44–40.”

“And who might that be, Sherm?”

“A man by the name of Sam Madigan. But I hear tell he’s over the other side of the Divide.”

“Not any more he’s not! He’s over at my place right now fixin’ to go on to California. Now hurry it up, Sherm. Those rascals at the Palace will be up before you get this stuff together.”

So, Madigan followed me, O’Neill cursed under his breath. And he’s in town right now! As O’Neill listened to the two men inside, his first thought was to go over to the livery and shoot Madigan in the back. But being the coward that he was, he thought better of the idea. The only other option to him was to get a couple of men together and bushwhack Madigan when he came out of the stable.

O’Neill pondered the second idea for a brief minute before deciding against it, his reason being that would show his men just how much of a yellow belly he was. No, he would have to figure another way to get this man that scarred him for life.

Somehow, somewhere, he would find a way to kill this man that he hated-not only for bringing him to trial and for the terrible wound he had inflicted on him, but for being the kind of man that everyone respected and looked up to, the kind of man that O’Neill knew he could never be. Yes, somewhere up the trail he would kill Madigan, but on his terms and in his way.

Roy was putting some of the supplies in a canvas bag when he stopped and tilted his head back. “Sherm, you been smoking those cheap cigars again?”

Sherm gave Roy a startled look. “You know I don’t smoke.”

Yeah, I just remembered. So where’s that smell coming from?”

Sherm sniffed at the air. “I smell something, but it’s not anything I’d sell.” He sniffed the air again, then walked to the back door of his shop. “Smells like someone lit up a cow pie,” he remarked as he looked out the door.

“Anybody out there?” Roy asked.

“Don’t see anyone, but there’s a cigar butt still burning on the ground. Whoever threw it here is long gone now. Hope I didn’t get anybody in trouble with all my fool questions.”

“Too late to worry about it now. I’d better get over to the stable and warn Madigan. Bring the rest of the stuff over when you get it together,” Roy ordered as he hurried out the door and around the corner.

Madigan listened patiently as Roy ran down the events of the last few minutes. So, the very thing that he hoped to avoid was now upon him. With luck it might have been just the town gossip looking for news, but down in his gut he knew better. It would be a race with time now.

He planned on leaving as soon as the supplies arrived, but not without some reluctance. He had met a friend here, one of his own kind, and they were far and few between, so it was like leaving part of his family. Roy was sad at Madigan’s leaving too. He could see it in his eyes and hear it on the edge of his voice, but to stay would only bring more trouble Roy’s way-and Madigan’s also. Trouble that was better left far behind, and that’s what he fully intended to do.