R. Trembly - Madigan

It was growing stormier and LaRue gathered some dead brush from a dry crevice in the rocks and made a small fire. Both men agreed that it was wise to make camp here for the night. They were soon settled in for the long hours ahead, while the rain beat a drumroll on the ground a few feet away.

Madigan came to again, barely clinging to the saddle. The big buckskin was stepping out slowly, picking his way through a trail bordered by huge boulders and strewn with rubble from crumbling rock. Blood slowly dripped down the front of Madigan’s shirt and onto his leg, spreading out in a darkening stain.

Madigan’s head swam in a sea of pain that was so intense he felt he could not go on any further, yet he had to. The survival instinct within him was strong and he could not give in to the pain any more than he would give in to the man who had shot him. Whoever it was would surely be on this trail trying to finish the job, and Madigan didn’t want to stick around and give the bushwhacker another chance at him.

The ground opened up on both sides of the path as Madigan leaned over in the saddle to better stay on. Lightning flashed in the distance and the wind began to stir up some. It was evident a storm was brewing and Madigan felt a little relief knowing the rain would wash out his tracks. If only he could keep ahead of his pursuer long enough to let the rain do its work.

He rode on for several more miles before he felt the first raindrops upon his back. The wet coolness was refreshing and gave him new strength to ride on. The big horse beneath him sensed the urgency to find shelter and broke into a fast trot toward some rough-looking country ahead.

Coming to a dry creek bed, Madigan hesitated before crossing. The banks at either side were steep and it would be difficult for the packhorse to scale the far embankment. With the rain, it was only a matter of time before the roaring waters of a flash flood filled the creek to overflowing, taking everything caught in its path along with it. There would be little warning when the waters came, maybe a few seconds at best, no more.

Madigan agonized over the decision. If he started the horses across and the waters came upon them, there would be but seconds for them to get up and out the other side before being washed away to their doom. Madigan had little fear of the buckskin not making it. He was a powerful animal able to take care of himself, even with a load on his back.

It was the packhorse Madigan worried about. Loaded heavily with supplies, it might not be able to carry them up the other side. Still, if he could get to the other side, Madigan would be safe from anyone following as long as the rain held out. In his weakened state, he didn’t have a prayer of fighting them off. He would have to try to make it across.

The rain increased in intensity as they slid down the stream side to the creek bottom already turning to a quagmire of slippery mud from the barrage of water falling from the heavens. The buckskin kept his footing, but the packhorse, top-heavy from the supplies on his back, was soon down and trying to scramble back to his feet.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he was up and moving toward the far side of the stream, but not before Madigan heard the ominous sound of roaring water bearing down on them. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Madigan whirled the buckskin around behind the other animal and gave the packhorse a slap on its rump. The horse lurched ahead and made it halfway up the bank before losing its footing and sliding back to the creek bed.

Taking a quick look upstream, Madigan could see debris being thrown in the air from the surge of water crashing down from the mountains not far away. There was only one thing left for him to do: cut the pack loose and save the horse. Luckily, his Sharps, along with ammunition and a few other things he used every day, were tied in a smaller pack on top. Grabbing loose the ties, Madigan pulled this pack in front of him while he cut the main pack from the animal’s back letting it fall free. In a split second the two horses raced up the bank and a hundred yards beyond to freedom.

They were safe for moment, and Madigan turned in his saddle in time to see a gigantic wall of water rush past where moments before they were trying, almost in vain, to climb out of its way. A great emotional release rose within him, overshadowing the anger he felt at losing the supplies.

O’Neill and Thomas held their ground behind the large boulder they hoped would shield them from the onslaught of bullets they felt was sure to come.

“I know I hit him,” O’Neill said as he turned to Thomas, expecting him to confirm what he himself was not sure of.

“You saw him go down, didn’t you?” he pleaded.

Thomas stared at O’Neil, who he was beginning to despise. O’Neill, the great leader, the one that was going to make them all rich or get them all killed. O’Neill, the coward!

Thomas was no newcomer to violence, growing up in east Texas, the son of a card cheat and womanizer, his mother a drunk that often found herself waking up in the morning with a stranger. Finally, it was the wrong stranger and she wound up being beaten to death.

After she died, James and his father drifted from town to town playing the cheap dance halls of the cattle towns, keeping just ahead of the law. When James was twelve, his pa got caught dealing from the bottom of the deck by a big, raw-boned cowhand named Ed Piker. In an instant, the older Thomas lay dead on the floor, still clutching the card that cost him his life.

With his pa gone, James wandered from one cow camp to another learning the trade of the cowboy. He learned another thing too-how to handle a gun. Later he found there was more money to be made with a gun than punching cows, and he left the cowboy life for that of the gunslinger.

Now years later, here he was, forced to back up a madman who he was sure wouldn’t think twice about shooting him in the back if it would serve his purpose.

If I get out of this mess I’m in, I think I’ll just keep riding, Thomas thought to himself before answering O’Neill.

“No, I didn’t see anything, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” Thomas smiled inwardly at not giving O’Neill any satisfaction. O’Neill scowled but said nothing. Within minutes his life had changed from triumph to what very well could be tragedy.

Madigan was out there somewhere close by and he had the advantage of knowing exactly where the other two men were. O’Neill began to sweat. How did this happen?

One minute his enemy was in his sights, at O’Neill’s mercy. Now it was the other way around and he wondered if he would live to see another day.

O’Neill glanced around nervously, trying to find a way out of the predicament he had gotten himself into. One side of the boulder he was behind lay up against a cliff that rose over a hundred feet straight up, blocking an escape in that direction.

In front, the ground lay flat, ringed by broken rock, large boulders, and crevices cut deep into the face of the cliff side opposite O’Neill’s hiding place. From his viewpoint while on top of the mesa, O’Neill knew that the canyon narrowed further on, making a perfect spot for an ambush if one so desired.

Considering this, his best chance for freedom would be a mad dash back the way he had come, hoping against all hope that surprise would be on his side. A man bursting out at a dead run might gain a few precious seconds, and those seconds might be all that would keep him alive.

Without warning, O’Neill swung to the saddle and spurred his mount out in the open. Laying over in the saddle to make a smaller target, he slapped leather to the charging animal and hung on, expecting the sound of gunfire at any second. None came.

James Thomas was not in the least bit shocked at being deserted by O’Neill. The man was a coward through and through. And like all yellow bellies, he would not think twice about betraying his friends. So O’Neill’s actions were for the most part foreseeable.