R. Trembly - Madigan

Thomas did have to laugh at the sight of O’Neill hunched over the saddle, his big butt in the air as if it was some kind of shield to hide behind. Thomas thought about shooting O’Neill himself, then letting O’Neill try to explain to the others how he got a bullet in the butt.

As for James, he had taken all he was going to take and was about to ride out of the picture forever. He’d drift down El Paso way. The cowboy life wasn’t a bad life and the company was a whole lot better.

The storm lasted through the night, lightning casting grotesque shadows on the walls and rocks around them, filling the hollow where LaRue and Shorty slept with mysterious dancing spirits of the night. The wind moaned over and through the rocks, singing a song of loneliness to the Navajo gods.

The small fire had long since gone out, leaving the coffee pot to get cold, while Shorty shivered, trying to sleep. Always the one to be cold even on the warmest of nights, he was now rolled up in his two wool blankets and freezing.

Lightning cracked, and Shorty sat up abruptly. Was it the noise of the lightning that woke him or was it something else? Times like these were the one thing Shorty could never get used to.

It wasn’t the darkness around him that bothered him, he thought as he adjusted the blankets around his legs; it was the confounded damp, miserable nights he was forced to endure that were the worst.

He was just getting ready to roll over and go back to sleep when he was again startled awake. He listened, but wasn’t really sure he had heard anything.

On nights like these a man’s mind tends to wander, and he might believe he heard something when it was only the wind. It was no use trying to sleep, so he tossed the blankets aside and got to his feet.

Gathering a pile of sticks, he quickly built a small mound of wood for a fire, when a noise from the darkness again caught his attention.

He immediately froze, straining to hear. For a long minute he listened before he heard it again. He tried to remember what it reminded him of. Then it hit him. It was the sound of a dozen horses walking by in the night.

He should have known instantly. But with the wind and rain, it was hard to hear clearly. Yes, he was sure of it now. Somewhere close by, a small band of horses was moving by in the dark. Whether the horses had riders was impossible to tell and by morning their tracks would be washed clean by the rain.

Shorty peered into the night trying to see, but to no avail. Except for the occasional flashes of lightning, the night was just too black to see anything. Gathering a couple of small pebbles, he tossed them at his friend a few feet away.

“I’m awake,” LaRue whispered.

“Did you hear them?”

LaRue came slowly to his feet and joined Shorty where he stood, gun in hand.

“What do you make of it?” LaRue asked.

Shorty thought for a moment, still straining for the slightest sound. All was quiet now.

“Sounded like maybe a dozen horses moving through,” Shorty answered. “Beats me what they’re up to. Horses usually seek shelter in weather like this.”

“Indians?”

“Not likely. At least not this time of night. And from what I was led to believe, most of them don’t ride horses in these parts. Could be wrong about the horses-wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong. But then again I never knew of Indians running together in such large numbers in the dark. They don’t like to move around in the dark-something to do with the spirits of the dead out at night.

“Of course. If not Indians, who else could it be?” LaRue moved closer to his friend before hazarding an answer. “Could be the ones we’re looking for.”

“If it’s them, we don’t have far to look. It seems they’ve found us.”

“The question is,” LaRue said in a serious voice, “what do they intend to do with us, now that we have them right where they want us?”

“Or it could be O’Neill and his bunch,” Shorty threw in. “It’d be just like him to make them ride all night, wet or dry.”

“He’s crazy enough at that,” LaRue confirmed.

It was several miles before O’Neill dared stop from his dash for freedom. He felt safe for the moment. Taking his canteen, he drank freely, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when finished, before replacing the cork in the container.

Taking a slow, hard look around, he was pleased with what he saw: a patchwork of jagged rock and canyons surrounded him which offered a multitude of hiding places.

The wind started to pick up and a coolness gripped the air. A few miles away lightning cracked, and thunder sounded like a thousand drums all beating at once.

O’Neill watched the storm advance toward him before riding up a small game trail that promised shelter in one of the numerous small caves in the area.

Finding the cave a suitable place to stay dry, he pulled out the fixins and rolled a smoke. Only then did he allow himself time to consider the fate of Thomas, still out there somewhere, maybe even dead, although O’Neill doubted it as he had heard no shots.

The rain started falling in huge driving sheets, and now and again the wind blew some mist into the mouth of the cave where O’Neill stood.

The cave had apparently been formed eons ago, when a prehistoric river flowed through this area and cut the deep canyons as it rushed on unerringly to some far-off, unseen ocean.

Lighting a match, he moved back deeper into the cave to escape the occasional blast of moisture. The light from the match was dim at best, but by holding it over his head, he was able to make out the fact that the cave was much bigger than he had first suspected.

A few yards in from the entrance the walls opened up, the ceiling going up and out of sight in the dim light. The match soon burned O’Neill’s fingers and he was forced to drop it. Fumbling for another, he grew uneasy in the darkness, so he quickly walked out to the mouth of the cave again.

The storm intensified. Out in the open the wind was gusting to gale force. O’Neill dug around in his saddlebag and withdrew a thick candle. Seconds later, he was again moving deeper into the cave, the candle giving off twice the light of the match.

The floor of the cave was relatively flat and smooth, as if ground down by a huge grinding wheel. The walls were of red stone and also rather smooth to the touch.

O’Neill had entered fifty feet or more when something caught his attention on the wall ahead. There, some fifteen feet tall and twenty feet across, was a mural depicting Spanish priests holding crosses high overhead as they walked along with conquistadors on horseback guarding what appeared to be Indian slaves carrying baskets on their shoulders.

Standing there in the flickering light, O’Neill studied the picture in detail. To the best of his knowledge there had not been any Spanish conquistadors in this land for over three hundred years. Yet here before him in splendid color, seemingly as fresh as the day it was painted, was a graphic depiction of a time long ago, a time when Spanish conquistadors swept over the country like a plaque in the quest for treasure held sacred by the natives.

One thing bothered him about the picture: It was his belief that the Spanish invaders hadn’t strayed this far north, so what was the explanation for this wonderful sight before him?

He wiped his finger across the image, then looked to find a light sheen of white-and-gold had rubbed off. Holding the candle closer he examined it more carefully. He was unable to identify what the white chalky substance was, but the other had the sparkle that only real gold had.

Whoever had painted this masterpiece, for a masterpiece it truly was, had used real gold for part of the coloring. O’Neill was astonished at this startling revelation. It could mean only one thing: he was closer than ever to his goal of getting the treasure.