R. Trembly - Madigan

A breeze filtered through from somewhere in the cave’s interior, threatening to extinguish the flame. At the same time, a stream of hot wax ran down the short stub of candle causing O’Neill to switch the torch to the other hand.

Studying the fire, he realized that the tip of the flame bent outward in the direction of the cavern’s entrance. Watching the flare, O’Neill pondered the significance of his discovery.

If the wind was blowing the flame outward, then the air had to be coming from someplace deep within the cave itself. And that could mean only one thing: there had to be another opening to allow the air in. Excitement stirred within O’Neill as he made his way outside.

The storm was in full fury as he reached the spot where he had picketed his horse, under an overhang of red sandstone a short distance from the cavern’s threshold. Looking back over his shoulder, O’Neill observed the cave’s gaping mouth, sinister in the growing darkness, like the mouth of a huge skull, ready to swallow a man up, never to see the light of day again.

The more he studied the black hole, the less he felt the need to go exploring until morning. Besides, Madigan was still out there somewhere, maybe close by, so O’Neill’s best bet was to make a cold camp and wait for morning. In the morning he would make sure he was alone, then and only then would he take the time to explore further.

O’Neill’s camp was north of the opening to the cave about fifty yards. In the blackness around him, he would be invisible to anyone more than ten feet from camp. And by making a cold camp, there would be no fire to give his position away. Only the occasional burst of lightning might reveal his hiding place, but O’Neill had little worry of that happening. A man would have to be looking directly at the camp when a flash occurred, and even then it was doubtful he could see anything with the rain and all.

The wind covered up any noise he might inadvertently make, and by now his tracks would be a thing of the past, washed clean by the torrents of water.

O’Neill wasted no time getting into his bedroll, not even bothering to unsaddle his horse. Smug in the knowledge that he was safe for the night, he was soon fast asleep.

Around 3 a.m., he rose from his bed to let water. The wind was blowing fiercely and the rain was pelting down in great thundering waves.

Reaching for the flap on his saddlebag, O’Neill lifted it and withdrew from deep within an almost empty bottle of rotgut whiskey, appropriately named red-eye. Turning the bottle on end, he quickly drank the remainder, then threw the empty vessel away in the night.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he let out a belch that pleased him, and he started to roll up again in his blankets when a movement in the darkness alerted him to possible danger. Was it just something blowing in the wind, or was there someone out there?

O’Neill slowly came to his feet so as not to give his position away. His horse stamped a foot nervously and blew a rush of air from its nostrils. O’Neill stood motionless, gun in hand, waiting for whatever was to come.

The horse stamped his hoof again and shied away from some unknown intruder still hidden in the moonless night. Straining to hear even the slightest of sounds, sweat running down his face burning his eyes, O’Neill waited, choking back panic.

Ten minutes that seemed like hours passed before O’Neill dared to move from his hiding place, then only with great trepidation did he proceed to the side of his horse. Thunder boomed in the distance and caused him to turn and look over his shoulder in alarm in time to see another flash of lightning that for a split second painted the landscape a ghostly-greenish white.

With his hand on his animal’s neck he could feel it shudder in fear, so O’Neill started to speak to it in a reassuring voice when his attention was caught by a shadowy figure on the opposite side of the horse.

O’Neill froze, unable to move, hysteria raising in his throat. Then a great bolt of electricity split the night air and there before him, impelled on a stick, was the head of a man whose eyes were ripped out, blood still fresh from the wounds dripping down his cheeks. The mouth was opened in an eternal scream, nothing but a hollow where the tongue had once been.

A sudden piercing scream shattered the night as O’Neill bolted backward in his uncontrolled scramble to be away from this ghastly apparition from hell. In his backward dash, he tripped and fell hitting his head on the rock-hard ground. Knocked unconscious by the blow, O’Neill lay there, his body not moving while the demons of his mind watched on in amusement.

“Man, that’s weird,” Tom Cook said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What ya suppose happened to him?”

“Something bad, that’s for sure. A man’s hair doesn’t turn snow white like that for no reason, and did you see his eyes?”

“Yeah, like there’s nothing inside. They just look at you like you’re not even there. Man, I’m tellin’ you, this whole thing’s got me spooked.”

Tom poked at the log on the fire with a long twig, causing sparks to fly into the night. Both men watched as the bright specks climbed higher in the evening sky before winking out.

“Who found him?” the man sitting with Cook asked.

“Jackson and a few of the others. When O’Neill and Jim didn’t show up after three days, Jackson took a couple of the boys and went looking. Only found O’Neill and he ain’t talked yet. Just keeps staring straight ahead not saying anything.

“Anyone going out looking for Jim?”

“Some of the boys are going out in the morning. Going to try to backtrack O’Neill to wherever he left his horse. Shouldn’t be too hard. The way he was stumbling around out there, he couldn’t have gone far.” The two men gazed into the flames of the fire lost in thought for a long while.

“With the storm gone, it would be easy to find his tracks, being any others would be washed clean by the rain from the night before.”

“Wonder what they’ll find?” Tom said abruptly, startling his friend from his thoughts.

The next morning several of the men rode out looking for Jim Thomas. It was easy to follow the tracks made by O’Neill in his confused stumbling walk across the flats. The rain had cleansed the land of all signs of trespass up to the end of the storm, leaving a clear imprint of O’Neill’s aimless passing.

In a short time the men came upon the remains of Thomas on the pole. His body was nowhere to be seen, nor did the men feel like venturing into any of the caves that were so common in the area to look for it. Finding O’Neill’s dapple gray a short distance away, they gathered what they could in a hurry and rode off after burying the head of James Thomas, the cowboy who was going to go home.

For two days they stayed in camp and waited for O’Neill to come to his senses. Another storm blew through bringing more rain to the land. A land that normally looked baked and dry now took on a brilliant coat of colors as all sorts of wild flowers bloomed to show their gratitude for the life-giving water from above.

Even O’Neill slowly regained his composure and came back to the land of reality. It was on the third day after O’Neill returned to camp, while the men were sitting around the noon fire eating. Since O’Neill’s return, the men had been taking turns feeding him and more or less helping him with other things much like they would a small child.

It now became Warren Elegant’s turn to feed O’Neill his noon meal. Elegant was a miserable little twit, with a mouth befitting a man twice his size, his curly black hair bushed out from under his hat, giving the impression of someone with a dirty rat’s nest on his head. In his career he had been a town clerk, tax collector, and embezzler. In truth he was nothing more than an imbecile of the lowliest order.