R. Trembly - Madigan

Always complaining and trying to get others to do his work, he was now confronted with the disagreeable task of tending to O’Neill. Elegant had always been afraid of O’Neill and men like him, being the natural coward that he was. But now seeing the terrified form of O’Neill before him brought out what little courage the man possessed.

I’m not going to feed this idiot! If he wants to eat he can feed himself!” Elegant said with a sneer.

“Aren’t ya afraid he’ll hear you talking like that?” Dave Donoven hissed with that big Irish grin he always displayed when he was egging someone on.

“Afraid of him?” Elegant swore, his face turning crimson in a fit of rage. “I wasn’t afraid of him when he was all here, so why should I be afraid of him now?” the little coward lied.

The men standing around the camp began to laugh at the enraged man before them.

“You’re afraid of your shadow, little man, so sure as hell you’re afraid of O’Neill in the shape he’s in or not!” Donoven threw in, the grin still on his face.

“I am not!” Elegant screamed as he stepped forward and slapped O’Neill full in the face as hard as he could. Stunned silence filled the air at the sight of Elegant’s despicable actions.

Taking this to mean a sign of approval rather than pity, the little man raised his hand ready to strike again. He was determined to hit O’Neill hard enough to knock him over this time as his first blow failed to do so. Gathering up all his strength, he swung with all the power he could muster. But to everyone’s astonishment, O’Neill’s left hand darted up and caught Elegant’s hand while it was still in full swing, bringing it to an abrupt halt in midair.

“You’re a dead man!” came O’Neill’s voice through half-parted lips as his right hand reached across and caught hold of Elegant’s eight-inch skinning knife, slowly withdrawing it from its sheath. In one quick motion, the knife slid up under Elegant’s shirt and deep into his flesh. There was a gush of blood as a gurgling sound escaped from somewhere deep within Elegant’s throat.

O’Neill had returned from the pits of hell a changed man. Before his ordeal, he was a coward sending others to do his dirty work, always trying to keep himself away from possible harm. Now he had returned a man of a different character, as the men would soon find out. You might even say the devil himself had returned in O’Neill’s place.

With the imminent danger behind him, Madigan relaxed a little. The flow of blood from his wound had slowed, but the pain was still tearing at him with a vengeance. He brought the buckskin to a halt and took the time to pack the wound with a piece of cloth cut from an extra shirt. He then soaked the cloth with whiskey from his saddlebag to sterilize it the best he could. It burned like hell fire when he pushed it into the bullet hole, and he yelled so loud he almost frightened the horses away.

The sky was growing darker by the minute and he could smell the pungent odor of electricity in the air. He was still on the flats, and with the lightning dancing around him, it was no place to be. As the devil’s light cracked at his back, Madigan hightailed it for a small canyon, where he hoped to find an overhand of rock to dry out in and rest from the ordeal of the day.

What he found, as he edged through a small opening in the rocks he’d seen only by chance, was more than a man could ever expect. Before him, a small canyon opened up with high stone walls on three sides, protecting an area of about two acres.

To one side, next to the canyon wall, almost hidden in the rocks, was a small cabin. It was easy to see that it was empty, at least for the time being. A thick layer of dust covered the porch with nothing having disturbed it for some time, save for a rabbit or two who in their scampering left their prints.

Along one side of the cabin was a corral into which Madigan led the horses. Behind the cabin was a small spring. The spring seeped through one corner of the corral, keeping the grass lush and green and providing plenty of drinking water for the horses.

Heavy shutters with gun slits were closed over the windows of the cabin. Dirt was carefully spread over the roof to prevent Indians from starting fires with fire arrows from on top of the shear cliffs that stood to the sides and back of the building. The roof hung over far enough so as to block arrows from reaching the walls of the little cabin from above. Whoever built it wanted a fort as much as a cabin.

The horses went right to work on the grass, and Madigan could see they would have plenty to eat and drink for the next few days, if he had to stay that long. Taking a careful look around and not realizing how weak he was, he staggered, more than walked, to the porch and up to the door. The latch string was out, so with a gentle tug he raised the inside latch and pushed on the door.

With a creak the door slowly opened to reveal the cabin’s dark, musty interior. A single table with a candle on it stood in the middle of the one room. A cot was pushed against the far wall and some mining tools were stacked in one corner.

On a shelf stood tins of food, and he noticed that many more cans were open and lay empty, indiscriminately thrown across the floor. What caught Madigan’s interest the most was the cot, and he quickly made his way to it and fell immediately asleep.

Sometime during the night he awoke to find himself drenched in sweat and the pain in his chest throbbing like he’d been kicked by a mule. With a sense of fear, Madigan realized he was in the grip of a fever, and given his location miles from any help, he would almost certainly die.

He chuckled at the irony of it. Here he was, all alone in the middle of nowhere, in some long forgotten cabin about to meet his Maker when so many men, Indians and white men alike, tried so hard and so long to put him under, and now a lousy fever was doing the job they so miserably failed at.

He’d little fear for the horses, for he knew that as the grass gave out they could easily jump the fence of the little corral to freedom. Taking everything into account, Madigan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, at peace with himself and the world for the first time in his adult life.

Several hours later he was awakened by a noise and the feeling that something was being pushed deep within his chest. Surprisingly he felt little pain as the probing continued. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and his lips felt numb. He opened his eyes and found a beautiful girl bending over him while an older woman stood beside her holding a small bowel in her hands. From time to time she would place the bowel at his lips and trickle a little of the foul-tasting liquid into his mouth, forcing him to swallow it.

With a gentle pull, the girl withdrew something from his chest and held it up to the coal-oil lantern hung on a nail overhead.

“I’ve got the bullet out,” she said as she stroked Madigan’s forehead with her other hand. Then she smiled as their eyes met and held for an instant. “The drink will keep the pain away and you will sleep,” she said.

“Who are you?” Madigan asked, her face vaguely familiar, although in the delirium of the fever he probably couldn’t recognize his own face.

“I am Lewana and this is my friend Mila,” she said softly. “When you are better, you will remember us. For now you must sleep.”

Madigan’s eyes grew heavy as he fought in vain to stay awake. Something about the girl and her friend gnawed at the back of his mind, but before he could figure it out he was lost to the world.

Outside a coyote sang to the night gods, while on the rim high above the cabin, an Indian warrior sat cross-legged in silent vigil, the golden disk hanging from a silver chain around his neck reflecting the starlight of the inky-black sky overhead.