R. Trembly - Madigan

“We ride until we find the cave where I was camped,” he growled as the men started out. “Any man try to cross me and I’ll kill him no matter where he tries to hide on the face of the earth!”

His statement was irrational, but fear has a way of dulling the logical thought processes. And even though it would be an easy escape, fear gripped the men to their very depths so that it was as if their rabid leader held some mystical power over them, a strange magic they could neither hide from nor resist.

Just after dusk, they found the cave, sinister in the growing darkness, wind whistling from its mouth like a wailing banshee from hell, totally unnerving everyone but O’Neill, who took obvious delight in watching the men’s reaction to the place.

“Make camp here and at first light I’ll show you where this hole leads to,” O’Neill announced in a voice so eerie it made the hair on the back of a man’s neck stand on end. An hour later the men sat around the campfire in small groups talking amongst themselves while O’Neill sat alone by the cave entrance waiting for first light.

About twenty minutes later, Donoven nudged the man next to him. “Do you smell that?” he asked, taking another sniff of the air like a hound on the trail of a raccoon.

“Yeah, what do you make of it? Smells like roasting chicken to me. Can’t really tell, but one thing’s for sure-it’s hot food a cookin’.”

“I was thinkin’ the same thing. But where the heck’s it comin’ from?”

None of the men had eaten anything but beans and bacon with a little hardtack thrown in for some time, and little by little the aroma of the hot food was getting to each of them. Donoven came to his feet and cautiously started walking from one side of the camp to the next, all the while acutely aware of O’Neill’s gaze following him. Donoven kept sniffing the air as he walked, like a hungry grizzly trying to locate a carcass that was ripening in the sun.

Finally he stopped, and faced in the direction of the cave. But before he could say anything, O’Neill looked up from his bedroll next to the cave mouth and spoke in a quiet but commanding voice. Even though it was not much more than a whisper, it rang on the men’s ears like thunder.

“The smell is coming from the cave!”

A hush fell upon the camp at O’Neill’s words as the men realized the truth of the statement. The smell was indeed coming from the cave. But who could it be? If it was Indians, then why not a guard at the cave’s opening? These questions and many more flooded the men’s minds as they sat there in silence, fear capturing their minds once more.

“Now you know why I had to find this cave,” came O’Neill’s voice, barely louder than before. “It is the entrance to a hidden valley, a valley that will change all of our lives forever.

The shock of this statement showed on each man’s face as the excitement stirred them to life again. Could this man, this monster they were now forced to follow, be telling the truth? And if he was, how did he know? How could he possibly know what was in the cave?

O’Neill was now on his feet and came quickly into the light of the campfire. After some thought, he turned toward the rest of the men and addressed them.

“You think I’m crazy, that I’ve gone loco, you lazy trash of the earth. You ask yourselves how could I possibly know where the cave leads to.” O’Neill looked each man in the eye before continuing. “When you found me on the desert, you figured I had wandered out there to escape whoever killed Thomas.

“I heard some of you say I was insane when you found me. Maybe so, but I think not! I know what is in the valley because I have been there! I have seen where they keep the gold and I have felt their mark upon my very soul!”

As the men watched wide-eyed, O’Neill took a firm hold of his shirt and tore it open to reveal a hideous burn across his chest. The men, most being cowboys, had at one time or another branded cattle and knew the unmistakable mark that a red-hot iron makes on flesh: the grisly puffed up skin, the red-black scar tissue, and blue-green scab that forms inch by inch to protect the new skin as it forms underneath. That he had been to hell, they all now agreed. But was hell at the other end of this tunnel, or was it their destiny?

It was Donoven who first broke the silence. “How were able to get away from the ones who did that to you?” he asked suspiciously.

O’Neill let a sinister smile cross his face. “When they put the hot iron to my flesh,” he said, letting the effect of his words soak in, “I pretended to pass out.

“When they thought I was out, they relaxed their hold on me. It was then I pulled a derringer out of my boot and shot one of them through the head. I took the other one hostage and made him show me where the cave went. After I saw, I made him lead me out again.”

“But how’d you get away from the others?” Donoven asked.

“It was dark, and I didn’t see any others. When we reached the mouth of the tunnel, I cut the man’s throat and hid him in the rocks. He’s right over there, if any of you want to have a look,” he said, pointing to a spot where a small ravine ran off in the darkness. “Then a fever must’ve took hold of me, cause the next thing I remember was someone hit me in the face. You know the rest.” O’Neill purposely left out the part about being scared half out of his wits at seeing the head of Thomas.

At first light the men were gathered ‘round the campfire, trying to keep warm in the frigid desert wind. Soon the sun would warm the ground and surrounding rock faces, and they, in turn, would warm the air. But each man knew that long before the day’s chill burned off, they would be deep in the bowels of the earth seeking their fortune or their death.

To everyone’s surprise O’Neill insisted that no one stay with the horses, let alone stand guard at the cave’s opening. Maybe he didn’t feel the need for it-or was the real reason that he didn’t want to give any man the chance to escape? One could only guess at his thinking. So it was that every last man went into the cave while the horses were left tied outside by a small trickle of water, where they could help themselves if need be.

The extra supplies were hidden in the rocks, both from the heat of the day and from any wandering animal that might decide to make lunch from the extra food packs.

Nervousness was not the word for what the men felt as they entered that black foreboding hole in the side of the cliff. There was no backing out for any of them. O’Neill saw to that as he stood just outside watching the men go blindly through the entrance one by one until the last man disappeared in the darkness.

A few feet inside, the first man lit his torch, which had been prepared for the occasion the night before. Instantly the interior was illuminated in yellowish light and the men were astounded at the vastness of the cavern. As the flickering light fell on the huge mural, the men gasped in amazement, for O’Neill had not mentioned a word of the painting to any of them.

For the moment the men were caught up in the sight of the painting. Even O’Neill had to stare in wonder, for he had only seen a small portion of the mural at a time, as he had only the light of a candle to see by. Now, as a second and third torch were lit, the full majesty of the painting displayed itself before them in all its glory.

And glory it was. There were reds, golds, and yellows more brilliant than any found in the real world. A patch of blue reminded O’Neill of the bluebirds he watched as a child on his father’s farm back East. How these colors survived all these years was anyone’s guess, but here they were.

In a sudden flash of guilt or conservation (no one could tell) O’Neill ordered the men with the torches to step back so the smoke would not harm the mural. His concern for the mural had completely taken the men by surprise, for it was not his usual character to worry of such things.