R. Trembly - Madigan

Soon the men were on the move again, cautiously moving along in the darkness, not knowing what lay ahead of them. From time to time a man would trip and fall, cussing at the unseen obstacle that had fallen him in the dark while the flickering light of the torches served to blind the men as well as light their way. And so it was that they walked deeper into the cave.

Whenever a man would trip and fall, he would be jeered by his friends for being clumsy, and the whole procession would have to come to a halt while the man regained his feet. It had almost become a game with the men, each waiting to see who would be the next victim of their insults.

Charlie Scott, a short, round man with ruddy complexion and a gripe for everything, was walking a few feet in front and slightly to the side of the lead torch man when he went down like a ton of bricks. The laughter started immediately, followed by the usual verbal abuse bestowed on those unfortunate enough to take a spill.

“Get to yer feet, you clumsy oaf!” Donoven sneered.

Scott didn’t move. Urging Scott to his feet, the men became dismayed when he still failed to rise. On further investigation, the truth was revealed. There sticking out of Scott’s forehead was the shaft of an arrow. The chronic complainer hadn’t known what hit him.

In a heartbeat the men scattered for cover, flinging the torches away from them in their mad scramble so as to make as hard a target as possible, each man using what little cover he could find. All of them except O’Neill, who stood his ground dimly illuminated by the glow of a torch thrown down a few feet from him.

O’Neill appeared ghost-like standing there, his white hair blowing softly in the current of air that had been growing stronger as they moved deeper into the cave. Nothing moved, not the men or O’Neill. No one even dared breathe. Then, in the blackness ahead, a low drawing sound was heard, quickly followed by the explosive roar of O’Neill’s Colt. In the confines of the tunnel, the explosive roar of the gun was deafening, and it would be several minutes before the men were able to hear again.

When they again dared lift their heads to look around, they were shocked to find that O’Neill was gone! The men, overcome by panic, clung to the cave floor in the dim light of the single torch that still burned. No noise was heard, save the breathing of the men and an occasional nervous cough. What seemed like minutes passed; then in desperation someone asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.

“Where the hell is O’Neill? What should we do now?”

“You might try waiting for my orders!” came the reply from O’Neill from out of the darkness ahead.

In seconds O’Neill reappeared dragging the corpse of a man behind him. The torches were quickly relit and the men gathered round the dead man.

“He’s some kind of Indian,” Jack Ward said as he peered at the body, “but none the likes of any I’ve seen.”

The body before them was that of a man in his mid-forties, yet he had the physique of someone in his early twenties. He was muscular and tanned the color of rich bronze. His hair was cut short and well trimmed, not like the usual Indians who liked to leave their hair long about their shoulders.

The bow with which the man was armed was not like any the men had ever seen before. Made of wood, it had a handle made of some type of metal that shined in the light from the torches. And the wood that made up the limbs of the weapon were made of several layers of flat wood carefully fitted together so as to fit as one, each piece being a shade of color different from the other. An attractive weapon to be sure.

Apache John, a half-breed saddle tramp that had joined O’Neill’s gang in Durango, came forward, stooped over, and picked the bow up. After examining it for some time, he slowly brought it up and tried its pull.

Now Apache John was known to have used a bow for a good part of his life, and when he spoke of the weapon he held in his hands, he spoke with some authority.

“I’d say she pulls about sixty-five pounds,” he started. “Enough to give it a range greater than three hundred yards with the right arrow. And looking at the arrow in Charlie there, I’d say it’s matched pretty well to the bow.”

“What tribe makes it?” O’Neill asked quietly of the half-breed, even though O’Neill knew John wouldn’t be able to answer. He had asked it as much to make a point as anything, figuring every man there would be straining to hear the answer.

“None I know of,” came the reply. “But I’ll tell you one thing. This here bow is a work of art, the way it’s built. There ain’t an Indian I’ve ever known could even start to build it. No, sir. Whoever built this knows more about wood than any Indian alive. Look at how the wood’s joined. It looks like one piece instead of four,” he said passing the bow amongst the men clustered around him. “From the looks of this, it will not be easy to take them! These people are thinkers and they already know we are here and what we’re looking for.”

“Look at the headband he’s wearing! It’s solid gold!” someone yelled, pointing to the dead man at their feet.

Suddenly the men were in a frenzy trying to grab the golden band before any of their friends could snatch it.

“The first man to lay hands on that headband will be buried with it,” O’Neill stated flatly. “There will be plenty for all of us later. I’ll not have you fighting like a pack of dogs over this trifling little piece of junk. Now get walking! Donoven, you take the lead!” he ordered. There was dead silence as the men continued on through the tunnel.

He called that headband junk, Donoven thought as he led the way into the blackness, a torch held high in one hand while his other hand felt along the cool stone wall. That junk could keep me in money for months, yet O’Neill made us leave it there. He’s crazy, or there’s an awful lot of gold ahead, he surmised as he walked cautiously along.

The more Donoven thought about the riches that lay ahead, the more careless he became. Maybe it was his Irish blood or maybe just the promise of wealth, but soon he was moving ahead in strides that were impossible for the men behind him to follow. Curiously, O’Neill said nothing to hold him back.

Sweat was breaking out on Donoven’s forehead as he almost ran along, slowing only enough to allow his torch to stay lit. Nevermind that there might be an ambush waiting ahead, his mind was now fully possessed by the gold fever and nothing or no one could stop him until he got what he was after.

When the great swiveling rock shuddered, then tilted slightly downward beneath his feet, Donoven was taken completely off guard. Stopping in his tracks, he listened for any telltale sign of what was happening. He felt something give, but in the darkness one’s sensations often belie what is really happening. With the flickering torchlight and only the sound of the men walking behind him, it would be easy to imagine something that wasn’t real.

Slowly he took another step forward. Everything felt solid-no movement, no noises. Another step with the same results. Smiling at himself for thinking something was amiss, he shifted the torch to the other hand and took another confident step. It was then that all hell broke loose.

In the midst of a great grinding roar, Donoven flung himself flat to the ground. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried desperately to find something, anything, to grab hold of. Panic welled up in his stomach as the reality of what was happening surged through his mind. There was nothing to get a hold on-not a crack, crevice, nothing!

He tried in desperation to dig his fingernails into the unyielding rock, but it was useless. As the floor tilted more and more, his body slipped faster toward the abyss below, just the eerie grating of his fingernails on the stone could be heard as he slid ever closer to the edge.