R. Trembly - Madigan

The big Irishman struck the match to the side of his pant leg with a quick upward movement of the hand and watched as it came to life in a stab of yellow-white flame. Holding the neatly wrapped bundle of six dynamite sticks in his other hand, a humorless smile spread across his sinister face as he put the flame to the fuse and watched it start to burn in a shower of sparks. Harry O’Neill’s six-feet, two-inch body of pile-driving muscle shook with anticipation at the thought of what he was about to do. The day was cool, but O’Neill felt a hot flash of evil move down his spine until beads of grime-filled perspiration broke out on his forehead.

A gust of cold wind coming up the steep canyon wall from below carried a few sparks from the dynamite fuse into a clump of dry grass at O’Neill’s feet, catching it on fire. But the Irishman ignored it, keeping all his attention on the man camped below while the quick-burning fuse grew shorter.

As O’Neill drew in a slow, deep breath, his cruel, hard eyes narrowed as one imagined a hawk might do just before the kill. But this darkly tanned face was no hawk’s face; covered with deep scar-like lines that gave it an ominous, almost sadistic appearance under a crop of short blazing red hair that somehow looked out of place was the face of a cold-blooded butcher-a killer that in a few seconds would blow the man called Madigan to hell and back. With one powerful throw, O’Neill hurled the deadly package in a high arc toward his unsuspecting victim below.

As if in slow motion, the smoking bomb sailed outward, leaving a wispy thin trail of white smoke behind it. O’Neill, unable to contain himself any longer at the imminent revenge he was about to experience, let forth with a burst of laughter that reverberated across the canyon like cannon fire. It was all the warning the man below needed.

In a fragment of a second, Madigan threw himself to the ground while palming his Colt in one easy motion. Like an athlete trained from years of practice, Madigan’s powerfully built body sprang into action. While his vision tunneled in on the target, he cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger of his.44. The two explosions sounded as one, and the concussion and searing heat drew the air from Madigan’s lungs, pinning him to the ground like a swat from a giant fly swatter.

On the canyon rim above, O’Neill was caught completely off guard, not even having time to duck out of the way. At the burst, the shock wave rolled up the canyon wall like a fast-moving dust storm slamming O’Neill backward off his feet and momentarily knocking him unconscious. Suddenly coming back to his senses, he was astounded at what had happened. Although he could not believe that any man was that fast and lethal with a six-gun, he own eyes told him it was true.

Picking himself off the ground, he cursed the air around him to vent what had happened while wiping the dust from his face and hair. O’Neill knew at this time and place there was only one decision to be made. The killer brushed the debris off the front of his shirt, then quickly caught his horse, swung into the saddle, and rode away at a full gallop, still damning the day like a man gone mad. If Captain Madigan was still alive, there would be another day, and with it, another opportunity. But for now the odds were no longer in O’Neill’s favor.

It had only been a few weeks since Madigan had resigned from the army to do some prospecting and he had no way of knowing O’Neill was a free man. Now lying here dazed, one thought kept creeping into his mind: he had to stay alive and find the man whose laugh he would never forget, the demented laugh of the only man crazy enough to carry out this deed, the one and only Harry O’Neill.

The explosion was just far enough away to hurt Madigan bad but not quite kill him. He could feel the warm blood dripping around his eyes and ears from the concussion, and Madigan knew it was a miracle he could still see at all. Every muscle in his body ached and from time to time he coughed up bright red blood. Rolling painfully over on his back he raised up on one elbow and turned his head to look around.

There laying in the dirt some fifty feet away were the bodies of his horse and pack mule. The explosion had been much closer to the animals and it was their bodies that had absorbed the full blast, shielding Madigan from its deadly destruction. Silently he swore again to kill Harry O’Neill if it took the rest of his life. Then everything faded to black.

He must have laid unconscious for hours before coming to again. When he did regain consciousness it was little more than a walking daze, a fog, from which everything reeled and danced before him. Without a horse and only the water in his canteens, it was safe to say he was in a bad situation. Being extremely weak from loss of blood didn’t help matters either. Even the smallest exertion made Madigan’s head reel and he was unsure whether any water would stay down, but he would not give up to the pain. He would force himself to go on-to live-if for no reason other than to make O’Neill pay for this and the other crimes he had committed.

Being a man that was used to taking care of himself, Madigan crawled to his canteen and took a long slow drink of the cold water, letting it settle in his stomach before chancing to move, then taking his knife, he cut his extra shirt into strips. Within the hour he’d cleaned and bound his wounds. Madigan felt a little better afterward and to his relief was no longer coughing up blood, although his insides felt like they were on fire every time he took another sip of water. Looking toward the west, he judged by the sun that it would be dark in one, maybe two hours at the most.

One thing Madigan knew for sure was that he would have to move out of the area quickly no matter how much agony he was in. After dark the animals’ remains would more than likely bring in a bear or pack of wolves. He was in no shape to tangle with either, so he carefully hid his saddle and pack where he would be able to find them later, after first hanging the food from the pack out of reach of any bear. A bear may not be able to see well, but it sure could smell food and unless it was hung out of reach, it would stop at nothing to get at it. Then Madigan put the rest of the jerky in his coat pocket and started off at a slow walk.

In the fog of Madigan’s confused mind, he remembered hearing it said that the smell of a wounded man would draw wolves from miles away. He didn’t know if it was true or not, but it wasn’t a pleasant thought as he stumbled slowly through the trees. While it was still light he could drive them off with his Winchester, but come nightfall the advantage fell heavily in the wolves’ favor. Madigan needed to find shelter soon. Being weak and wounded, he no doubt would be the number one item on some predator’s menu. Wouldn’t matter if it were a wolf, bear, or mountain lion. Any one of them would have an easy time of it with the shape he was in. He had to stay alert no matter what.

Slowly, the realization came into his dazed mind that this very morning he had passed a small rawhide ranch. It wasn’t much, just a rough hewn log cabin, cook shack, and bunkhouse with a few fences stuck in the middle of a small meadow. Not wanting to waste time, even though the thought of hot food was tempting, Madigan had kept to the ridge. But he had taken sharp notice of the smoke coming from the chimney of the cook shack.

Now, he reasoned, with any luck he could be back to the outfit by next morning, if the wolves didn’t get him first.

Night fell and with it a crispness that reminded him that spring was late this year, and there was still the possibility of snow in these higher mountain valleys. If it began snowing, Madigan’s chances of survival would drop drastically.