The buckskin moved nervously toward his master, smelling the blood on Madigan’s shirt. Taking hold of the saddle horn, it took all of Madigan’s strength to pull himself into the saddle. Once there, the big horse moved off on his own accord, it being all Madigan could do just to stay on. The packhorse followed a short distance behind.
Fighting to stay conscious, Madigan vaguely heard hoofbeats in the distance, then nothing as a curtain of darkness fell over him.
Pete LaRue and his partner had been riding slowly through the twisting canyon floor when the distant sound of a rifle shot came echoing off the canyon walls.
What do you make of that?” Shorty asked his friend.
“Maybe a hunter, although I haven’t seen a deer track since we entered these canyons.”
Me either,” Shorty replied matter of fact. “You think it might be O’Neill and the boys?”
“Who else would it be way out here? Nobody but fools be riding in this country,” LaRue said, shaking his head in disgust.
Lightning cracked off in the distance. “Looks like we’re in for a storm. Better find some shelter on high ground before it gets here,” LaRue suggested.
The two men spurred their horses to a gallop, hoping to find an overhang of rock to shield them from the inevitable downpour. Finding such a place, they picketed the horses out of the elements before stretching out on their bedrolls to wait out the rain that was already upon them.
“At any rate,” Shorty began, “the storm will wipe out our tracks. And since we haven’t been keeping strictly to the trail, it’ll make it hard for O’Neill to follow us, if that’s what he’s doing.” The two men laughed at the thought of O’Neill left with nothing to follow.
“Course, he may not be following us at all,” LaRue said seriously. “Didn’t he say the gold was somewhere around here?”
“That’s right,” Shorty confirmed. “Now about that gold. How do you propose we find it?”
LaRue thought for a moment. “I remember where the old prospector’s cabin is. The prospector was killed less than a mile from it with an arrow the likes of nothing I’ve seen any Indian use before. The way I figure, the gold has got to be within a few miles of that spot. Why else would the old man have been killed? He prospected around these parts for years without any trouble, then the day he dies he has a gold figurine clutched in his hand.” LaRue stared off into the distance in deep thought. Finally he spoke again. “I think he stumbled onto the location of the treasure and was killed to keep its whereabouts secret.”
“Could be,” Shorty said, nodding his head in agreement. “But that doesn’t tell me how we’re going to find it for ourselves and at the same time keep our skins intact.”
“I wish I knew,” LaRue admitted. “I wish I knew.”
The rain came down in a great deluge, and the two men pressed further back under the overhang to stay dry while the horses put their backs to the wind in an attempt to ward off the chill.
It was growing stormier and LaRue gathered some dead brush from a dry crevice in the rocks and made a small fire. Both men agreed that it was wise to make camp here for the night. They were soon settled in for the long hours ahead, while the rain beat a drumroll on the ground a few feet away.
Madigan came to again, barely clinging to the saddle. The big buckskin was stepping out slowly, picking his way through a trail bordered by huge boulders and strewn with rubble from crumbling rock. Blood slowly dripped down the front of Madigan’s shirt and onto his leg, spreading out in a darkening stain.
Madigan’s head swam in a sea of pain that was so intense he felt he could not go on any further, yet he had to. The survival instinct within him was strong and he could not give in to the pain any more than he would give in to the man who had shot him. Whoever it was would surely be on this trail trying to finish the job, and Madigan didn’t want to stick around and give the bushwhacker another chance at him.
The ground opened up on both sides of the path as Madigan leaned over in the saddle to better stay on. Lightning flashed in the distance and the wind began to stir up some. It was evident a storm was brewing and Madigan felt a little relief knowing the rain would wash out his tracks. If only he could keep ahead of his pursuer long enough to let the rain do its work.
He rode on for several more miles before he felt the first raindrops upon his back. The wet coolness was refreshing and gave him new strength to ride on. The big horse beneath him sensed the urgency to find shelter and broke into a fast trot toward some rough-looking country ahead.
Coming to a dry creek bed, Madigan hesitated before crossing. The banks at either side were steep and it would be difficult for the packhorse to scale the far embankment. With the rain, it was only a matter of time before the roaring waters of a flash flood filled the creek to overflowing, taking everything caught in its path along with it. There would be little warning when the waters came, maybe a few seconds at best, no more.
Madigan agonized over the decision. If he started the horses across and the waters came upon them, there would be but seconds for them to get up and out the other side before being washed away to their doom. Madigan had little fear of the buckskin not making it. He was a powerful animal able to take care of himself, even with a load on his back.
It was the packhorse Madigan worried about. Loaded heavily with supplies, it might not be able to carry them up the other side. Still, if he could get to the other side, Madigan would be safe from anyone following as long as the rain held out. In his weakened state, he didn’t have a prayer of fighting them off. He would have to try to make it across.
The rain increased in intensity as they slid down the stream side to the creek bottom already turning to a quagmire of slippery mud from the barrage of water falling from the heavens. The buckskin kept his footing, but the packhorse, top-heavy from the supplies on his back, was soon down and trying to scramble back to his feet.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he was up and moving toward the far side of the stream, but not before Madigan heard the ominous sound of roaring water bearing down on them. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Madigan whirled the buckskin around behind the other animal and gave the packhorse a slap on its rump. The horse lurched ahead and made it halfway up the bank before losing its footing and sliding back to the creek bed.
Taking a quick look upstream, Madigan could see debris being thrown in the air from the surge of water crashing down from the mountains not far away. There was only one thing left for him to do: cut the pack loose and save the horse. Luckily, his Sharps, along with ammunition and a few other things he used every day, were tied in a smaller pack on top. Grabbing loose the ties, Madigan pulled this pack in front of him while he cut the main pack from the animal’s back letting it fall free. In a split second the two horses raced up the bank and a hundred yards beyond to freedom.
They were safe for moment, and Madigan turned in his saddle in time to see a gigantic wall of water rush past where moments before they were trying, almost in vain, to climb out of its way. A great emotional release rose within him, overshadowing the anger he felt at losing the supplies.
O’Neill and Thomas held their ground behind the large boulder they hoped would shield them from the onslaught of bullets they felt was sure to come.
“I know I hit him,” O’Neill said as he turned to Thomas, expecting him to confirm what he himself was not sure of.
“You saw him go down, didn’t you?” he pleaded.
Thomas stared at O’Neil, who he was beginning to despise. O’Neill, the great leader, the one that was going to make them all rich or get them all killed. O’Neill, the coward!
Thomas was no newcomer to violence, growing up in east Texas, the son of a card cheat and womanizer, his mother a drunk that often found herself waking up in the morning with a stranger. Finally, it was the wrong stranger and she wound up being beaten to death.
After she died, James and his father drifted from town to town playing the cheap dance halls of the cattle towns, keeping just ahead
of the law. When James was twelve, his pa got caught dealing from the bottom of the deck by a big, raw-boned cowhand named Ed Piker. In an instant, the older Thomas lay dead on the floor, still clutching the card that cost him his life.
With his pa gone, James wandered from one cow camp to another learning the trade of the cowboy. He learned another thing too-how to handle a gun. Later he found there was more money to be made with a gun than punching cows, and he left the cowboy life for that of the gunslinger.
Now years later, here he was, forced to back up a madman who he was sure wouldn’t think twice about shooting him in the back if it would serve his purpose.
If I get out of this mess I’m in, I think I’ll just keep riding, Thomas thought to himself before answering O’Neill.
“No, I didn’t see anything, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” Thomas smiled inwardly at not giving O’Neill any satisfaction. O’Neill scowled but said nothing. Within minutes his life had changed from triumph to what very well could be tragedy.
Madigan was out there somewhere close by and he had the advantage of knowing exactly where the other two men were. O’Neill began to sweat. How did this happen?
One minute his enemy was in his sights, at O’Neill’s mercy. Now it was the other way around and he wondered if he would live to see another day.
O’Neill glanced around nervously, trying to find a way out of the predicament he had gotten himself into. One side of the boulder he was behind lay up against a cliff that rose over a hundred feet straight up, blocking an escape in that direction.
In front, the ground lay flat, ringed by broken rock, large boulders, and crevices cut deep into the face of the cliff side opposite O’Neill’s hiding place. From his viewpoint while on top of the mesa, O’Neill knew that the canyon narrowed further on, making a perfect spot for an ambush if one so desired.
Considering this, his best chance for freedom would be a mad dash back the way he had come, hoping against all hope that surprise would be on his side. A man bursting out at a dead run might gain a few precious seconds, and those seconds might be all that would keep him alive.
Without warning, O’Neill swung to the saddle and spurred his mount out in the open. Laying over in the saddle to make a smaller target, he slapped leather to the charging animal and hung on, expecting the sound of gunfire at any second. None came.
James Thomas was not in the least bit shocked at being deserted by O’Neill. The man was a coward through and through. And like all yellow bellies, he would not think twice about betraying his friends. So O’Neill’s actions were for the most part foreseeable.
Thomas did have to laugh at the sight of O’Neill hunched over the saddle, his big butt in the air as if it was some kind of shield to hide behind. Thomas thought about shooting O’Neill himself, then letting O’Neill try to explain to the others how he got a bullet in the butt.
As for James, he had taken all he was going to take and was about to ride out of the picture forever. He’d drift down El Paso way. The cowboy life wasn’t a bad life and the company was a whole lot better.
The storm lasted through the night, lightning casting grotesque shadows on the walls and rocks around them, filling the hollow where LaRue and Shorty slept with mysterious dancing spirits of the night. The wind moaned over and through the rocks, singing a song of loneliness to the Navajo gods.
The small fire had long since gone out, leaving the coffee pot to get cold, while Shorty shivered, trying to sleep. Always the one to be cold even on the warmest of nights, he was now rolled up in his two wool blankets and freezing.
Lightning cracked, and Shorty sat up abruptly. Was it the noise of the lightning that woke him or was it something else? Times like these were the one thing Shorty could never get used to.
It wasn’t the darkness around him that bothered him, he thought as he adjusted the blankets around his legs; it was the confounded damp, miserable nights he was forced to endure that were the worst.
He was just getting ready to roll over and go back to sleep when he was again startled awake. He listened, but wasn’t really sure he had heard anything.
On nights like these a man’s mind tends to wander, and he might believe he heard something when it was only the wind. It was no use trying to sleep, so he tossed the blankets aside and got to his feet.
Gathering a pile of sticks, he quickly built a small mound of wood for a fire, when a noise from the darkness again caught his attention.
He immediately froze, straining to hear. For a long minute he listened before he heard it again. He tried to remember what it reminded him of. Then it hit him. It was the sound of a dozen horses walking by in the night.
He should have known instantly. But with the wind and rain, it was hard to hear clearly. Yes, he was sure of it now. Somewhere close by, a small band of horses was moving by in the dark. Whether the horses had riders was impossible to tell and by morning their tracks would be washed clean by the rain.
Shorty peered into the night trying to see, but to no avail. Except for the occasional flashes of lightning, the night was just too black to see anything. Gathering a couple of small pebbles, he tossed them at his friend a few feet away.
“I’m awake,” LaRue whispered.
“Did you hear them?”
LaRue came slowly to his feet and joined Shorty where he stood, gun in hand.
“What do you make of it?” LaRue asked.
Shorty thought for a moment, still straining for the slightest sound. All was quiet now.
“Sounded like maybe a dozen horses moving through,” Shorty answered. “Beats me what they’re up to. Horses usually seek shelter in weather like this.”
“Indians?”
“Not likely. At least not this time of night. And from what I was led to believe, most of them don’t ride horses in these parts. Could be wrong about the horses-wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong. But then again I never knew of Indians running together in such large numbers in the dark. They don’t like to move around in the dark-something to do with the spirits of the dead out at night.
“Of course. If not Indians, who else could it be?” LaRue moved closer to his friend before hazarding an answer. “Could be the ones we’re looking for.”
“If it’s them, we don’t have far to look. It seems they’ve found us.”
“The question is,” LaRue said in a serious voice, “what do they intend to do with us, now that we have them right where they want us?”
“Or it could be O’Neill and his bunch,” Shorty threw in. “It’d be just like him to make them ride all night, wet or dry.”
“He’s crazy enough at that,” LaRue confirmed.
Chapter 12
It was several miles before O’Neill dared stop from his dash for freedom. He felt safe for the moment. Taking his canteen, he drank freely, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when finished, before replacing the cork in the container.
Taking a slow, hard look around, he was pleased with what he saw: a patchwork of jagged rock and canyons surrounded him which offered a multitude of hiding places.
The wind started to pick up and a coolness gripped the air. A few miles away lightning cracked, and thunder sounded like a thousand drums all beating at once.
O’Neill watched the storm advance toward him before riding up a small game trail that promised shelter in one of the numerous small caves in the area.
Finding the cave a suitable place to stay dry, he pulled out the fixins and rolled a smoke. Only then did he allow himself time to consider the fate of Thomas, still out there somewhere, maybe even dead, although O’Neill doubted it as he had heard no shots.
The rain started falling in huge driving sheets, and now and again the wind blew some mist into the mouth of the cave where O’Neill stood.
The cave had apparently been formed eons ago, when a prehistoric river flowed through this area and cut the deep canyons as it rushed on unerringly to some far-off, unseen ocean.
Lighting a match, he moved back de
eper into the cave to escape the occasional blast of moisture. The light from the match was dim at best, but by holding it over his head, he was able to make out the fact that the cave was much bigger than he had first suspected.
A few yards in from the entrance the walls opened up, the ceiling going up and out of sight in the dim light. The match soon burned O’Neill’s fingers and he was forced to drop it. Fumbling for another, he grew uneasy in the darkness, so he quickly walked out to the mouth of the cave again.
The storm intensified. Out in the open the wind was gusting to gale force. O’Neill dug around in his saddlebag and withdrew a thick candle. Seconds later, he was again moving deeper into the cave, the candle giving off twice the light of the match.
The floor of the cave was relatively flat and smooth, as if ground down by a huge grinding wheel. The walls were of red stone and also rather smooth to the touch.
O’Neill had entered fifty feet or more when something caught his attention on the wall ahead. There, some fifteen feet tall and twenty feet across, was a mural depicting Spanish priests holding crosses high overhead as they walked along with conquistadors on horseback guarding what appeared to be Indian slaves carrying baskets on their shoulders.
Standing there in the flickering light, O’Neill studied the picture in detail. To the best of his knowledge there had not been any Spanish conquistadors in this land for over three hundred years. Yet here before him in splendid color, seemingly as fresh as the day it was painted, was a graphic depiction of a time long ago, a time when Spanish conquistadors swept over the country like a plaque in the quest for treasure held sacred by the natives.
One thing bothered him about the picture: It was his belief that the Spanish invaders hadn’t strayed this far north, so what was the explanation for this wonderful sight before him?
He wiped his finger across the image, then looked to find a light sheen of white-and-gold had rubbed off. Holding the candle closer he examined it more carefully. He was unable to identify what the white chalky substance was, but the other had the sparkle that only real gold had.
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