Whoever had painted this masterpiece, for a masterpiece it truly was, had used real gold for part of the coloring. O’Neill was astonished at this startling revelation. It could mean only one thing: he was closer than ever to his goal of getting the treasure.
A breeze filtered through from somewhere in the cave’s interior, threatening to extinguish the flame. At the same time, a stream of hot wax ran down the short stub of candle causing O’Neill to switch the torch to the other hand.
Studying the fire, he realized that the tip of the flame bent outward in the direction of the cavern’s entrance. Watching the flare, O’Neill pondered the significance of his discovery.
If the wind was blowing the flame outward, then the air had to be coming from someplace deep within the cave itself. And that could mean only one thing: there had to be another opening to allow the air in. Excitement stirred within O’Neill as he made his way outside.
The storm was in full fury as he reached the spot where he had picketed his horse, under an overhang of red sandstone a short distance from the cavern’s threshold. Looking back over his shoulder, O’Neill observed the cave’s gaping mouth, sinister in the growing darkness, like the mouth of a huge skull, ready to swallow a man up, never to see the light of day again.
The more he studied the black hole, the less he felt the need to go exploring until morning. Besides, Madigan was still out there somewhere, maybe close by, so O’Neill’s best bet was to make a cold camp and wait for morning. In the morning he would make sure he was alone, then and only then would he take the time to explore further.
O’Neill’s camp was north of the opening to the cave about fifty yards. In the blackness around him, he would be invisible to anyone more than ten feet from camp. And by making a cold camp, there would be no fire to give his position away. Only the occasional burst of lightning might reveal his hiding place, but O’Neill had little worry of that happening. A man would have to be looking directly at the camp when a flash occurred, and even then it was doubtful he could see anything with the rain and all.
The wind covered up any noise he might inadvertently make, and by now his tracks would be a thing of the past, washed clean by the torrents of water.
O’Neill wasted no time getting into his bedroll, not even bothering to unsaddle his horse. Smug in the knowledge that he was safe for the night, he was soon fast asleep.
Around 3 a.m., he rose from his bed to let water. The wind was blowing fiercely and the rain was pelting down in great thundering waves.
Reaching for the flap on his saddlebag, O’Neill lifted it and withdrew from deep within an almost empty bottle of rotgut whiskey, appropriately named red-eye. Turning the bottle on end, he quickly drank the remainder, then threw the empty vessel away in the night.
Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he let out a belch that pleased him, and he started to roll up again in his blankets when a movement in the darkness alerted him to possible danger. Was it just something blowing in the wind, or was there someone out there?
O’Neill slowly came to his feet so as not to give his position away. His horse stamped a foot nervously and blew a rush of air from its nostrils. O’Neill stood motionless, gun in hand, waiting for whatever was to come.
The horse stamped his hoof again and shied away from some unknown intruder still hidden in the moonless night. Straining to hear even the slightest of sounds, sweat running down his face burning his eyes, O’Neill waited, choking back panic.
Ten minutes that seemed like hours passed before O’Neill dared to move from his hiding place, then only with great trepidation did he proceed to the side of his horse. Thunder boomed in the distance and caused him to turn and look over his shoulder in alarm in time to see another flash of lightning that for a split second painted the landscape a ghostly-greenish white.
With his hand on his animal’s neck he could feel it shudder in fear, so O’Neill started to speak to it in a reassuring voice when his attention was caught by a shadowy figure on the opposite side of the horse.
O’Neill froze, unable to move, hysteria raising in his throat. Then a great bolt of electricity split the night air and there before him, impelled on a stick, was the head of a man whose eyes were ripped out, blood still fresh from the wounds dripping down his cheeks. The mouth was opened in an eternal scream, nothing but a hollow where the tongue had once been.
A sudden piercing scream shattered the night as O’Neill bolted backward in his uncontrolled scramble to be away from this ghastly apparition from hell. In his backward dash, he tripped and fell hitting his head on the rock-hard ground. Knocked unconscious by the blow, O’Neill lay there, his body not moving while the demons of his mind watched on in amusement.
“Man, that’s weird,” Tom Cook said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What ya suppose happened to him?”
“Something bad, that’s for sure. A man’s hair doesn’t turn snow white like that for no reason, and did you see his eyes?”
“Yeah, like there’s nothing inside. They just look at you like you’re not even there. Man, I’m tellin’ you, this whole thing’s got me spooked.”
Tom poked at the log on the fire with a long twig, causing sparks to fly into the night. Both men watched as the bright specks climbed higher in the evening sky before winking out.
“Who found him?” the man sitting with Cook asked.
“Jackson and a few of the others. When O’Neill and Jim didn’t show up after three days, Jackson took a couple of the boys and went looking. Only found O’Neill and he ain’t talked yet. Just keeps staring straight ahead not saying anything.
“Anyone going out looking for Jim?”
“Some of the boys are going out in the morning. Going to try to backtrack O’Neill to wherever he left his horse. Shouldn’t be too hard. The way he was stumbling around out there, he couldn’t have gone far.” The two men gazed into the flames of the fire lost in thought for a long while.
“With the storm gone, it would be easy to find his tracks, being any others would be washed clean by the rain from the night before.”
“Wonder what they’ll find?” Tom said abruptly, startling his friend from his thoughts.
The next morning several of the men rode out looking for Jim Thomas. It was easy to follow the tracks made by O’Neill in his confused stumbling walk across the flats. The rain had cleansed the land of all signs of trespass up to the end of the storm, leaving a clear imprint of O’Neill’s aimless passing.
In a short time the men came upon the remains of Thomas on the pole. His body was nowhere to be seen, nor did the men feel like venturing into any of the caves that were so common in the area to look for it. Finding O’Neill’s dapple gray a short distance away, they gathered what they could in a hurry and rode off after burying the head of James Thomas, the cowboy who was going to go home.
For two days they stayed in camp and waited for O’Neill to come to his senses. Another storm blew through bringing more rain to the land. A land that normally looked baked and dry now took on a brilliant coat of colors as all sorts of wild flowers bloomed to show their gratitude for the life-giving water from above.
Even O’Neill slowly regained his composure and came back to the land of reality. It was on the third day after O’Neill returned to camp, while the men were sitting around the noon fire eating. Since O’Neill’s return, the men had been taking turns feeding him and more or less helping him with other things much like they would a small child.
It now became Warren Elegant’s turn to feed O’Neill his noon meal. Elegant was a miserable little twit, with a mouth befitting a man twice his size, his curly black hair bushed out from under his hat, giving the impression of someone with a dirty rat’s nest on his head. In his career he had been a town clerk, tax collector, and embezzler. In truth he was nothing more than an imbecile of the lowliest order.
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.
Chapter 13
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.
LaRue and Shorty cautiously rode out the next morning. It was hard to know whether they were being watched or not. The air smelled washed and clean as they made their way along the canyon bottom, heading ever westward while keeping an eye out for anything that looked of trouble. Nothing stirred except for an occasional jackrabbit.
Neither man spoke of the visitors in the night, but each knew that it was the foremost thing on each of their minds. Whoever it had been was in a bug hurry to get somewhere or they would not have been riding in the middle of the night. At any rate, LaRue and his friend hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone since daybre
ak, and both were glad of that fact.
About midmorning, the two men rode out from between two vertical walls of rock to be presented with a wide valley that stretched vastly out below them. Partway across was a stream reflecting sunlight from the torrents of water overflowing its banks from the rain of the night before.
“That stream was dry when I crossed it last. May be a while before we can get over, with the water so high,” LaRue said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Maybe by the time we get there, it’ll be low enough to ford. I figure we’re still a half-day’s ride away.”
Shorty nodded in agreement, saying nothing, his mind still on the events of the night.
A short time later as they topped a small knoll, they spotted a cloud of dust to the north of them.
“Looks like nine, maybe ten riders. Maybe we ought to get out of sight,” LaRue said. “Probably O’Neill and his bunch.” Reining their horses around, they ducked into a small arroyo.
“I don’t think they saw us,” LaRue said when they were well hidden.
“Now we know who our visitors were last night.”
“Most likely, the way they were going hell-bent-for-leather. Where do you suppose they’re heading in such an all-fired hurry?” Shorty asked.
“Beats me. Just as long as they keep going away from us is all I care about,” LaRue answered gravely.
“By the way, just where are we heading?” Shorty wanted to know. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, but there just didn’t seem to be the right time till now.”
“We are going to the cabin I told you about, the prospector’s cabin where I stayed for a while. When we reach it we’ll get our bearings and start looking from there.”
“How are we going to find it again? Mighty big territory out here and you said it was well hidden.”
“It is, but when I left, I marked a trail in such a way so I’d be able to follow it, but no one else could. All we have to do is keep our eyes out for a tall rock chimney. Should be able to see it for miles. The trail starts at the base of it.”
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