forest of majestic pine and fir, then dropping here and there to a cool meadow of high mountain grass where he would stop to let the animals graze and gather their strength for the never-ending climb ahead.
On the occasions when he stopped to let the horses rest, it was always at the far side of the meadow, right at the tree line so as to be able to duck out of sight at the first sign of trouble. He only picked the meadows large enough to afford him a long-range shot but would be too great a distance for anyone except another man with a Sharps. Madigan had very little fear of falling prey to any of the men that dogged his back trail, for had they been in possession of a long-range rifle, they would have turned it on him while he was still on the high plain.
He even dozed while the horses munched on the sweet, green grass around him, for the big buckskin was always vigilant and would warn him long before any danger got close. He also thought of the girl with the long, black hair and when he did so, he’d get a stirring within him that made him very uncomfortable.
So it went for the next few days. By the time he reached Poncha Pass on the morning of the third day, he had almost put the outlaws out of his mind, but having been a scout and Indian fighter, Madigan never really allowed himself to forget completely. To forget would be to bring almost certain death upon himself.
Still the days were bright and the air was clear and cool, quite a contrast to the valleys and plains far below, and he enjoyed just riding along daydreaming of the dark-haired girl and the ranch he hoped to someday own.
Madigan was riding along enjoying the scenery when something, a hunch or impulse if you will, caused him to turn around in his saddle. At first he was not sure if he had seen the flash on the mountain above him or had just imagined it. He watched for a while longer, but to no avail, so he dismissed it from his mind. Sometimes in the clear mountain air the sun will catch the wings of an eagle in flight, and although one cannot see the bird, the reflection can be, and is, quite bright. Yet, his instincts told him to check again to make sure.
He crossed Poncha Pass early in the morning and would cross the San Luis River sometime the next day if he was lucky, but Madigan wasn’t in much of a hurry. He enjoyed being alone in the wilderness and wasn’t looking forward to getting back to civilization any sooner than he needed to.
When he reached the San Luis, he planned to camp a day or two and get a belly full of fish. He no longer feared the men that had been following him as he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them since the bear attack. There might be a few Indians around, but most of them were plains Indians and didn’t get into the mountains much except to hunt once in a while. Just the same, he’d keep an eye out for any trouble headed his way, but Madigan was sure that for the next few nights he would get some pretty good sleeping done.
Several times he lingered along a stream or grassy meadow, breathing in the vastness between the Rockies and the Great Divide. So when night fell he was not as far as he had planned to be and made camp along a fast running stream whose noise drowned out all other sounds around him. If not for being so tired as he was, he would not have picked this spot, but would have moved to quieter ground where he might have been warned of approaching danger.
Madigan must have been more tired than he thought, for he made other mistakes that he would not ordinarily make. One was to leave his Colt hanging on a branch a few feet away instead of under his blanket as he normally did. He also didn’t bother to remove the Sharps from the scabbard by the saddle. Neither gun was far away, just out of reach if he needed them in a hurry.
Yet living as Madigan did, even in his fatigue, he still took some precautions. So it was as he drifted off to deep slumber, a slumber that he might not wake up from.
As far as he could tell it must have been around two in the morning when he awoke with a start. There in the light of the moon stood two forms. One held the Sharps. And it was pointed straight at Madigan’s head!
“So the sleepy one is awake. What will he do now, this man called Madigan?”
Madigan took a deep breath and let his vision clear so that he could see the outline of the man who was talking to him.
“You know me?” he asked, trying to peer into the darkness to see if there were others hidden in the shadows. He could see no one else.
“Yes, I know you. I wasn’t sure till I found the Sharps, but now I’m sure. You’re the bastard Captain Sam Madigan from the U.S. Cavalry.”
“What do you want?” Madigan asked while keeping an eye on the other man.
“Nothing special. I’m just gonna kill you and leave your bones to rot. I always wanted a Sharps and now it seems as if I have found one for my own.” The man opened the breech and found the rifle unloaded.
“Where do you keep the bullets for this cannon?” he asked irritably. There was something familiar about the intruder’s voice. Then it hit Madigan like a bomb! It was Harry O’Neill! It took all Madigan had to control his anger.
“Over in the pack, in a little tin box, but you’ll never get to use them,” he said. “It takes a man to shoot a Sharps. All I see is a big-mouthed rat!” Madigan was hoping for more time to figure his plan of action. O’Neill stared at him for a moment, then turned to his companion and smiled.
“You keep an eye on him while I get the bullets for this here gun.” He raised the rifle for emphasis. “I want to find out how big a hole it will make in this bastard’s head!”
Madigan needed to act fast. He waited for O’Neill to go over to where his pack lay, then when O’Neill was busy digging around for the ammunition, Madigan made his play. In one motion he kicked the blanket off and levered a round into the Winchester he had hidden beside him. At the same instant, the guard, realizing what Madigan was up to, went for his side arm. Madigan was a split second faster, and his bullet hit home while the man’s gun had barely cleared leather.
Even as the man fell backward Madigan was off and running, firing a shot in the direction of O’Neill. Madigan expected O’Neill to fire back, but to his surprise O’Neill dropped the Sharps and bolted for the shadows. Madigan fired a couple more rounds after O’Neill as he ran through the trees. But not being able to see in the dark of the forest, Madigan stumbled headlong into a tree, giving his rifle a good whack in the process. It jammed before he could get off another shot. He apparently had missed O’Neill anyway, and was not surprised to hear him ride out on a dead run. Madigan quickly gathered up his Colt and then checked to see that the Sharps was all right. It had fallen on the pack and wasn’t hurt.
The man he had shot lay on the ground where he had fallen, groaning softly. Madigan kicked the man’s gun away, then put the barrel of his Colt to the man’s head. The man’s eyes opened slowly and Madigan could see the man was no threat, as it was plain to see that he would soon die.
“Who are you?” Madigan asked. The man looked up with a hatred in his eye that Madigan had seen in but few men.
“My name is Rodino and you have killed me.”
“You could have kept on riding. Nobody said you had to come into my camp,” Madigan said. “I was defending my life, so I have no remorse in killing you,” he added.
The man lay quiet for a moment as though thinking something over, then half-smiled, and coughed up a little blood. “You are the man called Madigan, the hunter of men, aren’t you?”
“That’s what they call me,” Madigan affirmed. “Why were you wanting to attack me? Have I done anything to you or your kin to cause you to want to kill me?”
The dying man tried to sit up but did not have the strength, so Madigan helped him, pulling his saddle behind the man’s back for support while they talked.
“Thanks,” the dying man said and Madigan noticed the hatred had left the man’s eyes, replaced with sadness. “You have done nothing to me or my kin.”
The young cowboy then said, “I am dying. Before I go, I will try to tell you some things that might save you from the same fate.”
“Why would you want to do that? I have shot you, so why help me now?” Madigan asked. The man held out his hand motioning Madigan to take it.
“Because you are everything that I wanted to be and am not. I give you my hand and my word so that you will know that which I tell you is true.”
Madigan took the cowboy’s hand in his, and at that moment wished that he had known this man under different circumstances. “What is it you want to tell me?” he asked. The cowboy drew in a deep breath, then began his story.
“The man you just ran off is no friend of mine. I was only tagging along for what I hoped would be enough money to buy a small ranch somewhere.” He coughed and a little blood ran down his chin. Madigan took his kerchief and wiped it off.
