cause any smoke, although he wasn’t worried about anyone seeing it this late at night.
He also noticed that he wasn’t in the place where he had been when he first saw the outlaws earlier. Somehow, he’d been moved into a little depression in the earth surrounded by trees. Madigan doubted whether anyone would be able to see the light from the fire either.
He took a slab of bacon from his pack and sliced it into several long strips, then cooked it in his cast-iron skillet along with some beans he’d saved from another meal. He ate until he was full, then spread his blanket out for the night.
In the morning he would try to find some of the answers to the many questions that raced through his mind. While he lay there trying to think, he felt the strangest sensation that he was being watched. Still feeling surprisingly tired for all the sleep he’d gotten, Madigan closed his eyes and drifted off to dreams of golden towns where there was so much gold that plain dirt was valued far more.
He had always been an early riser, so at first light he was already drinking a hot cup of coffee. After finishing a second cup, he poured the remaining coffee over the fire, and walked down to the creek to rinse the pot out.
Madigan still felt that he was being watched, but shrugged it off as his imagination. He was in a hurry to get on his way and if, in fact, someone were keeping an eye on him, they would have to move fast to keep up. He planned to make a lot of distance before sundown.
Madigan had just finished saddling up when he heard voices not far away. He lay down in the dirt and inched his way forward through the low bushes until he could see where the sound was coming from. Down on the trail, not a hundred yards below him, were a dozen or more riders. None of them looked friendly, so he stayed hidden as best he could. All but two of the men were on horseback. The two on foot were bent over as they walked, looking for sign. Every few steps they would wave the riders forward. Madigan held his breath as they approached the place where he had buried the three men.
Instinctively, he slipped the thong from the hammer of his Colt, wishing that he’d also brought his rifle with him. To his surprise, the two men walked right over the grave as if it wasn’t even there!
Why didn’t they see the grave, he wondered. He’d made no attempt to hide it. Just dug a single hole for the bodies, rolled them in, then covered it up with dirt and piled rocks on top to keep the animals out. You could hardly miss it on horseback, let alone on foot.
Behind him the buckskin was growing restless and stomped his foot on the hard-packed ground. To Madigan it sounded like cannon fire and he hoped the men below didn’t hear it. He lay very still, waiting and watching while the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, every fiber of his being alive. Then the packhorse snorted!
At the sound of the noise, one of the trackers below looked up. He gave a sign for the other men to do the same. Those on horseback turned to see where the man was looking, and he was looking straight at Madigan! Several men drew their rifles, getting ready for any trouble that might come their way.
Madigan held his breath for what seemed like hours. He dared not move even an eyelid for fear of being seen. Silently he prayed the horses would be still. Then off to his side he caught movement. He could not risk moving, for to do so would surely give himself away to those below. Again Madigan caught movement off to his right, and a little behind him. Had a rider been sent ahead to scout the sides of the trail?
Madigan knew that he must have a plan; his life depended on it. He thought long and hard and decided if the time came, he’d roll to his left while drawing his gun. A quick shot and he would be on his feet and running, then up on the buckskin and he’d ride for the hills. He was bothered by the fact that he might have to leave some of his belongings behind, but better to be alive without them than dead with them.
The movement to his right was getting closer. Madigan tensed, ready for action. More of the men below had drawn their guns. On the count of five he would roll and fire, hoping to surprise whoever it was. He started to count to steady his nerves.
Three, four, he silently counted. . five. The Colt came easily into his hand and he thumbed the hammer back as he rolled. In one smooth motion he brought the gun up to bear on the target.
The man was crouched down, rifle in hand, trying to find where he was. His back was toward Madigan, but it was evident what his intentions were. Madigan half-smiled as he watched the man, but he knew that time was running out. If any of the men below got curious, they might ride up to see what was happening. Madigan could not afford to take that chance.
“What are you looking for?” Madigan asked quietly. To his surprise, the man whirled and fired at the sound of his voice. The bullet kicked up dirt less than two feet from where he lay on the ground. Madigan squeezed off a shot. The man was picked up and thrown back from the impact of the bullet. For an instant Madigan started to fire again, but the rifle dropped from the man’s grasp as he fell backward, like a tree fallen from a woodsman’s ax.
Madigan glimpsed the men below running for cover. In an instant he was up and running while firing another shot in the direction of the men below to make them keep their heads down a little longer. He jumped in the saddle and wheeled the buckskin around so he could grab the packhorse’s rope. The shooting had spooked the animals some and they were both ready to run. He pointed them toward the mountains to the west and gave the buckskin its head. Even though the packhorse’s load was light, it was all it could do to keep from holding the big stallion back.
Madigan knew that within a few minutes he would have to bring the buckskin to a walk to let the pack animal rest, and if worse came to worst, he would have to cut the animal loose and let the buckskin carry him to safety. Or he might try another trick. All he would need was a little room between the gunmen and himself.
Looking over his shoulder he could see no one following. So he brought the horses to a slow gallop to conserve their wind. Ahead of him was a broad plain that appeared to stretch for several miles before it began a climb into the east side of the Rockies. He headed out across it, and glancing back every so often, he soon saw a cloud of dust showing where there was nothing minutes before.
The riders obviously had discovered his escape and were now intent on catching him. A picture flashed through Madigan’s mind of a fox being chased by the hounds. The only difference was this fox wore long teeth.
Madigan guessed he must be at least a mile-and-a-half ahead of the men following behind. A little further and the horses could get a rest, and if things went well, he would give his pursuers second thoughts.
Chapter 2
About three hundred yards ahead of him was a waist-high boulder with a small stand of scrub oak around it. As soon as he saw it, Madigan knew this was the place he was looking for. He rode up and looked the spot over carefully. Seeing that it would do nicely, he dismounted and tied the horses to a tree a few yards behind the large rock. At this point, he couldn’t afford to be in a hurry. So he purposely paced himself, not too fast, not too slow. Madigan had a job to do and it would require rock steady nerves.
From his pack he pulled out a long leather sheath and laid it gently on the ground. Next he felt around for the small tin box that was so carefully packed for just such an occasion. Finding it, he laid it alongside the covered.50– 90 Sharps. Madigan carried these to the rock and took the gun out of its sheath.
Madigan had always enjoyed the feel of this heavy buffalo gun, from its polished black walnut stock- fitted perfectly to the massive breech block mechanism with the heavy side hammer to the end of the long barrel with the three steel bands clamping it and the wood forearm together. This was a tool meant for one purpose-to kill at long distances. And this was precisely what he needed now.
Checking the barrel for any obstructions, but finding none, he opened and closed the breech to make sure it worked properly. With the rifle in one hand, Madigan opened the tin box with the other and withdrew a brass cartridge. He forced himself to keep his mind on the job at hand and not the riders that he knew would be coming fast.
The first bullet looked good, so he quickly checked another and then a third. Now it was time to give the men following him the shock of their lives. As he’d guessed, they had closed to about a half a mile, maybe just a little over, but close to the distance he wanted.
Chambering a round, Madigan took off his hat and placed it on the rock in front of him to protect the rifle’s finish from getting scratched. Figuring the wind to be about two notches from the north, he adjusted the sights for the distance. Then he held two beads to the left and squeezed off a shot. He was aiming for the leader, but knew if he missed, as he probably would at this range, the bullet would still have a good chance of getting one of the men
