following behind.
The kick of the rifle set Madigan back for a moment and he had to wait for the smoke to clear before he could see again. But when the smoke cleared, he was greeted with the sight of a clean miss. He chambered another round and was about to pull the trigger when the front rider tumbled out of his saddle. In his haste, Madigan had forgotten how long it took for the heavy bullet to go that distance.
Immediately the rest of the riders turned and raced back to the trees like the very devil was after them. Madigan quickly walked to his pack and grabbed his field glasses to get a better view. To his satisfaction, the man on the ground was not moving. He watched as the others headed for the only cover within reach, the tree line about a quarter mile back from where the man had fallen.
That the bullet carried enough power to kill at that range was a marvel to him. So maybe another try might just even things up a bit more and, at any rate, it sure couldn’t hurt.
Even if the bullet only kicked up dust close to his pursuers, it would scare the hell out of any sensible man. Madigan aimed the big rifle over the area that he saw the riders go into. Only this time, he held the sights at a point halfway up the trees they were hiding amongst.
He had already killed four men with three bullets, and to hope for another score would be asking a lot. Whether it was curiosity or survival instinct he didn’t know, but Madigan was already pulling the trigger before he’d given it much thought.
This time he was ready as the blast knocked him backward. Madigan quickly set the gun down and grabbed his glasses to see where the bullet would hit. To his astonishment, three riders had broken out of the trees at a full run. It was clear that they planned on running him down before he could get mounted and away.
They must have figured that he would shoot once, then try for the mountains a few miles away. The interval it took him to get his glasses was all the time needed for them to believe they were right and that he was riding off. They were wrong, and it cost them dearly. For an instant they rode hell-bent-for-leather, then as if in slow motion the last man jerked sideways in his saddle and slid to the ground.
“Damn,” Madigan whispered to himself, “this is a straight shootin’ cannon.” Anyway, he wouldn’t have to worry about the riders for the moment. The only horse coming towards him was riderless. He waited to make sure they’d given up, at least for the time being. Come nightfall he knew they would ride out and try to get behind him. But as long as they didn’t see him leave, they would not take another chance while it was still light.
This close to the mountains it would get dark fairly early. Madigan guessed there were maybe nine hours of usable light left. He wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances, so he took his Winchester out of its scabbard and replaced it with the Sharps. He would keep an eye out for anyone following, and with the Sharps close at hand, he would be ready.
Keeping the small grove of trees between him and his pursuers, Madigan walked the horses due west toward the Rockies, and, he hoped, shelter from his enemies. Every once in a while he would turn in the saddle to see if there was any telltale dust that would give away any riders coming up hard behind him. There was none.
As Madigan rode, he mulled the events of the day over in his mind. He felt no guilt at having to kill, but it did bother him some that he’d been forced to without any say-so in the matter. Now he was forced to run for his life.
Another thought kept entering his mind-the two women and the gold. He couldn’t help but think that he was being pulled into this situation by some mysterious force beyond his control.
For now, all he could do was ride along and try to stay alive. He soon rode into the forest at the base of the Rockies, following a trail that turned south by southwest. The trail was rocky and sometimes steep, just wide enough for one horse at a time.
The last hour had been a gradual climb, and Madigan had to rest the horses often. There was still a good six hours of daylight left, but he was aware that he would have to make camp while enough light still remained, as it would be suicide to ride this narrow trail in the dark. He was at least four hours, maybe five, ahead of the gunmen and they would not be able to see any better in the dark than he would.
At the start of the trail he was now on, there were at least two others branching off in other directions. One of these went to a hidden lake a few hours’ ride into the mountains, while the other led to a pass much higher than Poncha Pass, which Madigan now rode towards. Unless these men were familiar with the area, they would have to guess where each trail went, and Madigan made sure that he had left no tracks on the trail below for them to follow.
For the moment he relaxed and breathed in the fragrance of the high mountains. The air had a coolness about it, yet it was more refreshing than cold. He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his neck and was soon lost in the splendor of the sights that surrounded him.
As he rode along he whistled and sometimes sang. This was bear country and he didn’t want to startle a grizzly. He remembered a mountain man once telling him that unless you were hunting bear, always make some kind of noise to let them know you are there. “Give a bear a chance to get out of your way and you’ll likely not be bothered by them,” the old trapper told him so long ago.
The trapper also told Madigan that bears seem to have good days and bad days, just like humans. On a good day they run at the first sound from you. On a bad day you could very well end up being the bear’s dinner.
“Be prepared for the worst, then when it comes you won’t be surprised,” the grizzled old mountaineer said. Although the old man of the mountains had given Madigan that advice some ten years past, he still remembered it as though it was yesterday. Another thing the old man mentioned about bears: “Never go into the brush after one. They may be playing you for a sucker, settin’ you up for an ambush. No animal can do it better than a big black or grizzly!”
Several times since he started on this trail, Madigan had passed bear sign. Afterward, he would have an uneasy feeling when the trail went around a bend, and the more he thought about what the old-timer said about bears, the louder he whistled. When he tired of whistling, he sang. He was sure the horses were glad when he started to whistle again.
It was getting late, so when a little clearing came into view he decided to make camp. By walking a few feet from camp, Madigan came to an outcropping of rock from which he had a clear view of the valley floor below. He figured he must have come close to fifteen miles since starting up this trail and hoped he could get some much needed rest.
Madigan lifted his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the flats below. A dust cloud marked the passage of the riders on the valley floor far to the east, and Madigan knew they would not dare try to go any further than across the valley until daylight.
Even as he stood watching, the light was fading at an alarming rate. Madigan walked back to camp satisfied that he would be safe for the night. He would trust the buckskin to warn him if any predators got too close. Before retiring, he took the precaution of tossing a rope over a branch and pulling his food pack out of reach of any fur- covered creature of the night. One last cup of coffee and it was time to turn in.
Madigan was up as usual the next morning in time to watch the sunrise in the east. It promised to be a glorious day. If it hadn’t been for the wild bunch following him, he would have stopped at the next stream to catch himself a passel of trout. The thought intrigued him, but to stop now meant almost certain death. The fish would have to wait for another time; for now he’d better plan on what he was going to do to get out of the frying pan himself, without getting into the fire.
As soon as the sun got high enough for him to see the valley floor below, he glassed the area thoroughly. About midpoint across the plains below, there was dust rising. So, they chose to go but a short distance last night, he thought. They were probably afraid he might try to sneak around behind them. All the better for me, he surmised.
Each time Madigan passed a stream tumbling down into a pool of fresh mountain water, he had thoughts of trout and the fishing trips he and his folks had taken to the mountains around Tennessee. The Tennessee mountains weren’t anywhere near the size of the Rockies, but to a seven-year old they looked mighty big.
He remembered his mother’s excitement at the prospect of going for a week into the mountains with him and his father. Madigan’s mother was a beautiful woman and would have followed her husband to the edges of hell. And, in fact, did three years later. Madigan would remember the terror of that day for the rest of his life. Sometimes he’d be wakened by the nightmares of what happened so many years before.
His family had been on their way to a new life out West when the Indians struck. It was a terrible thing for a
