prey and more’n likely part of their meal by morning. He prayed they wouldn’t cross his scent on their way to the carcasses of his horse and mule.
Soon a light mist began to fall. Pulling his coat tighter around his neck trying to stay warm, he switched his rifle from one hand to the other so that he could keep the other hand in a pocket to keep his fingers from going numb. Through the night he walked, gritting his teeth at the pain.
An hour after first light he spotted the rawhider’s cabin down in a small valley. Smoke curled up from the chimney meant it would be warm inside. And right now what he needed most was to get some warmth back in his bones. He just hoped the rancher would be friendly.
“Hello, the cabin!” he yelled with all the strength he had left when a hundred yards out. For a long minute nothing happened and he wondered if he’d been heard, then a rifle barrel was suddenly thrust out between the shutters of the one lone window in the front of the cabin.
“Who be it that disturbs me home?” came a voice with a strong Scottish accent.
From the sound of it, Madigan wasn’t going to be welcome. But welcome or not, he would freeze if he didn’t get warm soon.
“Sam Madigan, lately of the U.S. Cavalry. I’m hurt and cold,” he said in a weak voice. Another moment of silence.
“Well then, don’t just stand there like a fool, Captain. Come in where it’s warm and a fresh pot of coffee’s brewing on the stove.”
Madigan had just started toward the door when a strange sound began to drift eerily from within the cabin walls. He stopped to listen-that sound. He would recognize it anywhere. The man was obviously one of the worst players of the pipes Madigan had ever heard. The sound rose and fell, whimpered and squawked, then peaked with ear-splitting authority before falling off to a whisper, sounding like the death squeal of a mortally wounded rabbit.
Pushing the door open, he was not surprised to see Sergeant Golden Husbands sitting there huffing on the old bagpipes he’d carried with him since he was a boy fresh from the highlands of Scotland.
Looking up, the Scotsman grinned. “Thought I’d welcome you right proper, laddie,” he said thrusting a big paw into Madigan’s shivering hand.
“Been a long time, Sergeant. See you can’t play those windbags any better than you used to,” Madigan said weakly, nodding toward the patched and battered bagpipes.
“You never were one for the sweet sound of the highlands were you, laddie?” The Scot leaned over and turned up the coal oil lamp that set beside him on a small table. “Well, look at you, laddie! Seems you been sitting too close to the fire,” he said shaking his head in bewilderment. “We better get you patched up. How’d you be gettin’ those nasty burns, my friend?”
While the Scotsman cleaned and bound his wounds, Madigan explained what happened the day before and how he’d walked all night to get to the cabin. Goldie made him some bacon and eggs and afterward showed him to the cot in the corner.
“You can sleep the day through if you have a mind to. You don’t have to worry about O’Neill hunting you here,” the Scot said as he pulled the blanket over the wounded man. “I’ve got a couple of men working for me and I’ll have them stay close by in case that swamp lizard tries anything.
“Best thing for you is to get as much rest as you can. I’ll not play you to sleep with the pipes being you’re not a true music lover and all,” he said, chuckling.
“By the way,” the Scotsman asked, “why is O’Neill hunting you?” Madigan’s jaw tightened against the pain, then slowly relaxed.
“You wouldn’t have known about it, Sergeant, ‘cause you had already mustered out of the Cavalry by then. But about six or seven months ago O’Neill raped and murdered one of the enlisted men’s wives, buried her body, and went about his business as if nothing had happened. Most people believed the girl had run away with a drummer on one of the many wagon trains that came through the fort. You know it happened all the time, a young girl marries a soldier to get away from her folks, then finds life at the fort worse than what she ran away from. She was just about forgotten by everyone except her husband. Girls take off with drummers all the time, just a fact of life on the frontier.
“Then one night O’Neill was in town drinking with some of his friends. You know how he liked to drink. Always said he could hold it but couldn’t. Anyway, he really tied one on this night. Got to bragging and it slipped out that Alice Jane-that was the dead girl’s name-had let him have his way with her. Anyway, that’s the way O’Neill told it.”
“O’Neill never could keep his mouth shut when he had booze in his belly!” Goldie injected.
“This got back to the fort and we started a quiet investigation into the matter, but we couldn’t find anything with so many trains coming through the fort headed on the Oregon Trail, so we were forced to let it drop.
“Then old Hairless Jones-you remember Jones, one of the best trappers in those parts-came in one night with Alice Jane’s body wrapped in blankets. Seems O’Neill hadn’t put enough dirt over her after he killed her. Jones saw a wolf pulling at a piece of cloth sticking out of the ground and investigated.
“When Jones brought the body in, O’Neill was out of the fort on patrol. Somehow he got wind of the discovery and hightailed it out of there. I was the one sent to bring him back in to stand trial and that’s what I did.
“He was found guilty of murder and sentenced to be hanged the following day. Funny thing, all the time I was bringing him back to the fort he acted as if he blamed me for his troubles. Didn’t matter that he killed the girl and all that. Just blamed me for catching him. Later after the trial, he said he’d see me dead before he hanged. Just the threat of a mad man, I figured. Anyway, the next day he’d hang and that would be that. Only thing was, one of his friends slipped a gun to him that night and he shot the guard and got away.”
“Seems like he almost made good on that promise,” Goldie said. “Now you better try to get some sleep and let your body heal.”
Madigan nodded his head in agreement and laid back on the cot. Within a few minutes he was dead to the world. It was already dark when he awoke to find Goldie coming through the door carrying his saddle. The rest of his pack was laid against the wall next to the door.
“Had one of me boys ride up and pick these up while you was sleeping,” he said, pointing to Madigan’s things. Goldie looked at the pack and smiled. “See you still be carrying the Sharps.”
“Never know when I might run across a herd of buffalo. Did the wolves get to my horse last night?”
“A pack of them mangy critters did until a grizzly came along and ran them off. Between the wolves and the bear, they really made a feast of your animals. Made me hired man really nervous getting your things out of there. Wasn’t too worried about the wolves in the daylight, but figured the bear might still be hanging around for another meal. Did take a chance and looked around up on the top of the cliff, though. From the tracks he saw, O’Neill must’ve hightailed it out of there the minute he threw the dynamite. Made a beeline clean out of the county from what me man tells me.”
Madigan was quiet for a long moment. “She was a good horse,” he said sadly.
For two days Madigan stayed pretty much in bed, letting his strength return. On the third day he was up before first light, out chopping wood for the cook stove when Goldie slipped up to him.
“You’ll be in need of another horse and I may have just the animal for you,” he said cheerfully.
Motioning Madigan to follow, he led the way down a narrow path to a corral hidden in the trees. The bunkhouse stood a little to the side. They were well hidden, for Madigan had not seen them when he rode through the area the morning of the attack.
The bunkhouse door opened as they approached and a man in his early sixties holding a rifle stepped out and waved at them, then moved back inside out of the cold.
“That’s Jones,” Goldie said. “He’s a good man to have around in a fight. If O’Neill had come sneakin’ around here, he’d have to work to keep his hide. Jones had a run-in with that coyote himself a few years back and would like nothing more than to catch him in his sights.”
They approached a gate and stopped. In the corral stood the most magnificent buckskin stallion Madigan had ever seen. When the horse saw the men approach he snorted, then pawed the ground with his hoof, daring them to come closer.
“He’s a mighty fine looking animal,” Madigan said, impressed with the great horse before them.
“That’s what I thought too when I first laid me eyes on him. Took all three of us to corner him so I could get a rope over his neck.”
