What do you make of that?” Shorty asked his friend.
“Maybe a hunter, although I haven’t seen a deer track since we entered these canyons.”
Me either,” Shorty replied matter of fact. “You think it might be O’Neill and the boys?”
“Who else would it be way out here? Nobody but fools be riding in this country,” LaRue said, shaking his head in disgust.
Lightning cracked off in the distance. “Looks like we’re in for a storm. Better find some shelter on high ground before it gets here,” LaRue suggested.
The two men spurred their horses to a gallop, hoping to find an overhang of rock to shield them from the inevitable downpour. Finding such a place, they picketed the horses out of the elements before stretching out on their bedrolls to wait out the rain that was already upon them.
“At any rate,” Shorty began, “the storm will wipe out our tracks. And since we haven’t been keeping strictly to the trail, it’ll make it hard for O’Neill to follow us, if that’s what he’s doing.” The two men laughed at the thought of O’Neill left with nothing to follow.
“Course, he may not be following us at all,” LaRue said seriously. “Didn’t he say the gold was somewhere around here?”
“That’s right,” Shorty confirmed. “Now about that gold. How do you propose we find it?”
LaRue thought for a moment. “I remember where the old prospector’s cabin is. The prospector was killed less than a mile from it with an arrow the likes of nothing I’ve seen any Indian use before. The way I figure, the gold has got to be within a few miles of that spot. Why else would the old man have been killed? He prospected around these parts for years without any trouble, then the day he dies he has a gold figurine clutched in his hand.” LaRue stared off into the distance in deep thought. Finally he spoke again. “I think he stumbled onto the location of the treasure and was killed to keep its whereabouts secret.”
“Could be,” Shorty said, nodding his head in agreement. “But that doesn’t tell me how we’re going to find it for ourselves and at the same time keep our skins intact.”
“I wish I knew,” LaRue admitted. “I wish I knew.”
The rain came down in a great deluge, and the two men pressed further back under the overhang to stay dry while the horses put their backs to the wind in an attempt to ward off the chill.
It was growing stormier and LaRue gathered some dead brush from a dry crevice in the rocks and made a small fire. Both men agreed that it was wise to make camp here for the night. They were soon settled in for the long hours ahead, while the rain beat a drumroll on the ground a few feet away.
Madigan came to again, barely clinging to the saddle. The big buckskin was stepping out slowly, picking his way through a trail bordered by huge boulders and strewn with rubble from crumbling rock. Blood slowly dripped down the front of Madigan’s shirt and onto his leg, spreading out in a darkening stain.
Madigan’s head swam in a sea of pain that was so intense he felt he could not go on any further, yet he had to. The survival instinct within him was strong and he could not give in to the pain any more than he would give in to the man who had shot him. Whoever it was would surely be on this trail trying to finish the job, and Madigan didn’t want to stick around and give the bushwhacker another chance at him.
The ground opened up on both sides of the path as Madigan leaned over in the saddle to better stay on. Lightning flashed in the distance and the wind began to stir up some. It was evident a storm was brewing and Madigan felt a little relief knowing the rain would wash out his tracks. If only he could keep ahead of his pursuer long enough to let the rain do its work.
He rode on for several more miles before he felt the first raindrops upon his back. The wet coolness was refreshing and gave him new strength to ride on. The big horse beneath him sensed the urgency to find shelter and broke into a fast trot toward some rough-looking country ahead.
Coming to a dry creek bed, Madigan hesitated before crossing. The banks at either side were steep and it would be difficult for the packhorse to scale the far embankment. With the rain, it was only a matter of time before the roaring waters of a flash flood filled the creek to overflowing, taking everything caught in its path along with it. There would be little warning when the waters came, maybe a few seconds at best, no more.
Madigan agonized over the decision. If he started the horses across and the waters came upon them, there would be but seconds for them to get up and out the other side before being washed away to their doom. Madigan had little fear of the buckskin not making it. He was a powerful animal able to take care of himself, even with a load on his back.
It was the packhorse Madigan worried about. Loaded heavily with supplies, it might not be able to carry them up the other side. Still, if he could get to the other side, Madigan would be safe from anyone following as long as the rain held out. In his weakened state, he didn’t have a prayer of fighting them off. He would have to try to make it across.
The rain increased in intensity as they slid down the stream side to the creek bottom already turning to a quagmire of slippery mud from the barrage of water falling from the heavens. The buckskin kept his footing, but the packhorse, top-heavy from the supplies on his back, was soon down and trying to scramble back to his feet.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he was up and moving toward the far side of the stream, but not before Madigan heard the ominous sound of roaring water bearing down on them. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Madigan whirled the buckskin around behind the other animal and gave the packhorse a slap on its rump. The horse lurched ahead and made it halfway up the bank before losing its footing and sliding back to the creek bed.
Taking a quick look upstream, Madigan could see debris being thrown in the air from the surge of water crashing down from the mountains not far away. There was only one thing left for him to do: cut the pack loose and save the horse. Luckily, his Sharps, along with ammunition and a few other things he used every day, were tied in a smaller pack on top. Grabbing loose the ties, Madigan pulled this pack in front of him while he cut the main pack from the animal’s back letting it fall free. In a split second the two horses raced up the bank and a hundred yards beyond to freedom.
They were safe for moment, and Madigan turned in his saddle in time to see a gigantic wall of water rush past where moments before they were trying, almost in vain, to climb out of its way. A great emotional release rose within him, overshadowing the anger he felt at losing the supplies.
O’Neill and Thomas held their ground behind the large boulder they hoped would shield them from the onslaught of bullets they felt was sure to come.
“I know I hit him,” O’Neill said as he turned to Thomas, expecting him to confirm what he himself was not sure of.
“You saw him go down, didn’t you?” he pleaded.
Thomas stared at O’Neil, who he was beginning to despise. O’Neill, the great leader, the one that was going to make them all rich or get them all killed. O’Neill, the coward!
Thomas was no newcomer to violence, growing up in east Texas, the son of a card cheat and womanizer, his mother a drunk that often found herself waking up in the morning with a stranger. Finally, it was the wrong stranger and she wound up being beaten to death.
After she died, James and his father drifted from town to town playing the cheap dance halls of the cattle towns, keeping just ahead of the law. When James was twelve, his pa got caught dealing from the bottom of the deck by a big, raw-boned cowhand named Ed Piker. In an instant, the older Thomas lay dead on the floor, still clutching the card that cost him his life.
With his pa gone, James wandered from one cow camp to another learning the trade of the cowboy. He learned another thing too-how to handle a gun. Later he found there was more money to be made with a gun than punching cows, and he left the cowboy life for that of the gunslinger.