He took the little gold man in his hand and turned it over and over as he talked. “Is there any truth to O’Neills’ story?” the wounded man asked.
“Some. But I didn’t kill the women or anybody that had their hands up. And I didn’t take the gold. I gave it back to the women, although I often ask myself why. You, my friend, have died in vain. For I have nothing except a few guns and some supplies that would have interested O’Neill or anyone else.”
“I had so many plans and now I’m dead,” the cowboy said with remorse.
Before the cowboy died, he asked Madigan to bury him away from the stream. “Too many animals come down to drink and I don’t want to be their dinner,” he had said. He also gave Madigan the little gold man.
Madigan buried him there on a little knoll back from the stream, then piled stones over him and cut a rough cross for his grave.
The next day Madigan left the cowboy there and rode out toward the Great Divide and a future of uncertainty. But one thing he took to heart: if he ever came across O’Neill he would kill him without mercy, not only for what O’Neill had done to Madigan so many weeks before, but for this boy that needlessly lay buried beneath the ground.
Madigan skipped breakfast as usual, so later in the day, when the sun was high overhead, he stopped by a small creek and dropped in a line. No sooner had his bait hit the water than a hungry trout took the hook and the fight was on.
Madigan played with him for a while then, when the fish tired, pulled him in. He was just reaching to pull the trout out of the creek when, in the water’s reflection, he saw a flash of light high overhead on the mountainside in front of him. If he had not been looking into the water he would have missed it altogether. He quickly looked up but could see nothing. This time he was sure it was not the reflection from an eagle’s wings. It was a flash from something metal.
Chapter 5
O’Neill kept riding until he was sure he was safe from the man he had planned to kill. Now in the quiet of the night he took his scarf and pressed it against the fresh wound on his face. It was bleeding badly and it took some time before he got the flow of blood stopped. Another inch to the left and he would not be alive, but he was. And he was determined to make Madigan pay for this mark that he’d be forced to wear for the rest of his life.
It didn’t matter that O’Neill had brought it on himself, for cowards such as he never took the blame when due. All that mattered was that someday, somewhere, he’d put a bullet in the back of the man who had done this to him.
That his friend died did not bother him in the least. He had planned on killing him anyway after he got what he wanted, so he felt no loss. Except, of course, now he would have to find another to take his place.
O’Neill got down from his horse and, not bothering to unsaddle, tied him to the branch of a tree. He then curled up in his blanket and went to sleep, leaving his horse to dry in its own sweat. Morning found him stiff and sore, the left side of his face caked with blood. He was hungry and scared, for he had never spent much time in the mountains alone, even while he was in the army, always preferring to surround himself with others for protection. He pulled his watch from his pocket with trembling hands and realized that he had slept till mid-morning. O’Neill cussed at his luck. “Should have shot that bastard Madigan when I had the chance,” he mumbled to himself.
Later in the day after constantly looking over his shoulder, O’Neill saw the smoke from a campfire ahead of him. Reasoning that it couldn’t be Madigan, he stopped long enough to pull the dried scab from his face. After making sure there was plenty of fresh blood, he laid over in his saddle and started towards the camp.
“Rider coming in!” someone yelled. O’Neill slumped over in the saddle, closed his eyes, and let his horse lead him in. In a few seconds he heard footsteps running toward him. He took a deep breath and leaned over still further until he fell to the ground.
“He’s hurt! He’s covered with blood! Get him over to the fire!” a voice commanded.
O’Neill kept his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness. It worked, and soon he was being carried to where several blankets had been placed on the ground.
“Put him down gently, boys. No tellin’ how bad he’s hurt,” LaRue ordered.
“Water, I need water,” O’Neill moaned through half-closed lips. A man brought a canteen over and held it to his mouth.
“Not too much at first,” the man said. “Just take it easy for a while. We’ll take care of you.”
O’Neill opened his eyes enough to see that the man that had brought him water was not much taller than a young boy. He started to laugh but stopped himself in time, making it seem like a cough instead, but not before Shorty caught the beginnings of the laugh and became instantly suspicious of the stranger before him.
“I’ll get you something to eat. Try not to move,” Shorty said as he stepped away and moved toward the fire-blackened cook pot full of beans. “Stir those beans up and give the wounded man some. He looks hungry,” Shorty ordered the cook.
LaRue stood back watching the whole affair as Shorty came toward him. He noticed Shorty loosen the thong from his Colt as he came closer.
“What’s up?” he asked as his friend walked over.
“It’s that wounded man. I get an uneasy feeling when I’m close to him. Maybe it’s me, but I think he’s trying to pull the wool over our eyes.”
“Why do you think he’d do that?”
Shorty looked around uneasily before speaking. “Maybe he’s got friends hid out waiting to catch us off guard. Maybe he’s a friend of the guy we had the run-in with a few days ago. I don’t know, but he just doesn’t look like he’s in as bad a shape as he’s putting on.”
LaRue shifted his weight to his left foot. “I’ll go have a chat with him. Might find out what he’s up to. Quietly spread the word for everybody to be on guard just in case.”
O’Neill watched as LaRue crossed over to where he was laying.
“This your bunch?” he asked as LaRue crouched down beside him.
“I hired them if that’s what you mean.” Pete shifted his weight to the other leg. “Where’d you get that wound, if you don’t mind me asking.”
O’Neill didn’t mind at all. In fact he was waiting for someone to ask so he could exercise the plan he had dreamed up just minutes before. If everything went the way he hoped it would, he’d have all the men he needed and at no expense to himself.
“Don’t mind at all, just lucky to be alive!”
“Who did that to you?”
O’Neill shifted around trying to get comfortable, letting out little moaning sounds as he did so.
“It’s kind of a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?” LaRue nodded his head. “It happened about five days ago, give or take a day or two. I was riding along just minding my own business when I heard some screaming in the distance. Spurring my horse on at a fast run I came upon some men-there were about five of them-raping a couple of Injun women.”
O’Neill stopped to let what he had said sink in. By now several other men had gathered around. “I ordered them to stop. But instead of stopping they started shooting at me! I drew and shot back getting three of them before I was forced to run for cover.
“Now I ain’t an Injun lover, but what them boys was doing to those women wasn’t called for, Injun or not! So I couldn’t just leave them. I started to reload my sidearm when one of them boys rushed me and I had to fight him barehanded. It was a terrible fight. All the time I was worried that the other man might sneak up behind me and shoot me while I was unarmed.” O’Neill glanced around at the faces above him. He knew he had them hooked. “Those kind will do that, you know.”