What Shorty was saying got LaRue to thinking. Could it be the last of the Aztecs that Shorty heard rumors about?
“One more thing,” Shorty said, pausing. “You know I’ve never killed a man just to be killing, but in my book O’Neill needs killing and I’m thinking I’ll be the one that does it!” With that, Shorty kicked his horse into action. LaRue moved his own horse alongside his friend.
“It’s not like you to hold a grudge. If you want to go back and kill O’Neill, I’d be the last to stand in your way. Just doesn’t seem like you, that’s all.”
“I don’t mean to go back after him. It’s just that I have a feeling that he and I will meet again, and when we do, it will be him or me. Now let’s put some ground between us before he sends someone out looking to cook our goose.”
“You got a point there,” LaRue agreed. The two men rode on in silence. There was nothing more to say.
Chapter 6
Behind a huge oak tree a few yards from the edge of the trail, the lean, dark figure of a man in war paint stood watching. Before him a lone rider on a magnificent buckskin was advancing slowly, a heavy-laden packhorse trailing along behind. The man rode along easily, almost nonchalantly. Yet the Indian knew that the rider would not be taken by surprise, for it was told in all their lodges of how this soldier fought bravely the Sioux, Shoshone, Ute, and sometimes the ruthless Apache.
This white warrior that sat his horse with the pride and confidence borne from many years and many battles would not be taken off guard. But the Indian had planned ahead. He was now joined by several other tribesmen who had come from an even larger group several hundred yards away. Then they waited for the enemy to get within striking distance.
Their plan was a simple one to say the least. Since none of the Indians dared engage in hand-to-hand combat with this man, they planned to let him get within bow range and kill him by arrows shot from a number of directions.
Madigan’s reputation was great amongst plains Indians, and even with these who lived and hunted the valleys between the mountains. Though it was considered a great honor to touch one’s enemy while he was still alive and able to fight back, none of the Indians felt the urge to count coup on this great enemy before them.
The great buckskin had warned Madigan of the danger long before he sensed it himself. To turn back would almost certainly bring the Indians down around him in great numbers. For to face a brave enemy was one thing, and Madigan knew, like wild animals sometimes afraid to attack head-on if their prey is strong, they would not hesitate to chase him if he ran. The scene was set and he could do nothing but play it through and hope for some break in his favor.
As they got closer to the Indians’ hiding place, the big buckskin’s ears perked up and he let out a blast of air through his wide-flared nostrils. His eyes darted from tree to tree, searching for the foul humans he smelled. These humans had the smell of fear, and the big horse wished to be given his rein so that he could carry his master fast and far from this place of fearful creatures wishing to do them harm.
Madigan and the horses were only a hundred feet away when the leader of the Indians started pulling back on his bow string. The long shaft of the arrow slid smoothly through his fingers as he drew it further back toward a spot on the right side of his chin. A few more feet and Madigan would be in the precise spot the Indians had picked for their attack. The brave glanced quickly around to make sure the others were also ready with their bows. He had carefully chosen each of them along with their hiding places to give the best possible chance of a clean kill on this enemy he was sure was about to die.
Where were the others? A moment before they had been within sight of him, yet out of sight of the enemy. Now they were nowhere to be seen, and the rider was just a few feet from the spot where they had planned to ambush him. He could not wait any longer. The Indian drew his arrow back the last few inches before he would let it fly toward its intended victim. There was no time to wonder or worry where the others were. A few more seconds and it would be too late. He must shoot now or the enemy might be lost. He would deal with the others later after he, Broken Bone, killed this mightiest of enemies by himself.
It was the Indian’s guess that the others had run, being afraid of the power this man was supposed to possess. Broken Bone would show them, show them all, that his medicine was more powerful than that of this man. He carefully aimed for a point just below Madigan’s neck, making sure to adjust his aim to allow for the movement of the horse and rider. Slowly the tension of his fingers relaxed and the arrow strained to be free.
The shaft of the arrow caught the sunlight as it flew silently through the air towards its target, flashing gold and silver as it arced downward on its flight of death. At first it seemed to go too high in the air, then at the last possible moment it dropped its nose and accelerated, only to end its errand by slamming into the Indian’s body, pinning itself and the man to the big old oak tree.
At first there was no pain, just the sensation of pressure followed by a feeling of something warm running down the Indian’s side from where the razor-sharp broad head had cut a wide channel through the man’s flesh. His fingers released the final pressure from the rear of his own arrow letting it fly free from his bow. But it was no longer aimed on a path of destruction. For when the golden arrow had entered his side, it had taken most of the Indian’s strength away. The bow in his hand dropped, allowing Broken Bone’s arrow to bury itself harmlessly in the ground at the Indian’s feet.
Broken Bone, now more dead than alive, watched as the bow fell from his hand, not understanding what had happened. This man Madigan was surely the most powerful of all men. For who but he can kill his enemies without raising a hand against them? Broken Bone’s legs bent beneath him and he sagged against the tree, held there by the arrow with the silver-and-gold point.
As Madigan rode toward the suspected ambush sight, he casually reached down and slipped the thong from his Colt. The buckskin pranced nervously under him, wanting to be done with this place. From under his hat brim Madigan surveyed the countryside on either side of the trail, looking for a hint of where the attack that he felt was imminent would take place. He was not a man to panic, yet he was no fool either. At this moment to be some other place was his greatest desire, but wishes have a habit of not coming true. So he rode on, ready to spring into action in a moment’s notice.
The great horse under him, in his haste to be through this area of danger, kicked a small rock that went skittering off to the side of the trail. The sound it made was deafening to Madigan’s ears and he was sure that at any moment Indians would appear from everywhere. He instinctively reached for his gun, but stopped himself before he had drawn it out of its holster.
Did the Indians see the move? Would it spook them into action? He held his breath and waited for a rush of bodies from everywhere. To his great surprise and relief, the attack never came. Was he imagining things, he wondered. Had he been on the trail too long? Madigan doubted it, for the buckskin had sensed peril also.
Something was there or had been, of that he was sure. But where had they gone, or were they waiting for a better chance somewhere up the path? He urged the horse into a gait, wanting to get out of this area as soon as possible. If by doing so he was hurrying into an ambush further ahead, he’d be ready. The prospect of a fight did not bother him as much as the unknowing.
The great horse again settled down to a slow walk and Madigan relaxed. Whoever or whatever it was that had scared the buckskin was no longer a threat. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was just putting the hat back on when he saw it, a flash of light maybe a mile in front and over to one side.