Playing a hunch, he quickly turned in time to see another flash of light back where he had first sensed trouble. Now Madigan knew for sure what he had suspected for the last few days. He was being watched, by whom he did not know. At any rate, they were taking a big risk following him through this hostile country. Could it be that the Indians he felt were there waiting in ambush had also seen the signals and decided to wait on those that were following?
Most of the flashes he had seen were ahead. It was only now that he had seen one behind him. It was as if they were waiting for him to come to them. For what reason he did not know. But strange as it may sound, he did not fear them, whoever they were.
As he rode on thinking about the events of the day, he leaned to one side in the saddle to watch for tracks ahead. Puffs of dust were kicked up from the buckskin’s hooves and they hung in the still mountain air as the great horse padded along.
There were no tracks to be found except from an occasional deer or elk. Then they crossed the print of a very large cougar and Madigan was glad that there was enough daylight left to be able to get miles from the big cat’s territory before having to make camp for the night.
Had it been the smell of the cougar that had unnerved the buckskin? Maybe his discomfort at being close to the mountain lion had projected to Madigan. Yes, he reasoned, that was what had frightened them. The presence of a big cat is always reason to worry. Madigan laughed at himself. Must be old age creepin’ in already, he thought. Couldn’t have been Indians after all. A lone rider seemed like easy prey for them, and they had had the perfect opportunity to take his scalp any time in the last hour. He was sure it was the puma after all. But then again, there were the flashes of light behind him.
Madigan brought the buckskin to a halt and strained his ears to listen for any sound that might give away an attack in progress. Nothing. Only the chirp of a bird in the distance reached his ears. If there had been Indians, then whoever they were waiting for had eluded them. No, it must have been the cougar after all. He pulled his rifle out of its boot just in case he ran into the feline somewhere ahead.
A sharp tug on the packhorse’s reins alerted him to trouble. Looking back he saw the pack animal regain its feet from a near fall. It had stumbled over some loose rock and now was limping. Just great, he thought. This whole trip had been nerve-racking. Now a lame pony with a big mountain lion close by and probably a hungry one at that, not to mention the distinct possibility of Indians. At least the Indians didn’t eat you.
It wouldn’t do to go any further. The packhorse’s limp was getting worse and Madigan figured he had better find a place to camp for a few days and let the hoof heal. He scouted the surrounding countryside. There were a lot of fir trees in the area interspersed with stands of scrub oak. Every so often a small canyon would appear on either side of the trail.
If a man was careful he could camp up one of those canyons and have a good view of the trail below while keeping out of sight. Might even get lucky and find one with water in it. That’d make things a whole lot easier. If not, he had several large canteens in his pack and he could always sneak down to one of the many creeks and fill them up. Even with the horses drinking there’d be enough water for a full day, and hopefully the injury would be healed up in a day or two and they’d be back on their way again.
Madigan picked a place to his left where he saw a small tear in the rocks above that was only noticeable when he was directly across from it. If he had not been looking for just such a place, he’d have missed it altogether. A rock base led up to the opening that Madigan was sure the horses could manage if he was careful. So by continuing down the trail until it crossed a rocky stretch, then doubling back to the side of the trail a dozen yards, he’d leave no telltale tracks to give himself away. In the process of backtracking, he had the opportunity to fill his water canteens and did so. Madigan only hoped the rip in the rock led to a decent camping spot that might give him shelter from prying eyes.
It was more than he had hoped for. The narrow passage opened up into a small box canyon with a waterfall at one end. To the north was a stand of fir, and behind that was a flat area just large enough to conceal the camp from anyone who might venture into the canyon. If he used dry wood for the fire, he would not have to worry about any smoke giving him away. There was even a good patch of grass along the stream for the horses to graze on. After the last week, it looked like heaven to Madigan and he was quick to settle in.
After unloading the pack, he checked the packhorse’s hoof. There on one side of the frog was a small cut that went unseen earlier when he examined the hoof for any injury. He took some water and washed it out, then took a small patch of tar that he carried for just such a purpose and put it in the sun on a rock to get hot and melt. He then unsaddled the buckskin and made camp. By this time the tar was good and hot. With a stick he placed some of this over the cut, smearing it around good to make sure it covered the whole injury, then he cooled it with some water. Now nature would have to do its magic.
While riding in, Madigan had studied the canyon walls; which were steep and went up forever. About ten feet from the top were between fifty to seventy nesting pigeons. It couldn’t be better. If anyone got above camp, the birds would warn him long before there was danger. The only place that really needed to be guarded was the entrance, and unless someone had seen him go in, there wasn’t much chance of it being found by anyone riding by. And if someone did come through, the buckskin never seemed to sleep and would give the alarm.
Before long, Madigan felt fat and sassy. His belly was full of beans and side meat and he found a soft place to settle down for the night. He wondered how many canyons like this little paradise there were around here. No doubt the Indians have camped in many of them, but he found no sign of any such camps within these walls. He finished the piece of jerky he’d been chewing on for desert, then spread the bedroll out in the soft, green grass. The horses grazed a few feet away. Madigan took one last look at the campfire to make sure it was out and closed his eyes for what he truly believed would be one of the best sleeps of his life. In a few minutes he was out to the world.
The nudge from the great buckskin awakened Madigan around two in the morning. He came instantly awake while reaching for his gun. Then he listened for all he was worth. At first he heard nothing. Then through the crisp mountain air he heard the faint sound of a baby crying.
Out here all alone a man’s mind can do funny things to him, so Madigan made no judgments until he was sure of what he was hearing. Minutes seemed to go on for hours, then he heard the sound again only this time much closer. Although it sounded like a baby crying, Madigan recognized the sound of that made by a mountain lion, or puma as they are called in the Southwest. From the pitch, Madigan knew it was a big cat. Probably the same lion whose tracks he’d seen earlier in the day.
The buckskin grew more restless but stood his ground; it looked as if the packhorse was about to run. Madigan got up and carefully caught her by the halter. Taking a short rope he tied her to a stout tree where she would be out of danger and not get in his way if he had to get off a quick shot.
Madigan levered a round into his Winchester.44-.40. There was little moonlight in the deep canyon so he knew he must find some way of spotting the cat if it came any closer. Finding his pack in the dark, he quickly pulled out a leather bag filled with black powder. When prospecting, one never knows when some powder will be needed to blast out an opening somewhere. So through habit he always kept some handy.