“What are you looking for?” Madigan asked quietly. To his surprise, the man whirled and fired at the sound of his voice. The bullet kicked up dirt less than two feet from where he lay on the ground. Madigan squeezed off a shot. The man was picked up and thrown back from the impact of the bullet. For an instant Madigan started to fire again, but the rifle dropped from the man’s grasp as he fell backward, like a tree fallen from a woodsman’s ax.
Madigan glimpsed the men below running for cover. In an instant he was up and running while firing another shot in the direction of the men below to make them keep their heads down a little longer. He jumped in the saddle and wheeled the buckskin around so he could grab the packhorse’s rope. The shooting had spooked the animals some and they were both ready to run. He pointed them toward the mountains to the west and gave the buckskin its head. Even though the packhorse’s load was light, it was all it could do to keep from holding the big stallion back.
Madigan knew that within a few minutes he would have to bring the buckskin to a walk to let the pack animal rest, and if worse came to worst, he would have to cut the animal loose and let the buckskin carry him to safety. Or he might try another trick. All he would need was a little room between the gunmen and himself.
Looking over his shoulder he could see no one following. So he brought the horses to a slow gallop to conserve their wind. Ahead of him was a broad plain that appeared to stretch for several miles before it began a climb into the east side of the Rockies. He headed out across it, and glancing back every so often, he soon saw a cloud of dust showing where there was nothing minutes before.
The riders obviously had discovered his escape and were now intent on catching him. A picture flashed through Madigan’s mind of a fox being chased by the hounds. The only difference was this fox wore long teeth.
Madigan guessed he must be at least a mile-and-a-half ahead of the men following behind. A little further and the horses could get a rest, and if things went well, he would give his pursuers second thoughts.
Chapter 2
About three hundred yards ahead of him was a waist-high boulder with a small stand of scrub oak around it. As soon as he saw it, Madigan knew this was the place he was looking for. He rode up and looked the spot over carefully. Seeing that it would do nicely, he dismounted and tied the horses to a tree a few yards behind the large rock. At this point, he couldn’t afford to be in a hurry. So he purposely paced himself, not too fast, not too slow. Madigan had a job to do and it would require rock steady nerves.
From his pack he pulled out a long leather sheath and laid it gently on the ground. Next he felt around for the small tin box that was so carefully packed for just such an occasion. Finding it, he laid it alongside the covered.50–90 Sharps. Madigan carried these to the rock and took the gun out of its sheath.
Madigan had always enjoyed the feel of this heavy buffalo gun, from its polished black walnut stock- fitted perfectly to the massive breech block mechanism with the heavy side hammer to the end of the long barrel with the three steel bands clamping it and the wood forearm together. This was a tool meant for one purpose-to kill at long distances. And this was precisely what he needed now.
Checking the barrel for any obstructions, but finding none, he opened and closed the breech to make sure it worked properly. With the rifle in one hand, Madigan opened the tin box with the other and withdrew a brass cartridge. He forced himself to keep his mind on the job at hand and not the riders that he knew would be coming fast.
The first bullet looked good, so he quickly checked another and then a third. Now it was time to give the men following him the shock of their lives. As he’d guessed, they had closed to about a half a mile, maybe just a little over, but close to the distance he wanted.
Chambering a round, Madigan took off his hat and placed it on the rock in front of him to protect the rifle’s finish from getting scratched. Figuring the wind to be about two notches from the north, he adjusted the sights for the distance. Then he held two beads to the left and squeezed off a shot. He was aiming for the leader, but knew if he missed, as he probably would at this range, the bullet would still have a good chance of getting one of the men following behind.
The kick of the rifle set Madigan back for a moment and he had to wait for the smoke to clear before he could see again. But when the smoke cleared, he was greeted with the sight of a clean miss. He chambered another round and was about to pull the trigger when the front rider tumbled out of his saddle. In his haste, Madigan had forgotten how long it took for the heavy bullet to go that distance.
Immediately the rest of the riders turned and raced back to the trees like the very devil was after them. Madigan quickly walked to his pack and grabbed his field glasses to get a better view. To his satisfaction, the man on the ground was not moving. He watched as the others headed for the only cover within reach, the tree line about a quarter mile back from where the man had fallen.
That the bullet carried enough power to kill at that range was a marvel to him. So maybe another try might just even things up a bit more and, at any rate, it sure couldn’t hurt.
Even if the bullet only kicked up dust close to his pursuers, it would scare the hell out of any sensible man. Madigan aimed the big rifle over the area that he saw the riders go into. Only this time, he held the sights at a point halfway up the trees they were hiding amongst.
He had already killed four men with three bullets, and to hope for another score would be asking a lot. Whether it was curiosity or survival instinct he didn’t know, but Madigan was already pulling the trigger before he’d given it much thought.
This time he was ready as the blast knocked him backward. Madigan quickly set the gun down and grabbed his glasses to see where the bullet would hit. To his astonishment, three riders had broken out of the trees at a full run. It was clear that they planned on running him down before he could get mounted and away.
They must have figured that he would shoot once, then try for the mountains a few miles away. The interval it took him to get his glasses was all the time needed for them to believe they were right and that he was riding off. They were wrong, and it cost them dearly. For an instant they rode hell-bent-for-leather, then as if in slow motion the last man jerked sideways in his saddle and slid to the ground.
“Damn,” Madigan whispered to himself, “this is a straight shootin’ cannon.” Anyway, he wouldn’t have to worry about the riders for the moment. The only horse coming towards him was riderless. He waited to make sure they’d given up, at least for the time being. Come nightfall he knew they would ride out and try to get behind him. But as long as they didn’t see him leave, they would not take another chance while it was still light.
This close to the mountains it would get dark fairly early. Madigan guessed there were maybe nine hours of usable light left. He wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances, so he took his Winchester out of its scabbard and replaced it with the Sharps. He would keep an eye out for anyone following, and with the Sharps close at hand, he would be ready.
Keeping the small grove of trees between him and his pursuers, Madigan walked the horses due west toward the Rockies, and, he hoped, shelter from his enemies. Every once in a while he would turn in the saddle to see if there was any telltale dust that would give away any riders coming up hard behind him. There was none.
As Madigan rode, he mulled the events of the day over in his mind. He felt no guilt at having to kill, but it did bother him some that he’d been forced to without any say-so in the matter. Now he was forced to run for his life.