Madigan

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The big Irishman struck the match to the side of his pant leg with a quick upward movement of the hand and watched as it came to life in a stab of yellow-white flame. Holding the neatly wrapped bundle of six dynamite sticks in his other hand, a humorless smile spread across his sinister face as he put the flame to the fuse and watched it start to burn in a shower of sparks. Harry O’Neill’s six-feet, two-inch body of pile-driving muscle shook with anticipation at the thought of what he was about to do. The day was cool, but O’Neill felt a hot flash of evil move down his spine until beads of grime-filled perspiration broke out on his forehead.

A gust of cold wind coming up the steep canyon wall from below carried a few sparks from the dynamite fuse into a clump of dry grass at O’Neill’s feet, catching it on fire. But the Irishman ignored it, keeping all his attention on the man camped below while the quick-burning fuse grew shorter.

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