Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) (15 page)

“Thanks.” Callaghen got up and stretched. “I’ll get some sleep.” He turned to the Delaware. “Get my horse ready, will you?”

He went into the cabin, got his blankets, and rolled up in a corner.

Malinda watched him go. “Aunt Madge, what is he going to do?”

“You know what he’s going to do.” Her aunt took up the coffeepot, filled a cup, and handed it to Malinda. “He’s the kind of man who will always know what to do, and he will never ask anybody to do it for him.”

Chapter 15

I
T WAS DARK and still when he came out into the night. His freshly cleaned rifle, which he held in his left hand, smelled faintly of gun oil; a cup of coffee was in his right.

His horse stood ready, a long-limbed black horse that had seemed the best of the lot. Aside from a small blanket roll behind the saddle he carried a small packet of food in his saddlebags and two canteens.

Only a few stars were showing. The wind was blowing—a not unusual thing in the Mohave Desert—and this was good. It would disguise the small noise he might make in leaving.

The outer gate had been standing open for nearly an hour, with two men watching it. The gate had been opened and ready so as to make as little movement as possible at the moment of departure.

The Delaware ghosted to his side. “The wind…it will help,” he said as he glanced up where, between wisps of high cloud, a part of the Milky Way was visible. “The Chief’s Road,” he said. “So it is called by the Crees.”

MacBrody was there too. “They’ll likely be in bad shape,” he said. “You’ll be needin’ more grub.”

“They’ll have to do with water. But you be watching for us—if I find them we’ll come back.” He spoke in low tones. “And watch Wylie. The man’s not to be trusted. He’s a crook, and worse, and he’s a damn fool along with it.”

“I will do that,” MacBrody replied. “You be carin’ for yourself now. It is not good that an O’Callaghan should die out there.”

Callaghen handed his cup to Malinda, who had suddenly appeared beside him, and touched her arm gently. “It will be fine to come back,” he said, “knowing you are here.”

Taking the reins of the horse, he walked through the gate and turned sharply along the wall, keeping close to it in the darker shadow. At the end of the wall he stopped and looked out across the first ground to be covered.

He still had about two hours of darkness before the night was gone, but he did not like the look of the desert out beyond the corner. It was lighter there, and keen eyes might see him. He tried to judge how far an Indian could see in that semidarkness and decided that to see him moving, a man would have to be within thirty or forty yards.

The ground here was gravel, and brush grew spottily. He stepped out softly and led his horse between two clumps of brush, close enough to them to make his outline indistinct. When he had gone fifty yards or so he glanced back. The redoubt was only a spot of blackness against the shadow of the mountain.

He put a boot in the stirrup and swung to the saddle, leaning forward at once to make himself smaller, and then he walked the horse forward carefully.

He saw nothing, heard nothing. Continuing to walk the horse slowly, he kept himself in line with the small isolated peak ahead of him.

The ground rose gradually but steadily. He had crossed this area before, and it stirred his curiosity, arousing questions his limited knowledge of the earth sciences could not solve.

There was here a vast dome, rising from all sides. In approximately four and a half miles the ground rose twelve hundred feet, but at the top there was no peak, not even a knoll. The huge dome was flat, and it was broken by only two or three minor outcroppings. But about a mile or so from the top of the dome there was a jagged peak about five hundred feet high.

It was that peak toward which he was now pointing. Opposite it, near the end of a rugged range of mountains was another peak. At the base of that was where Sprague and his men were believed to be.

He rode carefully, skirting the dome on a wide swing that kept him low enough so that he was not outlined against the sky. At intervals he hesitated, to listen. And always he watched those surest indicators of movement near by—the ears of his horse.

His rifle was slung to his pommel, his pistol ready to hand. If action came it would be at close range. He had gone a mile…and then went on another mile. He was walking his horse when suddenly of its own volition its pace quickened. Alert to every move of the horse, he sensed its fear at once. He heard nothing, but he knew there was some danger nearby.

It was out there in the night, and his horse knew it. The animal half turned its head, and he glimpsed the whites of its eyes. It was something coming up behind them, something that made no noise in the night.

There was no wind. He could hear only the movements of his horse, the creak of the saddle. Suddenly the horse shied, and from the ground in front of him a wraith-like figure came up. At that moment something whispered from the other side and he turned sharply.

The turn saved his life, for a thrown club just missed his skull. At the same instant something leaped at him from the other side.

He clubbed his pistol barrel over a skull, and slammed the spurs to his horse. The frightened animal, unaccustomed to such treatment, gave a great bound forward and he felt the clawing hands fall away. He swung the horse at right angles and went up the hill.

They were all around him now, and there must have been a dozen of them. They had been running to meet him, and now they tried to close in. He swung his horse again, driving at one of them, who tried to swing aside, too late.

The big animal charged into him and the man went down, a scream tearing from his throat as he went under the trampling hoofs. And then Callaghen was away, and running.

He heard something—it might have been an arrow—but he had slipped away from them—it was partly luck, but even more, it was the speed and intelligence of his horse that had saved him.

He did not for a moment believe they would fall back. A good runner can run a horse down…all it needs is time, and the Indians had time. He was away for now, but he could not run his horse forever and they would close in—those swift, deadly fighters following after him.

Dimly against the starry sky he could see the peak toward which he was aiming. The dome up which he was now riding went steadily upgrade, and he swung his horse along the side of the slope in a vast, easy circle, going always toward the peak. He scarcely hoped he would confuse his followers—he did not underestimate them, for he knew well enough that they were shrewd, relentless, and ruthless.

He moved his horse into a trot and held it so for a good half-mile. Then he slowed down and walked it up the dome. A dim shadow appeared on his left, another on his right. They were attempting to turn him. But if he turned back, those coming up behind would close in around him.

He drew up and stopped momentarily, listening, then he turned sharply at right angles and started his horse along the slope again at a rapid walk, turning constantly to look to all sides. By now they knew where he was going, and they had no intentions of permitting it. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he could now distinguish the Indians from the Joshua trees…if they moved.

Deliberately, he allowed one of them to close in, and when he turned his horse it was at an angle to cross in front of the Indians, trying to maneuver so only one of them could reach him at a time.

The one Indian was close, and Callaghen turned his head away to give him confidence, timing the steps the Indian must make. When he could have taken three steps, Callaghen turned sharply, drew, and fired.

His bullet was perfectly timed, and it was at point-blank range, for the Indian had just set himself to leap. The bullet struck him in the chest, and instantly Callaghen touched his horse with a spur and leaped away. The shot had been intended not simply to kill an Indian, but to alert Sprague that help was coming—such as it was.

He topped out on the dome, a wide-open area around him. He rode toward the rugged ground where the peak rose up above the surrounding country. At the edge of the rocks, he drew up.

He doubted there were Indians here, but he listened for a long moment. Then he walked his horse along the rocks toward the northwest, and crossing the low ridge he drew up again, looking off eastward to the mountain range that edged the sky.

There he waited, every sense alert. The chances were that the Indians would suspect him of having ridden right on toward Sprague and his men, and they might pass by these rocks, or signal to those surrounding the soldiers that he was coming.

The night was cool. Dawn would be coming soon. The mountains over there were a good two miles off and over open ground, scattered with Joshua trees, but offering no real cover.

The soldiers would have heard his shot, and would know something was happening out there in the dark. He waited, the bulk of his horse and himself merging with the towering rock beside him to leave no outline.

He could feel the horse slowly relaxing, the tenseness leaving his muscles. He opened a canteen and took a small swallow, rinsing his mouth before he let the water trickle down his throat. He was tired. The shirt under his uniform jacket was stiff with dust and sweat. He wanted a bath, a good meal, and forty-eight hours of sleep.

He wanted desperately to sleep, but to sleep now meant to die…and that could mean death as well for the men out there. He reloaded the empty chamber of his pistol, and stepped down from the saddle, resting a reassuring hand on the shoulder of his horse.

He must not risk getting killed by his own outfit as he rode in, and he must get those canteens of water to them, and then lead them to the spring that lay due south from here. It was only a mile from where they were—or had been—but a mile in the desert is a long way, and they did not even know the spring was there.

Callaghen scouted the rocks close to him. Already it was vaguely lighter, but he saw nothing…nobody.

He sat on a flat rock, his back to the rock wall within a few feet of his horse, and tried to think the situation through.

The Indians knew he was out here somewhere. At first they would believe he was in the rocks somewhere near the soldiers, but they would soon guess by the actions of the soldiers that he was still out here. Very soon they would figure out just about where he was. Then they would tighten their circle and come hunting for him, but they would be scattered out enough so that he must face at least some of them. They would be aiming for a kill.

Riding through them would not be easy, and first they would be trying to kill his horse. They would want him on foot, and also they would be wanting the horse for meat. The time to start was now.

He poured a couple of cupfuls of water into his hat and let the horse drink, just enough to freshen him a bit. He petted the animal and talked to him.

“You and me, boy, we’ve got to go through them. I’m counting on you.”

The black nudged him with his nose, and he gathered the reins and stepped into the saddle.

He looked at the dark saw-toothed range opposite and started his horse down from the rocks. At their base he hesitated a moment, looking out at the deceptively empty-looking space before him.

A few last stars still hung in the sky. A faint coolness touched his cheek as the wind stirred. The twisted Joshua trees thrust their thick arms at him. He spoke softly to his horse. “All right, boy, let’s go.”

He started to canter. Sitting tall in the saddle, a pistol in his right hand, he rode out into the last dim period before the dawn. His mouth was dry, his heart was beating with heavy throbs. He touched his tongue to his lips, his eyes slanting left and right.

They were waiting for him eagerly, he knew. They wanted him dead, they wanted his guns, they wanted his horse for the meat it would give, and they wanted to stop him from reaching the beleaguered soldiers.

He rode straight into the morning, his gun ready, and death rode with him, almost at his side.

Chapter 16

T
WO MILES TO go, and then to find where the command had holed up. Callaghen thought they might be of help. If he was attacked there would be shooting, and they might offer supporting fire. All he knew was the report from Garrick, that they were somewhere at the base of the peak before him. If they had not moved.

Now he could see a greater distance. The sky was gray now, and the last star, like a faint distant searchlight, was gone.

There was no sound but that of his horse’s hoofs. He started at a canter, covering distance, and riding easy in the saddle. The reins were in his left hand, his drawn pistol in his right.

When he had covered about half a mile there was still nothing in sight. The peak rose high above the surrounding desert, falling steeply, at its base.

He rode on, and then a mile was behind him. His mouth was dry, his heart was thumping. He slowed his horse to a walk, guiding him gently to avoid any possible dips or shallow places on the desert that might conceal an enemy. Another mile to go. It had to be soon.

His view was good now in all directions. He looked at the base of the mountain, at the rocks there. How long would it take to cover that if he had to run for it? Three minutes? Four?

The ground ahead seemed fairly level, with a gentle downward slope until the last quarter of a mile or less.

His mount seemed to tense a little, looking ahead. The ears were up, the nostrils flared. “All right, boy,” he said quietly, “we both know. When I ask you to run…be ready.”

Again, as in the night, they rose out of the desert. One moment the desert was empty, and the next it was alive with them. Early sunlight gleamed on a rifle barrel…on another.

His eyes swept the desert around him. One, two…four—there were ten of them within sight, moving toward him.

Only two of them had rifles, several had bows, and at least one seemed to be carrying only a club. There were four on his left flank, two on his right; three were ahead, and one some distance off further to the right. It was an open invitation to ride into that gap.