Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) (16 page)

“Uh-uh,” he said aloud, “I’ll not buy that.” But he swung the black that way and walked him a good twenty yards; then suddenly, instead of continuing toward the inviting gap, he turned sharply left and slapped the spurs to the horse. It left the ground in a leap and drove in a plunging run toward the four men straight ahead. At the same moment he fired at the nearest Indian. The man broke pace, stumbled, and went to his knees. A gun roared on his left, an arrow struck the pommel, and then they were all around him. A club was thrown by one of them and missed by inches; another grabbed his pants leg and tried to hack at him with a knife, but missed his stride and fell into the sand. Another Indian leaped to the horse behind him and he smashed an elbow into the Indian’s ribs, but a strong arm came over his shoulder and around his throat.

His horse was running all out, frightened and out of control. Callaghen shoved his pistol under his arm and pulled the trigger.

There was a heavy jolt and he felt the arm around his throat loosen. Turning the pistol slightly, he pulled the trigger again, heard a grunt, and the grip at his throat let go and the Indian fell.

With a sharp turn he avoided two Indians rising from the ground and went racing toward the rocks. Shots sounded behind him, and then two Indians came up from the rocks right where he had believed Sprague might be. But even as they raised up, gunfire came from the rocks and one Indian fell. The other scrambled away, but then lunged for him. Instead of trying to evade him, Callaghen turned his horse and rode him down, the man screaming.

Then he was up among the rocks and he saw a spot of blue in front of him. He leaped the horse over a last circle of rocks and pulled up short in the little cul-de-sac where the soldiers were.

He dropped from the saddle. One quick glance showed him he had come none too soon.

Sprague was propped up against the rocks, his face gray with pain and exhaustion. Three of the others were wounded. One had his head wrapped in a bloody improvised bandage, another had splints on one leg. All were in desperate shape.

Callaghen glanced back at the desert.

The Indians were gone. One body lay out there on the sand. The others had vanished as if they had never been there.

He took a canteen from his horse. “Figured you boys might like a drink,” he said.

He held the canteen first for Sprague, whose hands were shaking as he reached out for it. He drank only a swallow. “The rest is for the men,” he said hoarsely.

Slowly the canteen went from man to man. “Take it easy,” Callaghen said. “Too much of this now is as bad as none.”

After all had had a drink Callaghen sat down and asked, “How long has it been?”

“We been out of water two days and two nights,” a man said. “They done stole our horses and pinned us down. You sure came when needed.”

“We’ve got to move. More of them will be coming now.”

“We’re in no shape,” Sprague said.

“There’s a water hole a mile or so south. We’ll have another drink of this, wait a bit, and have another. Then if it’s all right with you, sir, we’ll move out.”

“Any word from Major Sykes?” Sprague asked.

“No, sir. I doubt if he knows any of this is happening, for he’s had no word.” He explained about the stage, and his own actions. “The Delaware is at the Marl Springs redoubt,” he added, “and so is your man Garrick.”

He passed the canteen around again and each man took a careful swallow. One by one they began tightening belts, pulling on boots, getting ready for the move. None of them looked forward to it, but none of them wanted to stay here.

Crouched down, Callaghen drew a diagram in the sand. “Here’s where we are,” he said, pointing. “There’s a water hole about here, something like a mile. We should head for that and refill our canteens. Then southwest of there is Cut Spring—another two miles. I think we can make that all right. And we’ll have to fight.”

“That’s the pinch, Sergeant,” Sprague said. “We’re running short of ammunition.”

“I’m carrying a hundred rounds,” Callaghen said, “but mine won’t fit your guns. I did stick some of your ammunition in my gear, but it won’t come to more than five rounds per man.”

“That’s more than we have,” Sprague said. “Two of our men have nothing left. I doubt if there’s thirty rounds in the lot of us…for rifles, at least.”

He sat up. “Beamis, you and Wilmot and Isbel are the best shots. I want each of you to have ten rounds apiece.”

“Mercer’s as good a shot as me, maybe better,” Beamis suggested. “He done some fighting up Minnesota way.”

“All right—Mercer too. The rest of you divide up their packs and carry them so you can be free to shoot.” Sprague looked around at Callaghen. “Sergeant, we’ll need your horse. Will he carry double?”

“He will, sir.”

“We have two men who can’t walk, so they’ll ride. How soon should we move, Sergeant?”

“Right away, sir. It’s still cool. I think we can make that first spring before it warms up, and with luck the second. We’d better hole up there through the heat of the day—we can build shade with our coats, sir.”

Callaghen led the way, rifle in hand, with Beamis and Mercer behind him. Then the wounded men riding the black, the pack bearers next, and Wilmot and Isbel as rear guard. Sprague marched beside Callaghen, limping from a bruised foot. They saw no Indians on the way.

At the water hole they found no one, although there were fresh moccasin tracks, and here they refilled their canteens. An hour later they started out once more, marching slowly. Again, all the way to Cut Spring, they saw no one. By the time they arrived there the Indians had gone, and it was a good thing.

Callaghen, looking around him, decided he had never seen such a bedraggled lot of soldiers. “We’ll keep the horse right close to us,” he suggested to Sprague. “If they get him, we’ll have played out our hand.”

The night was clear after the hot afternoon was gone. The stars were very bright; the desert was still. After a brief fire to make hot soup and coffee, they let the small flame die down and all of them rested.

The spring was among low granite knobs that provided a certain amount of protection. There was another spring some distance off, separated from them by a low hill.

Callaghen slept a little, and when he woke he checked the two sentries, and permitted one of them to turn in. He touched the coffeepot that sat beside the coals. It was still hot.

He filled a cup, moved back to one of the rocks, and settled his back against it. “Heard anything?” he asked Mercer, sitting close by.

“No…I surely ain’t, but I’ve got a feelin’ they’re out there.”

“They are.” Callaghen agreed, and he sipped his coffee. “What did you do in Minnesota, Mercer?”

“Worked in a mill, as a boy. Then I kep’ store. I was doin’ fair to middlin’ when the massacree came. Little Crow, he went to church in the mornin’, all duded up in white man’s clothes, then he went home an’ put on his paint, an’ those Sioux, they turned to an’ kilt most ever’body around.

“They wiped me out, Sergeant. They taken whatever I had an’ set fire to the place. Lucky, me an’ the wife had stopped by the Larsons’ after church, or they’d surely have had us.”

“Your wife in Minnesota now?”

“No, she ain’t. Those injuns scared her. She taken off back east where she came from, an’ I joined up with the army. That was a few years back. I ain’t seen or heard from her since.”

“Tough.”

“Not the way I figure it. A woman should stick by a man, an’ up there most of ’em did. Trouble was, I married me a girl who’d never been far from her mama, an’ she wasn’t up to it, livin’ on the frontier, like. I don’t blame her, not none at all. I’d taken her to the wrong kind of world. Me, I’d been fetched up on the frontier in Illinois an’ Missouri, an’ I never knowed anything else.”

After a while he went on, “I’d like to go back. I’d like to cut loose from the army an’ find me some of this gold they talk about. I’d like to go back there an’ show her what I could do. She was forever holdin’ up her fancy friends to me. Well, I never had much, but I figure I can make as big tracks as any man.

“I wonder how some of them would have done, raised on sow-belly an’ beans the way I was. I had me a nice little store when those Injuns broke out. We always seemed to get along with ’em—I’d of swore they cottoned to me. I’d have bet they wouldn’t burn me out.”

“When the young bucks get on the warpath they don’t stop to think,” Callaghen said.

He moved away to keep himself in the shadow. Mercer was a good man, he was thinking, and a good soldier, but like all of them, himself included, he was thinking of gold.

Something seemed to click in his mind at that moment, and he was seeing the map clearly. He was seeing a couple of crosses that could mean an isolated peak, and a series of them that could mean a range. He took a hasty swallow of coffee.

He was on the location of the map right this minute, he was sure. This spot was one of the indicated places; somewhere close by was the River of Golden Sands.

Not much was shown on his map, but in the morning…yes, when morning came he would look around.

He had no clear idea why he felt so sure, but suddenly he knew…knew he was right where that map had been drawn.

The river had to be not far away. Perhaps north of here.

He finished his cup and threw the dregs into the coals.

Chapter 17

M
ALINDA AWOKE SUDDENLY, the sound of a shot ringing in her ears. Her first thought was of Mort.

Swiftly, she was out of bed and dressing. Half of the room had been curtained off for Aunt Madge and herself, the other half was given over to supplies and ammunition. Sergeant MacBrody had thoughtfully left a guard on duty outside.

Aunt Madge was awake too. “You think it is Callaghen coming back? It is too soon, honey. It may take him days to find them…and at least a day to return. It can’t be him.”

“I guess not.” Malinda felt deflated, but not entirely so. It
might
be Mort. And the Indians would surely try to prevent his return, and there would be shooting.

After another minute a second and a third shot followed. These sounded closer…right outside, in fact.

Aunt Madge was dressing. “I’ll make some coffee for the boys,” she said. “They’ll be needing it.”

Malinda opened the door and stepped out. A soldier was sprawled on the ground, Ridge bending over him. He looked up at her question.

“It’s Sampson, ma’am. He started across the yard an’ some sharpshootin’ Injun cashed him in.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes, ma’am, and that ain’t all. Spencer deserted in the night, and Wylie and Champion with him, and four horses.”

“You mean they got away? Without any trouble?”

MacBrody, who was close to them now, answered. “Well, we heard no shootin’. They must have found some place where the Injuns couldn’t watch, or they just had luck. Anyway, they’re gone, and with Sampson dead our force is cut right in half. Garrick is in no shape for duty, and Sutton’s down with the fever, which leaves the Stick-Walker and me.”

Ridge looked at him. “What about me? And Becker?”

“Aw, you’re bloody civilians, an’ we’re here to protect you!”

“And likely the civilians will pull you out of the soup,” Ridge commented. “When the shooting starts, you’ll see what bloody civilians can do…beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Ridge said, glancing at Malinda.

“I can shoot,” she said quietly, “and although I’m a civilian I’m an army brat, so I’ll be on both your sides. So will Aunt Madge.”

Aunt Madge was busy at the fire, and the others were keeping close to the walls, away from the center of the enclosure. Becker, rifle in hand, was watching the peak for a shot.

“Sergeant,” Malinda said suddenly, “did you know Morty Callaghen in the old country?” Malinda asked MacBrody.

“No, ma’am, I knew of him. He was an O’Callaghan then. And I notice he writes the name with an ‘e’ now instead of the ‘a.’ That sort of thing happens when a man’s name is misspelled by some clerk.

“But names have all changed down the years. There’s many a Sutton or Chester who was Irish as Paddy’s pig in the beginning. There’s hardly a man alive whose name hasn’t been changed more than once since men first had surnames.

“The Mac on my name means ‘the son of,’ and the same it is with Fitz, only the Fitz wasn’t Irish, it was Norman. And many a man took the name of a clan when he was not of the original family at all.”

This was MacBrody on one of his favorite subjects, talking at length, as always.

“Mort now, he was a genuine O’Callaghan, the son of a father who had been a leader of a clan that went back into history for centuries.

“The Irish were a fighting lot and might have whipped the British a dozen times over if they could have stopped fighting amongst themselves, but they wouldn’t put aside their old hatreds, and some of them invited the Danes to help, and a sorry day it was.”

“You know a lot of your history, Sergeant,” Malinda said.

“No more than many an Irishman, and not as much as Mort. It was taught in the darkness by the hedges or old stone walls, along with a lot of other learning. They were the only schools we had, and those not permitted if the law learned of them.

“The O’Callaghans, now, were ‘wild geese’ who flew away to the wars in France, Austria, or Spain, and there was many another. Sometimes they came back, often they died on foreign fields, and sometimes they married and stayed abroad, as Mort is likely to do.”

“Why do you say that?”

He grinned at her slyly. “Aw now, ma’am, you wouldn’t be foolin’ a man, would you? I’ve seen the look in your eye, and in his. You can be sure that if he goes back to the old country it’ll be you he has with him.”

T
HE DAY DREW on. The sun was hot. No breeze stirred. The horses were restless, wanting to be out and grazing, but they dared not risk it. Twice, bullets came into the corral, and once an arrow, which cut through Ridge’s sleeve as he was crossing to the other stone house.

“I’m worried about McDonald,” Aunt Madge said. “It would be like him to come looking for me.”

“He’ll not come,” Malinda replied. “I think he’s wise enough to stay, and to wait.”