Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) (2 page)

“We have four canteens, five men. We will need water before anything else.”

They rolled the body of their officer into a shallow place and scooped sand over him. Callaghen mentally took note of what landmarks there were, and they started on. No shot came, no Indian appeared.

Callaghen now had the lieutenant’s pistol and thirty-two rounds of ammunition. He had also taken his papers, money, and whatever else was of value. These must be returned to the post, not only so that the lieutenant’s relatives might have them, but so the Indians might not get them.

The sun appeared over the mountains, and already they could feel its heat. Callaghen mentally measured the distance to the mountain toward which he was aiming. It was far, much too far.

The surface was firm for a change. There were scattered, fist-sized rocks, and there was more brush, but none of it was more than knee-high.

He led the way, holding his stride to easy, measured steps. There was no cover near them now, neither shelter for an enemy nor for themselves.

Suddenly he saw two riders off to the left. He recognized his own horse, and swore softly. On the other side were two more riders, who made no attempt to draw closer. They did not fire, and they remained well beyond shooting range.

At ten o’clock Callaghen stopped the men. It was in the middle of a broad, open area, but they were ready to drop with weariness.

He nodded off to their right. “See that bunch of rocks?” he said. “We can make them by noon, and we can find shade there, enough to sit out the day.”

Nobody spoke. Their faces showed their extreme fatigue. Croker, the wounded man, was bearing up well. Callaghen went to him. “Don’t worry,” Croker said, “when you get there, I’ll be with you.”

After a few minutes Callaghen got them on their feet and started on once more. He held his course straight ahead as if to bypass the rocks, then when not more than two hundred yards from them he suddenly flanked his men. “All right!” he said sharply. “On the double!”

He knew they were ready to drop. He also knew that if the Mohaves guessed his intention they would ride to head him off. He could only hope his line of march would deceive them until the last moment.

They ran, and for men half-dead from heat, exhaustion, and thirst, they ran well. Each man knew it was his own life that was at stake, his own life for which he ran.

Shots rang out, a man stumbled, ran on, then fell. The Delaware was about to stop but Callaghen waved him on. “Into the rocks!” he commanded.

He dropped to one knee, aimed at a rider, and fired. The Mohave pulled up sharply and swung his horse, hanging far over. The others veered off, and he walked to the fallen man. It was Baldwin, and he was dead.

Stripping him of his ammunition, rifle and almost empty canteen, Callaghen straightened up and began to walk. The others were just reaching the rocks, where there was shelter.

They had found a little shade. The Delaware had crossed to the far side, taking up a half-shaded position from which he could watch. Croker also had found a good firing position.

Sweat dripped down Callaghen’s face. He was surprised there was so much moisture left in his parched body, for his lips were cracked, and his eyes smarted from sunburned rims. He put a fresh pebble in his mouth, but it produced little saliva in his dry mouth.

One by one he studied the men as they rested. That they had come so far was a marvel, but they must still move on. If there was water near Eagle Mountain, as the Delaware believed, they would wait there, refresh themselves, and then set out again.

Callaghen knew what he hoped the Indians did not know: that there was no relief. There were no other soldiers to come looking for them; and in all that vast wasteland of the Mohave Desert there was no one from whom they could expect help.

At Camp Cady, when they had ridden out on their patrol—a patrol that was expected to give them some knowledge of the country, but no contact with the enemy—there was a captain and four enlisted men.

One thing they had that Callaghen and the patrol’s survivors did not have. They had water—plenty of water.

Chapter 2

C
ALLAGHEN CONSIDERED THE odds and found no comfort in them. His men were obviously dehydrated, some in much worse shape than others. He knew the signs.

None of the men complained; they were beyond that. From their flushed skin, labored breathing, and sleepiness, he could judge their degree of exhaustion. Walsh was rubbing his arms and legs, and several times Callaghen had seen him shake his head. A tingling of the limbs, dizziness, and difficulty in breathing indicated that he was worse off than the wounded man. These symptoms would be followed by delirium, swollen tongue, and partial deafness.

If they could get water tomorrow…Walsh emptied his canteen, then made as if to throw it away.

“Don’t do that, Walsh,” Callaghen said. “If we get to water tomorrow, you’ll need a canteen.”

Walsh blinked, then shrugged, but he kept his canteen.

It was a long, slow day. The minutes seemed like hours, and the men mostly lay still, but once in a while one moved into a bit of shade, one man to a spot, for nowhere was there enough shade for two. Occasionally a shot splintered rock near them as the Mohaves let them know they were out there, waiting.

At sundown Callaghen got them up. Walsh he had to lift to his feet. Croker, rifle in the hollow of his arm, stood waiting. His features were drawn, but there was a cold determination in the man’s face.

“Don’t you fret about me, Irish,” he said grimly. “When you get there, I’ll be with you.”

“I’m gambling on it.”

They moved out, scattered a little, making a poor target in the dim light, and the Mohaves did not fire.

Callaghen looked at the mountain peak before them, and headed for it. As mountains went, it wasn’t much, really, but it was their landmark, it was their hope. Once Walsh stumbled and fell, but he got up without help.

After an hour they halted. It was open country, nothing around them, and ahead it seemed to stretch even flatter and emptier.

When they went on, they saw the rocks drawing nearer again, the flat land becoming a shallow saucer with baked earth at the bottom where water must have stood after a sudden rain. There were a few scattered desert plants along the rim of this hollow, which afforded no real cover, but with these and the occasional brush they would at least be less of a target.

The Delaware staggered and almost fell, but braced himself with his rifle butt against the sand. He stood for a moment, swaying.

“How far would you guess?” Callaghen asked him.

“To the mountain? A mile, I think. A little farther to the water.”

They rested then, and some of them slept. Callaghen did not. The Mohaves were out there, not far away, and they would know about the water, too. Would they guess that the soldiers knew? If so, they would try to stop them before they reached it.

Callaghen forced the dullness from his mind, forced himself to study the ground between themselves and the mountain ahead. From here on, every step they could take would be a victory; and safety, at least for the moment, lay where water was.

Eagle Mountain was ahead of them. Before them there was a long, shallow trough in the desert floor running toward the peak, a place where water must have run off, perhaps finding a way to the hollow where they had stopped.

When to turn to the right toward the water hole? He considered that, and was suddenly aware the sky was already gray. He roused the men and they started on.

For a hundred yards, two hundred yards, they walked fairly well. Then Croker’s legs began acting oddly. He stumbled, and could hardly keep from falling. Walsh did fall. The Delaware helped him up, almost lifting him to his feet, and holding him until he gained his balance.

Walking and stumbling, falling occasionally, the men made another two hundred yards. It was light enough to be able to make out tracks, but Callaghen saw none…and with water near there should have been tracks.

Suppose there was no water? Suppose that mountain ahead was not even Eagle Mountain? This was not the Delaware’s native country, and he had been through here only once…he could be wrong. And if there was no water, they were dead men.

Walsh fell again. Again they helped him up. Callaghen looked at the mountain. By the look of it in the dim light, it was bare, basaltic rock. He glanced off to the right.

“All right.” He had to try twice before he could get the words out. “We’ll turn here.”

Croker fell, trying to climb the fifteen-inch embankment. He struggled up, stared blankly at Callaghen, then steadied himself. “All right, Irish,” he said. “I’m with you.”

Walsh made it, and so did the Delaware. They were out in the open now; a shot struck into the dirt near them and they all knew this was a fight. They dropped to the ground.

“Hold your fire!” Callaghen spoke sharply. “Walsh, you and Croker can load. Try not to get any sand into the actions.”

He waited. His own hands were not steady, his vision was blurred. He was further along toward dehydration than he had thought.

He rolled the dry pebble in his mouth. The skin on his hands looked wrinkled…like the hands of a very old man.

An Indian out there moved, and Callaghen fired without looking at his piece; he looked only at the Indian. The Mohave stumbled and fell.

That would put a scare into them. Indians were wise—they saw no advantage in a victory bought with the death of their own warriors. They did not believe in losing men to gain ground, or losing a man for any reason if it could be avoided. They were not afraid to die, but they knew that a dead warrior kills no enemies.

“You got him.” The Delaware shaped the words with difficulty. “It is the first for us, I think.”

Callaghen agreed. He had burned one other, he thought, perhaps scratched him a bit. Nobody ever killed as many Indians as he thought he had. When a report came in of Indians killed in battle, he usually discounted it by half.

The sun came up. In that shallow basin between the ridges the heat was unbelievable. He waited, peering about for enemies that never showed themselves. Walsh did not move.

A slow, long hour went by, and then another. Callaghen lay on the sand. He should move, he knew, for the heat was more intense down here. He should move, but he could not.

Yet he must. They must try for the water. “All right,” he said aloud, and nobody stirred. “We will go now,” he said, but there was no movement, no response.

Summoning all his strength, he pushed himself up. He got to his knees and slugged the Delaware. “Get up, damn you!” he managed.
“Get up!”

The Delaware got up, swaying on his feet. Then he helped Croker to his feet, and between them they got Walsh up.

Callaghen stood erect. The weight of the spare rifle, slung across his back, was almost more than he could stand. With his own rifle in hand, he peered around.

Only rocks and sand, sand and rocks. Sand, white and pink and dirty gray, and above them the sullen rocks. He turned squarely right. “March!” he said, and the sound was choked and hoarse from his dry throat. He tried to swallow, and found he could not. He stepped out, almost fell, but then walked on.

Staggering, the others followed.

Suddenly a rider appeared, then another. The Mohaves were closing in; they thought they had them now.

“Come on,” Callaghen muttered. “Maybe not with a rifle, but with this pistol—”

The men behind him had stopped, but he turned, got behind them and drove them on, cursing hoarsely, waving his rifle.

Befuddled as he was, he could still see there were no tracks. Tracks meant water, they were fingers pointing the way to it; no tracks meant no water…But there
had
to be water.

He peered ahead, and saw that the Indians were not much over two hundred yards off now.

He plodded on, keeping the men together. Eagle Mountain was on his left now, and still no tracks. He fought back his dismay, and realized that his eyes were blurred.

Heat waves shimmered between himself and the Indians; even the mountain seemed unreal, lacking substance. Walsh was down again, and Callaghen stopped while the others got him up. He waited, his rifle up and threatening. Again they started on.

The Delaware turned toward him. “See? It is in the mesquite. Right ahead.”

Past the point of rocks was a clump of mesquite, green and lovely. Certainly water could not be far.…The Mohaves were closer now.

“Be ready,” Callaghen said. “After I fire, you fire, but give me a little time to reload.” He looked at the others. “Can you fire?” he asked Croker.

“Try me,” the wounded man replied grimly. Walsh stared at him dumbly, but he unslung his rifle. Well, he might not hit anything, but the act of firing itself would help.

They moved ahead and the Mohaves came closer. Deliberately Callaghen stopped, dropped to one knee on the blistering sand and held his rifle on the nearest Indian.

The man reined his horse around, dropped onto the far side of it, and rode on.

“Go ahead,” he told the others. “Head for the mesquite.”

He did not think the Indians knew about the pistol. He was saving that, hoping to draw them in close enough to get two or three before they could get away.

Only one of the Indians seemed to have a rifle. The others needed to get within bow shot, and he had heard somewhere that such weapons were not very effective unless within sixty yards. And at that distance, with a pistol, he knew what he could do.

They were brave men—brave, but not foolish. They wanted him dead, but most of all they wanted to be alive. They were wary of him, for he had shot one of them and killed him. He had wounded another, at least slightly. So he did not shoot now, but waited, letting them think about what he might do.

The soldiers ahead were beginning to hurry. He got up and walked on to join them. The water hole was supposed to be in that clump of mesquite, yet he had still seen no tracks. Nor were there bees, an almost certain indication of water if the bees were flying toward it.

He faced the situation calmly. He had been close to death too many times not to know that he was living on borrowed time. If there was water there they would drink, and if there was no water they would die. There was no chance of going farther, at least not for Walsh, and perhaps not for Croker.