Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) (3 page)

He had been watching carefully, and he did not believe there were more than eight or ten Indians. They had water and they had horses and this was their country, over which they must have traveled before this, so the advantage was theirs. They had no need to return to a distant post; they had no need to report to a superior officer. The horses gave them mobility and they could ride far to water and ride back again, while the soldiers must move slowly, and with great care.

Some of the Mohaves were closing in again, but the soldiers kept moving. Suddenly one Indian dashed at Callaghen, but as he lifted his rifle the Indian wheeled and rode away. Behind him a yell sounded, and another Indian charged.

“Hold your fire!” Callaghen warned. “They want us to empty our guns so they can close in and wipe us out.”

Deliberately he fell back to cover the retreat of the others. Croker was helping Walsh. The Delaware, rifle at the ready, was walking backwards, watching the Indians.

They came again in short, quick dashes, then wheeled to ride away. They raised up from their crude saddles and slapped their behinds derisively, taunting the white soldiers to get them to fire. Suddenly Indians on one side began to ride nearer. All eyes were on them.
All eyes
…!

Realizing that this was what the Indians wanted—for all eyes to be directed on them so the others could close in, Callaghen whirled. As he did so, they charged. He did not drop to one knee, but fired quickly, almost offhand.

His first shot caught a charging Indian full in the chest, knocking him backwards off his horse. At the same instant Callaghen dropped his rifle, drew his six-shooter, and fired, one, two,
three!

An Indian pitched over with the first shot, a second wheeled his horse and took the bullet in the shoulder and side. The third was shot in the head.

From behind him he heard a shot, and another, and then the desert was empty, the Indians gone, except one who lay sprawled and dead on the desert.

Holstering the pistol, Callaghen followed after the others, loading his rifle as he walked.

Croker stared at him. “Man, that was shootin’! I never seen the like!”

They broke through the mesquite, and saw a bare patch of sand, a basin of cracked mud, and no water.

No water…

Chapter 3

D
ESPAIR GRIPPED CALLAGHEN for a moment. “Croker,” he said, “get back there with your rifle. The Mohaves knew about this, and they may hang back for a time, but they’ll be coming on.”

“I do not think so,” the Delaware said. “I think it has cost them too much, and they will not risk your shooting again.”

Callaghen sat down and carefully reloaded his pistol. As he did so he considered the situation. This basin was at the lowest point around. It lay at the end of a ridge of rocks where a spring might conceivably be, surrounded by mesquite and a healthy growth of salt grass. The place was a natural catch basin for water draining off the rocky ridges around it.

“The mesquite is an indicator of ground water. So is salt grass.” Callaghen spoke slowly, for his tongue felt swollen and clumsy, and his lips were cracked.

The Delaware looked at him with dull eyes. Walsh sprawled on the sand, making no sound. He lay in shade under the mesquite growth which towered six to seven feet above him.

Callaghen’s own head seemed not to be working too well, but he tried to focus his attention on recalling what he knew about this plant. While it was regarded as a sure indicator of water, the roots might penetrate fifty feet into the earth. On the other hand, the roots of salt grass rarely went beyond ten feet, and the water table where the salt grass grew was often less than three feet beneath the surface.

He put down his rifle, unslung the spare he had carried, and went into the basin. Throwing aside the slabs of cracked mud, he began to dig. The earth at the bottom was sand and clay, and it was very dry—dry as a buffalo skull that has lain twenty years out on the prairie.

On his knees, he worked with his hands, digging. He did not think about the parched earth. He did not think about the sting of the alkali when it got into cuts on his hands; he thought only of the water below.

Croker came back, staring dully at him, intent on his digging. “You waste your time. We are dead men,” he said.

Callaghen did not look up. “Get back to your duty,” he said hoarsely. “Watch for the Mohaves.”

“They are gone.”

“Go back and watch for them!”

Croker did not move. “You are not an officer. You have no authority here.”

Callaghen stood up stiffly and turned around. “Croker, you’ve got one chance to live. You get back to your job, or I’ll kill you.”

Croker hesitated, but then he turned and went back through the mesquite, and Callaghen dropped to his knees again.

He was a tall man, with wide shoulders, a well-setup man who ordinarily moved easily and with some grace. Around the post he was something of a mystery. Everyone knew that his enlistment period would soon be over. When he enlisted he had given his home as Boston. He had twice been advanced to sergeant and had twice been broken back to private, each time for fighting. He was known among those who served with him as a rough fighter, a good man to leave alone.

He drank rarely and sparingly, read a great deal, and had few real friends, although he was friendly enough. He rarely spoke of himself. He was proficient with all weapons, and was a superb horseman.

Croker, who had served with him for more than a year, had never known him to receive mail. He was really a loner. Many a man who joined the Indian-fighting army did so because he wished to disappear…and the rate of desertion was high.

Now he continued to dig steadily. A foot…two feet. The hole was still dry, and he was gasping for breath. The heat, the lack of water, and the long exhausting march had taken their toll, but he went on digging. Finally the Delaware came and pushed him aside, and after that they took turns.

Callaghen was down four feet before he felt dampness in the earth. He grunted suddenly and began digging harder. The sand grew damper, and finally it began actually to ooze water. The Delaware pressed his face against the sand thrown up at the edge, feeling its coolness.

Callaghen went on digging. The work was harder now, for the sand was firmly packed, but he gouged out great handfuls and tossed them on the growing bank. At last he sat back, hands hanging, and watched. Slowly, water began to seep into the hole.

He dipped up a little, and touched his lips with it, letting a few drops fall on his tongue. A drop or two went down his throat, and he felt a delicious coolness go all through him.

When he could get a few mouthfuls down his throat, he took up his rifle and walked out to where Croker sat. “Go on back for a while,” he said. “There’s water there.”

Croker stared at him, incredulous. Then he scrambled to his feet, and fell. He got up slowly, and went back through the mesquite.

Callaghen sat down and let his eyes sweep the terrain before him. Their position was not a bad one, the only real danger lying in the rocks behind them. But he detected no movement there.

They were going to make it back. Of that he could feel sure now. None of them was in shape for a long march, but with water they could make it; once they filled their canteens he doubted the Mohaves would follow them…unless their numbers were greatly increased.

He began to think out a route, estimating the distances they must make, and the time it would take. It was time that they must think of. With luck they could find more water on the way, but they would have long marches, and no food.

The Mohaves really seemed to have gone. He studied the land ahead of them. There was a spring in the Ibex Mountains to the southeast, he knew. Trying to recall what he had learned from listening to Indians, to travelers, trappers, and occasional prospectors, he decided the spring must be twelve to fifteen miles away, a difficult walk for men in their condition, but now that they had water it was possible.

After a while he went back to the water hole. It was half filled with muddy water now, and he drank sparingly. Croker was lying on his face, his head on his arm, asleep. The Delaware was sitting back, his head tilted against a rock. Walsh was sleeping.

“You brought us through,” the Indian said quietly. “You are a good man, Callaghen. I think you have been an officer before this.”

“We have a long way to go,” was Callaghen’s reply. He squatted on his heels where he could watch the approach from under the brush. “Do you know Ibex Spring?” he asked.

“I have heard of it. I have not been there.”

“Can you do twelve miles?”

“Yes, I think so. With water, we can go as far as you wish.” He brought his head into position. “You are a good man with a gun, Callaghen, and you are a good leader. You knew about mesquite and salt grass as indicators of water. What else do you know?”

“That I am tired, and it is your turn to go on watch.”

The Delaware got up and stretched. The water in the hole was clearing as the silt settled to the bottom, and he drank long and deep, then drank once again.

When he got up, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think the lieutenant should have talked to you,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Did you not know that he questioned everybody about the desert? He was a very young man, and he wanted to know a great deal.”

“He was a shrewd young man, then. That’s one way of learning.” Callaghen paused. “When one is to travel in a new area, one had better learn all he can.”

The Delaware smiled. “I suppose so, but that did not account for all of his questions.”

The Indian left him, and after Callaghen drank again he lay down on the sand. Night would soon be here. He thought of his feet. He should bathe them, but he was afraid if he took his boots off he would never get them on again, for his feet would swell. They were blistered, he knew, and it must be the same with the feet of all the others.

What had the Delaware meant about the questions the lieutenant had asked, he wondered. It was natural for a man who was new to a country to ask questions.

They moved out into the desert when the stars were out, and a cool wind blew low across the earth. Scarcely a leaf stirred, the wind was soft and easy, and the only sound was the whisper of their footsteps in the sand. Their canteens were full.

The night was long before them. Callaghen set an easy pace, moving along as if his feet did not hurt and as if he had only a few miles to go. When they had walked an hour, they stopped for ten minutes.

The Delaware walked out into the desert to sit down, and when they started again he joined them and said, “I do not think we are followed, but that means nothing.”

The mountains were on their right, raw, hard-edged mountains of rock thrust up from the desert floor, neither friendly or unfriendly, only indifferent.

Callaghen had traveled many walking miles, or miles on horse or camel, and he could judge distance fairly well. In the first hour they made about two and a half miles. They would do as well in the second. In the third it would be perhaps two miles, for the men would be getting tired and there was a narrow ridge to cross.

The lieutenant had taken them farther north than Callaghen had at first believed—too far north. As he walked Callaghen began for the first time to think about that young lieutenant, suddenly puzzled by incongruities.

It was the Delaware’s comment that had started his curiosity, but now he found more and more to puzzle about. So many things had indicated the lieutenant was new to the West and to the desert, and yet he had obviously guided their march by certain landmarks. These might have been given him by their commanding officer except that he, too, was new to this country.

Callaghen did not know the orders for the patrol. Only the lieutenant and the C.O. had known their mission. All the men had been told was that they were to familiarize themselves with the country, and to see if any Mohaves were in the area.

They had done that. They had scouted north, farther north than seemed necessary when one considered that the desert troops were to protect freighters and stages along the Government Road. But they had located the Indians…or had been located by them.

Now the lieutenant was dead, so one would never know exactly what he was trying to determine.

Thoughtfully, Callaghen went over in his mind the questions the lieutenant had asked, and what implications there were in what he had said. The one comment that stuck in Callaghen’s mind was one about horse thieves needing water and grazing for their stock, and the difficulty of finding it.

On their march north they had skirted the Owl’s Head Mountains, and had stopped briefly at the springs called the Owl Holes. The water there was not very good, but on the lieutenant’s orders the catch basin was cleaned out and left in fine shape.

At daylight they reached Ibex Spring, drank deep, refilled their canteens, and found shade in which to rest. The day dragged on, but before nightfall they started south, keeping the mountains on their right. When they had been walking a little more than an hour a faint trail appeared, and they left the one they had followed and crossed over a low saddle and marched down the western side of the mountains.

It was a short march, but Callaghen knew the men’s condition and insisted on stopping. At the springs at the southern tip of the range they camped until night came. Then they marched south once more, again only a short march—no more than ten miles to Cave Springs. But the march was uphill, and much of it was on soft sand.

At Cave Springs they bathed their feet, rested, and thought of food.

“How far to where we can get help?” Croker wanted to know. “I’ve had enough of this.”

“You’ve got a tough pull ahead of you,” Callaghen answered. “It’s twenty miles to Bitter Springs, and that’s our first chance. We might find somebody stopping there. And then there’s a long trek back to Camp Cady.”

Croker swore, and Walsh stared at Callaghen, then looked down at his boots. “I got a notion to stay right here,” he said. “I don’t think I can make it.”