Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) (6 page)

A fact that he had conveniently forgotten was that the charge had begun when his horse ran away with him, and his men followed. Uncomfortable about the praise that came his way, he had gradually forgotten how the charge had begun, and modestly said it was nothing. He had, he said, been fortunate enough to detect a weakness in the enemy line at that point.

The war ended too soon for him, for he had hoped to become a general—or at least a colonel. Failing that, despite the surplus of officers after the war, he had hoped to be sent to a good station where he might win a smashing victory over the Indians—the Plains Indians, of course, who had dash and glamour as fighting men.

The immigrant Irish were despised by many of the “right” people, so he despised them. The only Irish with whom he had ever had contact were a group who had settled on the edge of his town to build a spur of track for the railroad. Many of them drank too much, and most of them seemed to be amused by him, and this offended his dignity. In the army he had a few Irishmen in his command, and they, too, drank too much and were amused by him.

As his father’s partner, he owned a part of a small shoe-manufacturing plant, as well as the bank. At the plant they hired no Irish, but that attitude was quite frequent at the time, and aroused no comment.

He had found no girl who appealed to him for more than the moment until he met Malinda Colton. Her family was of the best. Her father was a diplomat, her uncle a general. On two or three occasions he had escorted her to dinner or to other affairs, and when he found her talking on intimate terms with Callaghen—at least, both of them were laughing and seemed very friendly—he had been coldly furious.

The fact that Callaghen had once had rank equal to his own did not impress him. “Miss Colton,” he told her gently, “the man is a vagabond, a soldier of fortune. He’s—he’s
Irish!”

That Malinda did not take him seriously was irritating. She had said then, “So was General Thomas Francis Meagher, of the Irish Brigade. He married a very good friend of ours, and they have been blissfully happy.”

Sykes was wise enough to drop the subject. Besides, he was on shaky ground, for it suddenly occurred to him that his commanding officer at the time was General Sheridan, who was the son of an Irish immigrant.

Now he found himself leading three troops of cavalry to occupy several forts in the Mohave Desert, in Indian country. The Indians were not the Sioux or the Cheyennes, but he had no doubt that he could win a victory over them.

There was one other thing. He had in his keeping the discharge papers for one Private Morty Callaghen, a name he had cause to remember. Twice, on flimsy excuses, he had broken Callaghen from sergeant to private, once by his order, once by his influence. And there is perhaps no one hated more by a man than one to whom he has done an injustice.

It was to the dispute over Callaghen that he laid his failure with Malinda Colton. And now he was to meet the man again. It was just his luck that Callaghen was about to be discharged.

The thought came to him that if the discharge was not delivered it would not be in effect. It was a fine point. Was Callaghen discharged when his papers were issued, or when they were delivered to him?

He dismissed the idea and his thoughts turned to his command. He was to garrison forts at Marl Springs, Bitter Springs, Rock Springs, and Fort Piute, as his judgment saw fit, to insure the safe passage of freight caravans and stages along the Government Road. He was to make no move against the Mohaves unless they first attacked him. His mission was to protect the road.

Major Sykes had never before seen the desert. He had come to California by ship. He had no idea what the “forts” were that he was to garrison, nor what a campaign in the desert could be like. He had heard of desert fighting, he had talked with officers who had fought the Apaches in New Mexico and Texas. He was quite sure he could handle the situation, his only doubt being what he might be able to make of it.

Camp Cady was on the Mohave River. He envisioned an imposing post beside a sparkling stream. There would be boating perhaps.

His first sight of the desert from the top of the pass was a shock. Captain Marriott, the second in command, commented, “There’s a lot of desert out there. Fourteen thousand square miles, they say, depending on whose figures you use.”

“That’s impossible, Captain! That’s larger than the state of Massachusetts.”

“Yes, sir. And you can add part of Connecticut for good measure. That’s a lot of rugged country, sir, and there’s very little water.”

Major Sykes was appalled. Never in his wildest speculations had he considered such a vast expanse of desert, and it was his job to patrol the Government Road through that wasteland with just three troops of soldiers!

“Have you served in the desert, Marriott?”

“No, sir, but I’ve traveled through it. Water is the problem. Water enough for a troop of men is hard to find.”

“How do the Indians manage?”

“They scatter, sir. They know tiny water holes or seeps with just enough for one or two men. By the time they and their horses drink it may take hours to fill up again.”

It was sundown when they rode into Camp Cady, and Sykes’s spirits hit rock bottom. There were trees offering some shade, and there was the river—a mere trickle, by his standards. The huts were built of adobe or logs, and roofed with brush. Some of the soldiers actually lived in brush huts, preferring them in warm weather.

Captain Hill awaited him. “You’ll be tired, sir. I’ve had water heated, so if you’d like a bath—”

“You haven’t formed the men?”

“There are only eight men, sir. Three are on guard duty at present, and the others have just returned from a patrol.”

The casualness of it offended him, but he was hot and tired, and in no mood to quibble. In Hill’s quarters, the captain got out his treasured bottle of whiskey. “This may help, sir. I know this place is rather a shock after the Coast, but it grows on you. There’s something about the desert, sir, that gets to you.”

“I shall try very hard not to discover it,” Sykes replied shortly.

Hill reviewed for him the Indian situation. “You have two men here,” he added, “who are invaluable. There’s a Delaware Indian who has scouted for the army, served in it as he does now, and he is a master at tracking. The other one is Sergeant Morty Callaghen.”

“Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. I promoted him to sergeant after Lieutenant Allison was killed. He’s a very able man. He knows the desert better than any white man I know, and after Allison was killed he took over and led the remnants of the patrol back out of the desert. I doubt if any other man could have done so.”

“I know the man.”

Hill spoke mildly. “Too bad you are losing him. He’s the best man you have.”

“I do not intend to lose him.”

“His enlistment is up, Major. He is waiting for his papers now. Once he has them, I doubt if he’ll remain long.”

Sykes dismissed the subject. “This Allison you mention. He was named in one of your reports, but nobody at headquarters knows anything about him.”

Captain Hill explained as best he could, adding some of Callaghen’s speculations.

“Gold?” Sykes stared at him. “There’s gold in this desert?”

“It’s been found from time to time. It’s mostly rumor, I think, but some of the rumors are quite substantial. The one that intrigues me the most is that of a River of Gold that is said to flow under the desert.”

“Under?”

“Rivers do not last long in the desert, Major. They sink into the sand and disappear. Perhaps they just evaporate, but the story is that there’s a river running deep in a cavern beneath the desert, and that its sand is mixed with gold. The Indians had stories about a River of the Golden Sands.”

“Nonsense.” Even as he said it, Sykes was thoughtful. Supposing…just supposing such a story were true? He was here in the desert. He had ample time to look around, and an excellent cover for doing so. And if he found something it would, of course, belong to him.

He dismissed the idea, and thought of more immediate things. In the morning he would go over the lists of provisions, ammunition, and weapons on hand. He would have a look at the riding stock and the pack animals, and learn just what he had to work with.

After he had had his bath he sat and talked with Captain Hill over a drink and a cigar.

“The Mohaves now,” Sykes said. “Do you see them often?”

“You only see them when they want you to see them.” Hill paused. “You must understand, Major, the Mohave is a different kind of Indian. He is not like the Plains Indians. Not even like the Apaches, with whom he is sometimes grouped. The Mohaves are of the Yuma family, but they are very different indeed.”

He took a sip of whiskey. He was going to have to leave it alone. He was getting to like the stuff too much. “When they want to navigate the river they do not make dugouts or birchbark canoes…They make boats of reeds, not unlike those of the ancient Egyptians, or the pre-Inca Indians of the Andes.

“They are tall, handsome people, better bred, perhaps, than most Indians. They lack the stately posture and the dignity of the Plains tribes, but the women are often very fine-looking. Their customs, too, are different. I think you will find them interesting.”

Sykes glanced at Hill with no particular admiration. “I have never felt that savages were a subject for study. My mission here is to make the road safe for travel. I shall do exactly that. The first time I meet them in battle, I shall wipe them out.”

Hill looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I could stay to see it, Major. It would be a remarkable accomplishment. How many men did you bring with you?”

“Sixty-six, in three under-strength troops.”

“Yes, that would be about it. You see, Major, the Mohaves number about three thousand, at the best guess, and I would imagine about seven or eight hundred of them are warriors. Their tactics are different. They are excellent guerilla fighters, but that is not their way under ordinary circumstances. They prefer hand-to-hand combat. They want to grapple with their enemies. Sometimes in battle with other Indians they grab them and drag them into their circle, where they are hacked to pieces.

“The Mohaves are strong men. They use clubs, knives, bows and arrows, and a sort of mallet with which they attack the face with what a prize fighter would call an uppercut.

“A few days ago when Callaghen was leading back the remnant of that patrol, the Indians followed on horseback, but that is rare. The Mohaves prefer to fight on foot. I believe their reason for following on horseback in the recent case was to taunt the soldiers, to show them how easy it was for them, how hard for the soldiers on foot.”

“Yet they were driven off?”

“Largely by Callaghen, from what the Delaware and Croker said. Callaghen lured them in close, then, according to Croker, who is no admirer of Callaghen, he put on a display of pistol shooting the like of which Croker had never seen. No Indian likes to suffer losses, so they pulled off.”

“Very interesting.” Sykes was thoughtful. This situation might be different from what he had expected. “What do you think are my chances for pitched battle with the lot of them?”

“No good at all. They would have to be quite sure of a smashing victory before they would put any large number of men in the field. However, in a war with the Maricopas and the Pimas they did put some two hundred warriors in the field, allied with Yavapais, Yumas, and Apaches.”

Hill went to the fire for the coffeepot. “Their arrows aren’t much good at long range, and they don’t have many rifles. One of their preferred methods of fighting is to charge into a group, grab a man and throw him over the shoulder for the Mohaves coming up behind to kill. Often an Indian will throw a man over his shoulder and those behind will plunge knives into him or beat him to death with clubs.

“You might not think,” he added, “that such tactics would work against the guns of the white man, but with a sudden rush they are very effective. When unexpected, they can be disastrous.”

Sykes was quiet. A bigoted man he might be, but he was no fool, and he was suddenly aware that the Mohave was something new for him.

“They live along the river?”

“From the Needles north for sixty or seventy miles, I’d say. Naturally, there are no actual boundaries, and any such statement must be elastic. They hunt very little—for one reason, there simply isn’t much to hunt. They are farmers, planting on land flooded by the Colorado, as the Egyptians did on land flooded by the Nile. They grow corn, wheat, pumpkins, squash, melons, and a few other things. Mesquite beans are an item of diet that is very important.”

“They travel on foot?”

“Preferably. And they can run all day, day after day. They come out of the desert like ghosts, and vanish into it the same way.”

Suddenly Sykes was no longer listening, for his thoughts had returned to the strange story of the River of the Golden Sands.

Was there such a river? Could he find it? And if so, could he get the gold out for himself? Without anyone knowing?

Chapter 7

C
ALLAGHEN WAS A man at home in the desert, which has always been a place of legend and of mystery, a lost world wherein lost mines and lost cities have been found, seen, or speculated about. In the vast emptiness of the desert almost anything could happen.

The desert preserves. What other lands destroy, the desert keeps. It accepts dead things, holds them close, and draws away the rot that would destroy; given time, it mummifies or crystalizes.

If the dead are undisturbed, the sun, the dry air, and the sand take out the moisture and preserve the body. Much of the Egyptian success with mummification was due to the dryness of the air rather than to any secret process. We would know little of the history of the ancient world if so much of it had not happened in arid lands. Callaghen, who knew something of the deserts of the Sahara, Afghanistan, India, and Turkestan, and who had ridden many a desert mile by camel as well as by horse, was prepared to believe that this desert, too, had its mysteries.