Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Read online

  “The British dinna often come to the west of Leap in those days. They had a saying, ‘Beyond Leap, beyond the law,’ and there was something to it, you can believe me. There were some rough lads in those parts, and a Britisher might ride the roads in peace by day, and get his skull bashed once the dark had come.

  “Had the times been right, Mort O’Callaghan would have been lord of a manor or a castle, but as it was he flew away with the wild geese, and somewhere along the way he dropped the O from his name and became simply Callaghen.

  “You might not think it, ma’am, but he’s a finely taught man, with a knowledge of the classics, the law, and much else. He got his grounding in the classics from the hedgerow schools that were taught in the darkness of night with sentries out, a teaching that was without pen or paper, but by the ear only, in most cases.”

  IT WAS CROWDED in the small corral, and in the afternoon Ridge, Becker, and Spencer led the horses out to graze on the grass in the hollow. The two stage-company men held the horses on lead ropes while Spencer scanned the hills to watch for Indians. The Delaware and MacBrody did the same.

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  After an hour of grazing in which no Indian was seen, the horses were returned to the corral.

  “I don’t think they’re out there,” Wylie grumbled. “I think we’re scared for no reason.”

  “They are out there,” the Delaware said quietly, “and some of them are close by. I think some of them can hear what we say.”

  “Nonsense!” Wylie replied. “There’s no sense in our being cooped up here. We could go on.”

  Callaghen ignored him, but he was wondering just how far Wylie intended to go. And where? And who was he to meet when he got there?

  He thought of the copy of the map he himself had…what about that? After all, a lost mine belonged to the finder. And even a little of that gold would be enough to buy a ranch or establish himself in some city or town.

  It was worth a try.

  Chapter 14

  THE SUN WAS hot, and there was not a breath of wind. Overhead the sky was clear and blue; across the valley the black range tantalized him with its unknown possibilities.

  They saw no Indians. MacBrody paced the corral irritably. “Where’s your lieutenant, Callaghen? Where is he? Where could twelve men disappear to?”

  “In this desert?” Wylie remarked. “You could lose an army out there.”

  “I’d like to have a look from up there,” MacBrody said, glancing up at the mountain that rose above them. It was not high, something a man might climb quite easily in a matter of minutes, but there might be Indians up there even now, watching them. A man would be exposed to fire from the rocks around.

  “You’ve got time,” Callaghen said. He had been longing for a look from that peak himself, but he hesitated, not liking the thought of climbing up there with Indians around. “Have they ever tried a shot at you from there?” he asked MacBrody.

  “Once. Three of us took dead aim at him when he showed himself, and we blowed the top of his head off. They ain’t tried it since.”

  Callaghen got a government map from the blockhouse and studied it. It was roughly drawn, but everything seemed to be fairly definitely located. A dotted line indicated the Government Road to the east. It crossed the valley and disappeared into the Mid Hills, through Cedar Canyon. Beyond lay Government Holes and Rock Springs. According to his information, the valley farther along was freely sprinkled with Joshua trees, and beyond that, in the rocky hills, was Fort Piute—or Pah-Ute, as most of the desert men called it.

  Mentally, he placed his copy of the Allison map over this one, and it did not fit.

  Whoever had drawn the Allison map had drawn everything from some point to the east, looking at the country with no true realization of which was north, east, south, or west…or perhaps he had done so deliberately. As no particular point was located, it seemed to him that oral instructions must at one time have accompanied the Allison map.

  But the high mountains yonder were located, and also the Mid Hills. Cedar Canyon was not named, nor were the mountains named.

  The isolated peak some ten miles to the northeast was clearly indicated, and so were the Kingston Mountains further north. A flat-topped mountain south of Government Holes was also drawn with care, and a spring behind it. Rock Springs was on the map, but no trails were indicated at all.

  There were no words on the face of the map, but there was something about the way the pen had been handled that inclined him to believe that had there been words they would have been in Spanish.

  It was an old map that Allison had—a very old map.

  One thing was obvious. If there was something to be found it must be found somewhere behind those mountains opposite, around Table Mountain, or in the Kingstons far to the north, and that was quite a spread.

  “Looking for something?” It was Wylie, who had come up close to him, and was craning his neck to see what he was looking at.

  “Studying a way out,” Callaghen replied. He nodded toward the east. “We can see quite a bit of the road to Fort Mohave yonder. Once around that mountain, there’s a long stretch of open country. After the horses are rested we might make it across there…if there aren’t some Indians waiting for us in Cedar Canyon.”

  The trail was not only visible from the redoubt, but from nearby they could see the rarely used trail from Marl Springs. The trail over which they had come was hidden behind the mountains and they could see nothing in that direction.

  “I think we should pull out now,” Wylie said. “I’m going to talk to the stage driver. We could stay holed up here the rest of our lives.”

  “We could,” Callaghen agreed mildly. “But I think the first thing is to rest our horses.”

  Where was Sprague? That question kept bothering him.

  Suppose the Indians had stampeded their horses? Who was with them who knew the water holes as he had known them when he led his small command out of the desert? Sprague might have a map, but Callaghen knew well enough how unreliable maps can be. Somewhere out there Sprague might be dying of thirst.

  Callaghen folded the map and walked over to where MacBrody sat talking to Ridge. “I’ve got to find Sprague,” he said, squatting on his heels beside them. “It just dawned on me that he doesn’t have one man who knows this country.”

  “How would you find them in all that?” Ridge asked, gesturing with his right hand.

  “You’d never pass the first mile,” MacBrody said. “Not even an O’Callaghan could do that.”

  “Sprague’s outfit might give me a lead through their tracks. I can go back where I left them, and trail from there.”

  MacBrody looked at him sourly. “My duty is here, and I like it that way. I’m looking for nothing out there.”

  “Don’t do it, Sergeant.” Ridge spoke emphatically. “You’d have small chance. It would take a ghost to move among those Indians without their knowing it.”

  “Then I shall be a ghost,” Callaghen said.

  He squatted there while they discussed his chances, but he was scarcely thinking of their words. He knew what his chances were, but he also remembered his own narrow escape from dying of thirst out there. And he knew where the water holes were. He was no hero, and he did not think of what he was doing as heroic; it was simply that Lieutenant Sprague and his men might need help. With horses they might make it, of course. After all, they could locate the trail to Marl or Rock Springs, or even to Bitter Springs.

  Sprague and his men were already short of water when he had left them. If they had not reached a water hole by now, they were in serious trouble…and the Indians would know, just as they had known about Callaghen and the others.

  “I’ll go tonight,” he said, “but say nothing about it to the others.”

  Ridge dug at the earth between his feet. “Damn it, man, I’d go with you, but—”

  “You’re not a soldier. Your job is with that stage.”

  Callaghen got up and walked to the wall. For a while he mov
ed from place to place, studying the area outside. Getting a horse out would be hardest of all, for undoubtedly the Indians would move in closer at night.

  There was a restlessness in him that did not come from their confinement here. He knew it was because of that discharge which was due, that might even now be at Camp Cady. He wanted to be free, moving out on his own, trying himself in the world outside the army.

  Men were building a country here. Although some sought merely quick wealth, others were bringing the law, bringing order, establishing homes and businesses…it was an exciting time to live. As yet there was no great wealth; men had only what they could make for themselves with their own strength, their own ingenuity. It was ability that mattered. Even as he considered that, he was thinking that even in Europe things were changing. In England most members of the House of Lords were only a generation or two away from being commoners.

  The old families who had come over with the Conqueror had declined or disappeared, and many of the conquered Anglo-Saxons were once again in positions of trust and importance. The same sort of thing could happen here, and a day might even come when Indians would hold important positions and direct affairs in the land they had once lost to an invader.

  It was such thoughts that made him restless now, and gave him that urge to be out and doing…that, and some nameless thing in the desert itself, something that whispered to him with every wind, that stirred with every grain of sand. His mind seemed to wander over such a range of mankind’s doings. At this very spring, how many travelers must have stopped! Even prehistoric men who had shaped the flints or the hand axes he had seen; invaders too, who had driven them out. The only law was change, and he wanted to be a part of that change.

  Suddenly, Malinda was beside him. “Mort, what are you thinking of?”

  “I was wondering about Sprague and those men of his. They must be hunting water now, perhaps dying for it.”

  “You’re going out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how can you find them in all that waste? How can you, Mort?”

  “I have to try. I’d not forgive myself if I didn’t. You stay with the stage. Trust Ridge—he’s a good man. So is Sergeant MacBrody.”

  “MacBrody was talking about your family, Mort.”

  “Just like an Irishman. He can’t keep his mouth shut. There’s nothing about my family except that I am an O’Callaghan. In Ireland, at least in some places, that meant quite a lot, but here it only means I am another Irishman.”

  “It seems as if half the army is Irish. To say nothing of the tracklayers.”

  “Sure, and tomorrow they will be in politics. Leave it to them. It’s the place they can do most with their talk, and the Irish love the sound of words…especially from their own tongues.”

  “You can be one of them.”

  “I will have to be. If a man is going to take on responsibilities he had better prepare himself to support them.”

  She said nothing more, standing beside him in the evening coolness that came out from the canyons.

  He saw a faint movement among the rocks, a stir of something, and his hand went to his rifle.

  An Indian? It seemed unlikely here, so close to the redoubt.

  “MacBrody! Ridge!” His hoarse whisper carried across the corral and he gestured. They came quickly with their guns.

  “There’s somebody out there, and I am thinking it is one of our men. If he makes a break for it, the Indians will try to kill him. We’ve got to have a covering fire.”

  “All right,” MacBrody said, and he turned and moved toward his men, speaking softly.

  Wylie, Becker, and Champion, the dark man who was Wylie’s companion, moved to the walls. Callaghen went to the gate and opened it ever so slightly.

  For several minutes nothing happened, and then they saw him.

  He dropped from among some rocks, looked quickly right and left, and then began a staggering run for the walls. An arrow hit the ground near him, another flew past. Instantly the men behind the wall opened fire on the rocks, and the arrows ceased.

  The man came on, running hard now. Suddenly, when he was almost to the wall, a shot spanged in the clear air. The running man staggered and fell.

  He started up, a rifle clipped the evening air again, and several rifles from the redoubt fired at the small puff of white smoke above the rocks.

  Callaghen lunged through the gate and ran to the fallen man, catching him by one arm and swinging him over his back. Then he ran back, one futile shot smacking the wall beside the gate as he entered.

  He lowered the man to the ground, and as he saw him more clearly, he remembered him…it was Garrick, one of Sprague’s men.

  “You…we thought…you were…dead.” The wounded man struggled with the words.

  “Where’s Sprague?”

  “Out there.” He gestured feebly. “He’s…he’s picked up some lead.…They…they got Turner…drove off our…stock.”

  “Where is he, Garrick? Where?”

  “North…maybe ten, twelve mile.” He closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Malinda held a cup to his lips and he swallowed, then paused, gasping. “Peak…highest…look at the foot.…A lone peak…’way in the open…in line with where he is. No…no water.”

  Callaghen got up and walked away a little distance. He knew the place, and it could scarcely be worse. That ten or twelve miles he spoke of was all right out in the open. There was almost no cover. It would be a chancy trip, but he had to do it.

  The Delaware joined him. “You know the place?” he asked.

  “I’ve never been there…not up close.”

  “There’s water…plenty of it, if they have savvy. Three, maybe four springs within a few miles.”

  “And an Indian sitting on every one of them.”

  The Delaware shrugged. “I think so.”

  “The water holes—where would they be from that lone peak?”

  The Indian looked at him. “I go with you.”

  “Like hell. You’re all in. Anyway, one man alone has a better chance.”

  “In open country? Nobody has a chance.”

  With a small stick he spotted in the sand the locations of the springs from the lone peak. He indicated an isolated butte. “That’s Wildcat. You point for that. No matter what, go uphill. The land rises all around in a great circle toward the top of the swell. The peak is at one edge of that rise, right east of it. From what Garrick said, those soldiers are within a mile of water.”

  “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

  IT 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.