Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Page 2

  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.

  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

  DESPAIR 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?”
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br />   “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.