Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Read online

  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.”

  “You’ll make it,” Callaghen said cheerfully. “No use to waste all the steps you’ve taken.”

  Walsh looked thoughtful as he saw the way Croker’s eyes remained on Callaghen. Walsh was keenly sensitive to the strengths and weaknesses of other men. A coward himself, he had no envy for the brave, although in his own way he respected them, and he feared them as willing to do things he might hesitate to do.

  There was something in Croker’s eyes now that puzzled him, some peculiar intentness that set him to wondering. Croker had no reason for hating Callaghen, and Walsh was quite sure he did not, but had someone less perceptive seen that look they might have suspected that he did. And there was something else. That look of Croker’s had been an estimating, measuring glance…and there was greed in it.

  Walsh could think of no reason why that should be so, but he sensed suddenly that Callaghen might be standing between Croker and something he wanted.

  Shortly before midnight on the third day after that the four men walked into Camp Cady.

  The shelters were miserable hovels built of logs and brush, but there was water there, and there was food, and there was rest.

  “Private Callaghen?” The voice of the soldier who spoke was brisk. “The captain would like to see you at once.” He turned and pointed. “Right over there. At the end of the line.”

  Chapter 4

  CAPTAIN HILL WAS seated on a camp chair in his undershirt, suspenders hanging, when Callaghen entered. He was unshaven and he looked tired.

  “You wished to see me, sir?”

  “What happened out there?” Captain Hill asked.

  Callaghen’s report was brief and concise. Hill listened, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Then he got to his feet and swore softly.

  He took a map from a group of several that leaned against the side of his bed. He spread the map open on the table. “Can you show me, Callaghen, just where you were when attacked?”

  “Yes, sir.” Callaghen put his finger on the spot and stepped back.

  “What in God’s name was Allison doing away up there? Did he say anything to you about it, Callaghen? Did he give you any idea why?”

  “No, sir. I understood we were merely to learn the lay of the land and try to judge by surface indications what movement there had been…by tracks, sir.”

  Hill sat down abruptly. “Callaghen, how long have you been in the service?”

  “Three years, sir.”

  “Your time is just about up, then?”

  “Yes, sir. I have ten days to go, sir.”

  “You have been a sergeant twice, I believe. What caused them to break you?”

  “Fighting, sir.”

  “Fighting? Damn it, what are they thinking of? I’d sooner break a man for not fighting. All right, Callaghen, I need some help. As of now you are a sergeant again.”

  He looked up suddenly, sharply. “You are an educated man, Callaghen. Were you ever an officer?”

  Callaghen hesitated the briefest moment. “Yes, sir. Several times.”

  “Broken for fighting, I suppose?” Hill suggested sarcastically.

  “No, sir. I moved on.” Again he paused briefly. “I am Irish, sir. In these days that practically means I am a man without a country. Those of us with military training fight wherever there is employment.”

  “Did you serve with Meagher?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, all right. You say you have Allison’s things. Go to his quarters, Callaghen, and put his things together. He was not with me long enough to get acquainted, but he had a family, I believe.”

  Callaghen waited a moment. “After I sleep, sir?”

  “Oh, of course! I’m sorry, Callaghen. You’ve had a rough go of it. I will want to get a complete report later. Having been an officer, I suppose you know how to write a report. Please do so. I shall want to know all I can about the Mohaves, the water, the terrain…you understand.”

  It was noon before Callaghen got up. His feet were blistered, and he treated them as best he could. All was quiet. Only eight men were in camp, aside from Captain Hill, and at least three of the others were, as he was, in no shape for duty after the long march.

  He dressed and shaved, and then went to Lieutenant Allison’s quarters.

  He stepped into the crudely constructed shelter and stopped, startled by what he saw. Somebody had been there before him, for Allison’s duffel bag had been opened and the contents dumped on his cot. His things had been hurriedly searched, letters ripped open—everything had been gone through.

  He stepped to the door, and lifted the flap of canvas that did duty for a door. He studied the ground outside carefully, but there were too many footprints to determine anything. Any one of the men might have come here, searching for money or whatever else they could find o
f value.

  He went next door to the captain’s quarters, where he reported to Captain Hill. Hill went back with him and stared around Allison’s quarters.

  “Thieves! As if we didn’t have trouble enough out here without having blasted thieves among us! Eight men, and how do we know which one it was?”

  “Seven men, sir. I came here on the captain’s orders, and I would have had no reason for this.”

  Carefully, Callaghen gathered together the things that had belonged to the lieutenant. Allison had been a neat, meticulous sort of man. His uniforms were new, showing no wear. All his clothes were new. This was an unusual thing for a man who has seen much duty.

  Puzzled, Callaghen examined them again. At least one uniform, he was sure, had never been worn. At least one pair of boots had not been worn. The cavalry saber, bright and shining, that hung from a nail in the corner could also have been new.

  One by one he checked and listed the articles, and when he had finished, he sat down on the bed. Everything Lieutenant Allison had possessed was new; and whatever else he had planned, he had not planned to stay. He had none of those things an officer brings to a new, desert station, those little things that can make one’s camp life more pleasant. No pictures, no papers, no books. Not even extra soap…nothing. And he had yet to look at the things Allison had carried on his person.

  These he now put down on the table before him. There were a ring with three keys, a few odd coins, and in a small leather poke, ten gold eagles—a good sum for an army officer to be carrying. There was also a letter, and a receipt for storage of a trunk, which had been left at a hotel in Los Angeles. And last of all, put inside the poke in such a way that it seemed merely another thickness…a rectangular piece of doeskin, and on it some arrows, circles, and rows of xx’s.

  It was a map of the Mohave Desert, the xx’s indicating mountain ranges; the circles were waterholes. Death Valley was not shown; the Colorado River, however, was drawn with great care. The west coast and the mountains separating the desert from the sea were not shown. To one who did not know the desert, the map would mean little, and there was no indication of what it might be meant to show.

  Whoever had drawn it had no exact knowledge of the desert. Several small mountain ranges were left out, by accident or on purpose. The only section drawn with any detail, was of a rugged range of mountains that lay to the east of where they had ridden on patrol, and of the route that led to it from the Colorado River.

  After a moment’s thought, Callaghen put the map inside his shirt, and carefully packed everything else, and carried the duffel bag and saber to Captain Hill’s quarters.

  Hill glanced at the things. “You take charge of them. There will be a rider leaving for San Bernardino tomorrow. Send it with him.”

  Callaghen walked back to his shelter. Croker looked up as he entered. He looked at the duffel bag. “You fixin’ up Allison’s gear? Too bad about him.”

  “He was a good man. I think he would have made it.”

  “You got to learn fast out here. When it comes to Injuns, if you flunk the course you lose your hair.”

  Croker studied the duffel bag. “He didn’t carry much, did he? You’d figure a man of family, like he was, would carry more stuff to make things easy. Last post I was on, when a young officer came in he brought all sorts of extra grub, and other things.”

  “I know nothing about Allison’s family. He did leave an address—a sister, or something. I am sending his stuff to her.”

  “Yeah? Hill sure depends on you. What you got on him?”

  “Nothing,” Callaghen said. “He needs help, that’s all. With Allison gone, he has no one to help.”

  He did not like Croker, and wanted to avoid his questions, but did not want to make an issue of it. The man was tough. He had a bad flesh wound, but once it was bound up he had come through the long march in better shape than Walsh, who was unhurt. Good or bad, the man was a stayer, and he was the kind the frontier needed.

  Callaghen’s mind was busy with the curious map. He thought that whoever had gone through Allison’s stuff had been looking for it…but it might have been somebody just hoping to find a bottle of whiskey.

  The map now…it was obviously old. Whoever had made it had worked from the Colorado River westward and northward, and apparently knew nothing at all of the country that lay between this camp and the coast.

  Nor did the mountain ranges lie as they should. The mapmaker had probably had no compass, and had not been able to locate himself in relation to the cardinal points. The skin was beautifully tanned, probably by an Indian.

  But why a map at all? And how had Allison come into possession of it?

  He considered Captain Hill. A good man, but a tired one. Nearing fifty years of age, without influence and probably without anything spectacular in his record, he would be shunted from post to post now, with no hope of promotion. A good man lost in the shuffle. He would be nearing retirement, a patient man who did his duty from day to day, just one of the men who help to make the whole machine work.

  As he cleaned his rifle and the pistol he had acquired from the lieutenant, Callaghen considered all the aspects of the situation. Gradually, he got his gear in shape, and with the Delaware, he led the horses to fresh pasture, where the Indian remained on guard.

  Starting back, he saw something move in the brush ahead. He walked on, but as he passed that particular clump of brush he glanced down. Boot tracks in the earth…it was Croker, then. He had seen those tracks often enough on their long march. Croker was watching him…why?

  Croker must suspect that he had found something in the lieutenant’s equipment, and Croker was a greedy man. Did he know more than he himself did? Or was the man just hoping for anything of value?

  Come to think of it, Croker had arrived in camp in Allison’s company, together with that easterner and the kid from Minnesota.

  It was hot and still outside. Off across the sandy plain a dust devil danced briefly, then lost itself somewhere among the greasewood. It was a miserable, God-forsaken place in which to serve one’s time, and yet—he squinted his eyes against the glare and looked at the far-off hills, lost in the blue—it was a good country…for those who did not fight it.

  That was the secret of the desert. One had to accommodate one’s self to it. To the vast loneliness, the distances, the far-off hazy mountains, to the shadows they took on at dawn or at sunset. There was harshness in this land, but there was beauty too. It was a country a man could grow to love.

  He fought the Indians out here because they fought him, but in a way he understood them, too. At least, he believed he did.

  His time here was short—only a few days longer. He had forgotten to sew on his stripes, forgotten to mention them. Well, no matter. In a few days he would be free of the army, and he could go wherever he wished.

  But where? Back to Ireland? Back to Boston? What was there for him in either place? Boston was just a city where he had stopped for a time…and there had been so many other cities, other places. He was used to the army way, and it had been a long time since there had been any other, except for short periods.

  Like so many others, he had been running when he joined the army, escaping from the past, trying to lose himself in its routine.

  His career had been little different from that of many another Irish soldier of fortune. His name had been O’Callaghan in Ireland, an ancient and honored name, but after the ill-fated rebellion of 1848 he had fled the country, by the first ship he could get on, which was one to Canada.

  The gold rush was on, and he crossed Canada and went down the west coast to California, where he panned gold on the Trinity, and from the first pan had found color. Finally he went to San Francisco, where he was shanghaied, and when he again realized where he was he found himself at sea, his gold gone.

  He jumped ship in North Africa, and being without money and in danger of arrest, he joined the French army. For two years he campaigned in the Sahara, was wounded and discharged; and
after recuperating he found his way to Afghanistan and joined the army there, entering the service as an officer of artillery. He advanced rapidly, but after the capture of Kandahar he left this service, spent some time in India, and at last reached Shanghai, where he served in Francis Townsend Ward’s army in 1862 and 1863. It was after the capture of Soochow that he left.

  Once again in the United States, he had joined the Irish Brigade and fought at Chancellorsville, The Wilderness, Spotsylvania Court House, and Cold Harbor.

  Now, at thirty-four, with only a few days left of his army service, Callaghen had three hundred dollars saved, and a plan to go to that California that lay beyond the mountains, a decision of only the last few days.

  Captain Hill emerged from his quarters into the glare of the sun. “Callaghen? You had better sew on your stripes. You have some, I suppose?”

  Callaghen smiled. “I saved them, sir. I figured they might come in handy.”

  “You were with the Irish Brigade, I believe? You’ll be getting out just in time, I think. There’s going to be a new commanding officer here.”

  “Sir?”

  “It will be Major Ephraim Sykes, and he doesn’t like the Irish.”

  Callaghen felt the icy touch of premonition. “I know the major, sir. And I know what he thinks of the Irish. And of me.”

  Chapter 5

  THE CAPTAIN WAS surprised. “You know the Major?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. We met briefly on several occasions. He’s one of those who believe we Irish are second-class citizens. I understand that before the war he operated a business where he had a sign: NO IRISH NEED APPLY.”

  “I have heard something to that effect. Well, we will hope that your papers come through before he arrives.”

  “We Irish are used to it, Captain Hill. We had it in Ireland for years, from the British. The Catholic Irish were allowed no schools of their own. For many years no Irish craftsman was allowed an apprentice. Priests had to go into hiding, or leave the country entirely. It was very rough.”