Callaghen (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Wylie, Champion, and Spencer had also gone east into the mountains.

  There had been some trouble between Callaghen and Wylie at Camp Cady, but that might have been staged. Suppose it was a carefully worked-out plan to escape with the stage, escape from the army, locate the gold mine…

  He was being foolish. He must not allow his dislike of Mort Callaghen to influence his thinking, but the thought remained, nagging at his mind, which was prepared for suspicion. In any event, he considered the possibility of Sprague sending Callaghen on the stage-guarding mission as unlikely…and altogether too opportune.

  And who was witness to this? Only MacBrody, another Irishman, and a friend of Callaghen.

  “Tomorrow morning, Marriott,” Sykes said, “you will take C Troop, and I want you to overtake and capture the stage. I want you to find and apprehend Sergeant Callaghen—”

  “Apprehend, sir?”

  “That was the word, Captain. I have reason to believe that Callaghen followed the stage and Miss Malinda without authority—that, in effect, he is a deserter.”

  “But the men say he was ordered to accompany it, Major. Along with Privates Beamis and Stick-Walker, the Delaware.”

  “That is correct. That is what the men say—all of them definitely loyal to one of their own. But none of them actually heard the order given.

  “Consider the situation, Captain. A girl in whom Callaghen is obviously interested leaves Camp Cady on a stage driven by a man friendly to Callaghen. Suddenly that stage appears at Marl Springs, far off its route, and Sergeant Callaghen leaves there as escort. I think there is more than enough reason to believe there is something more here than meets the eye.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marriott’s voice was cool. “And you wish me to overtake the stage? It may have reached Fort Mohave by now. It may even have gone on to Vegas.”

  “Find it. And bring Sergeant Callaghen back to me.”

  “Yes, sir. The stage, too, sir?”

  “No, confound it! I’ve nothing to do with the stage unless it…Captain, you may find the stage was somehow involved in this. There has been a good deal of talking about that cave. Callaghen may be using the stage to bring out some gold.”

  Marriott stepped outside and looked around him. He was thinking that, whatever had happened, there must be a logical and simple explanation. Major Sykes’s reasoning was absurd…or was it? Had he not known Callaghen, he might have wondered, for it did seem almost too much of a coincidence that the stage should appear at Marl Springs. And how did it happen that Callaghen, who had gone out with Sprague, turned up with a stage that was supposed to be on the Vegas trail? A trail, by the way, that Sprague would not have approached by his assigned route?

  MacBrody was watching the men working over their horses. He glanced over his shoulder at Marriott, and saw that as the captain approached he was studying the horses.

  “What’s been going on, Sergeant?” Marriott asked.

  “Hell, sir—just hell. We can’t see Indians, but they are out there. Oh, we’ve killed a few, but mighty few, and we’ve lost men, too. They’ll give up now that you’re here. There’s too many for them to fight, and it will be too dangerous to try to steal horses. They’ll just fade back into the hills and watch their chance.”

  “Man to man, what do you think of Callaghen?”

  “The best, sir. The very best. He’s a soldier and a man, first-class both ways. And he’s a gentleman—I mean that both as we use the term here and in the old country. If he went with the stage it was because he was told to go, and whatever he is doing it is his duty as he sees it.

  “Sprague had it, sir,” MacBrody went on. “He was holed up in some rocks near Kessler Peak—that’s over east—and he’d never have gotten out if one of his men hadn’t brought us word, and Callaghen took them water and led them to a water hole, and then back here.

  “In the British army, Captain—and God knows I’ve no use for them—they’d have decorated him twice over for the work he’s done these past several days. Here he’s liable to get a court-martial.”

  MacBrody looked hard at Marriott. “Beggin’ the Captain’s pardon, sir, and I don’t mean to speak disrespectful, but Major Sykes was sweet on the same girl as Callaghen. That Malinda whatever-her-name-is. There’d been trouble between them before this.”

  Marriott was silent. He had been doing a lot of thinking these past few days. He was an army man, but he was a just man, and he knew a soldier when he saw one. Furthermore, he knew the truth when it was spoken to him like this, and MacBrody was telling it to him straight.

  He turned and walked back across the corral. It would soon be night. Somewhere out there in the darkness, there was a stage, two women, and a few men. Somewhere out there were their enemies. He had the rough outline now.

  Kurt Wylie he had not liked, spotting him for a rotter right away. Champion was a brute, a mean, dangerous brute. He recalled Spencer only slightly from a previous command as a sullen young man of no particular intelligence. These were the men who were their enemies.

  The story of the mine he dismissed. Such stories were told all over the western country. There were lost mines everywhere, and each one was fabulously rich. Maybe a few of them were, but even the best of them wasn’t worth even one of the men who died hunting them. That was the pity of it.

  Tomorrow he was to overtake and capture the stage, and to apprehend Callaghen. And he felt very strongly that this was something he did not want to do.

  The sun was setting and the rugged range that lay to the east was crested with a gold and crimson glow. Deep shadows gathered at the base. What did they call them? The Providence Mountains, someone had said….Well, maybe providence was taking care of those women out there, and of Callaghen, too. This was no country for women, but with Callaghen along they had a chance.

  The mountain above the redoubt was a glorious color, but now the range across the valley had turned purple…an ancient serrated ridge thrust up from the depths of the earth. Had it happened slowly, over untold ages? Or suddenly, in one frightening convulsion? In any case, the winds of the years, the sand and gravel, had done their work on its raw surface.

  A man should not stay too long in the desert, he thought, for he could lose his soul to its strange beauty and power. This was where it had begun, and here over countless years nature had been at work. The sun, the cold, the wind and water had slowly changed the rocks, crumbling some, polishing others, and the lichen had eaten at their exposed sides.

  This was a strong land, calling for strong men….It was no wonder men looked for lost mines. The more lost they were, the less chance there was of finding them, and so the quest went on, and on, and on.

  Marriott slapped his gloves against his thigh, and turned away. He went inside to his coffee, his sparse meal, and a cigar.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  CALLAGHEN, WAITING BETWEEN the rocks on the rugged flank of Wild Horse Mesa, had no way of knowing that miles to the north Captain Marriott was leading C Troop toward Government Holes. Nor did he know that Marriott was a man who did not believe in wasting time.

  It was eighteen miles from Marl Springs to Government Holes by the Government Road, and Marriott felt that time was now wasting away. If the stage had gone on to Fort Mohave, so much the better; and if it had not, there was the likelihood that the riders of the stage would need help.

  Callaghen knew the chips were down. He knew that he was not going on from here, nor was anybody else until the issue had been faced…and decided.

  The men against him were not just playing games. They had a stake to win, and gold was involved. If there were no witnesses there could be no investigation that would matter. Whatever Champion and Spencer had done would not be known, and what Bolin and his friends found would be their own business, and they would be free to operate as they wished.

  Bolin was sure that, whatever there was in the mine, Callaghen knew about it. Hadn’t Callaghen had access to the map, and hadn’t he been over th
e country represented on it?

  There were two men and two women up there in the rocks. They had very little water and they were not going to move much higher. According to Champion, both men had been doing some shooting; therefore there was not much ammunition left.

  Nobody could possibly know where they were, and there was no army nearer than Camp Cady, a good eighty miles to the west. But Bolin had run stolen horses through this country a dozen times and he knew where water was, and one place was not two hundred yards from where he was sitting. He held all the cards, and he could wait. They could not.

  Moreover, although he preferred not to mention it to the others, he was within half a mile of one of the entrances to what he liked to think of as the Cave of the Golden Sands. The trouble was that that damned Irish soldier up on the side of the mountain was even closer.

  Bolin made a trumpet of his hands and called out: “You want to come down, Callaghen? It’s no use to shoot each other. Wylie’s dead…it’s just you an’ me now.”

  Callaghen heard him, but made no reply. Bolin wanted to talk, and that meant that Bolin was losing a little patience. It also meant that Callaghen had something Bolin wanted.

  Was it the women? It was possible. After all, it was more than a hundred and fifty miles in any direction to where one could find a woman.

  Callaghen looked around him. Already shadows were thickening under the mountains to the west. Night was going to be a bad time. Still, under cover of darkness they could perhaps move on up the mesa. He knew, though, that travel at night might be noisy. Loose gravel or rock that one can see in the daytime cannot be seen in the dark. He turned his back on the enemy below and, lying against the rock that was his parapet, he studied the face of the mesa, carefully picking out a possible route.

  It could be done, he believed. There was a sort of notch up there…it might offer access to the top, but then what? Would it be better to fight it out here? No, higher up was better, he decided. Not all the way to the top, but close.

  He motioned the others to him and pointed out the way. “Beamis, you’ll have to lead. Malinda can follow, as she’s a good climber. What we’re looking for is water, but what we want most is some kind of a defensive position with a good field of fire. There’s too many ways they can flank us here.”

  “It is too light,” Beamis said.

  “We’ll wait. When it is full dark, you lead off, quietly.”

  It was already dark down below where the rays of the sun, which had now set behind the mountains, could not reach. Here there was still a half-light. Somewhere he heard the call of a quail, that most beautiful sound of the desert evening.

  He waited, scanning the boulders below. He could see the horses occasionally, and for a while there was a thin trail of smoke visible that gradually merged with the night.

  “Now, Sergeant?” Beamis asked.

  “Now…and be very quiet.”

  Beamis moved out, followed by Malinda. Aunt Madge lingered. “I am worried about McDonald. When I do not come he might start looking.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be seeing him soon.”

  She left, and Callaghen listened but he heard no sound. They were moving well, and now he was alone.

  He had never minded being alone in the desert. He was not one of those who always had to be talking or sharing thoughts. He liked people, but he felt there was nothing like being alone in the desert or among the mountains, for it is then you begin to know them. The wilderness does not share its secrets with the noisy or the talkative; its secrets come to you with silence.

  Animals move, birds stir, and the whisperings of the night become audible. The desert itself speaks, for the earth lives, and in the night’s stillness one can hear the earth growing, hear the dying and the borning and the rebirth of many things. A bit of sand trickles, a rock falls, a tree whispers or moans—these are the breathings of the earth.

  If there were some way to speed up the sounds of the night, to bring them more precisely to the ear, one would hear the music of the changing earth—the ripples, the falls, the tricklings, all grown into one vast but infinitely delicate symphony that would charm the ear of men.

  Callaghen waited only a little longer, and then he drew back from his rock, rifle in his right hand.

  “Well, now, you moved just in time!”

  A flame stabbed the night just as he threw himself aside and swung with the rifle. It was not a considered blow, merely an instinctive thing with the rifle poorly balanced for it, but his grip was hard as the barrel drove forward.

  He felt the burn of flame, and then wild with sudden fear he caught the rifle with both hands and swung, forward and back, with butt and barrel. He heard a grunt, a blast roared from the gun, a choking blast that illumined for an instant a staring face. Then the pistol clattered among the rocks and he swung the rifle butt upward in an uppercut that smashed the man’s head back against the rocks.

  And then, like a cat, Callaghen was scrambling upward, leaping from rock to rock, ducking the spines of prickly pear by instinct more than by judgment. Behind him a gun roared, and he heard the bullet strike off to his right, but he went between two junipers and on up the slope.

  His eyes were accustomed now to the darkness, and he could see to place each foot carefully, wary that he might have a broken leg or twisted ankle should he slip between the rocks. He had no idea who it was he had battled so fiercely among the rocks.

  He paused and listened. There was a stirring down there, a muffled curse and a murmur of voices. Somebody struck a light, and Callaghen’s bullet spat where the light had been, the sound of the shot racketing down the slope.

  He moved instantly, putting himself away from the firing position, and went farther up the slope. He had a feeling they would try nothing more during the night. He had been lucky.

  He paused again to catch his breath and heard his heart throbbing, as much from reaction to fear as from the struggling climb.

  It had been a narrow escape. Somebody had crept close to him, and in another moment he would have been dead had he not moved and had the stranger not felt a compulsion to speak.

  Well, he reflected grimly, from the feel of that uppercut butt stroke there was one man who wouldn’t be opening his mouth for a while. If the man wasn’t dead he would at least have a broken jaw.

  His hand was smarting as sweat got into the powder burn. He moved up higher, and had climbed for several minutes when he heard a soft call, barely audible.

  “Mort?”

  He moved in that direction, and saw that it was Malinda. “We’ve found a place,” she said.

  It was a wind-hollowed half-cave in the mountainside, perhaps thirty feet wide, and less than half that deep, a poor shelter if a storm came, but a difficult place to get at. It was a sandy place, partly sheltered by a slight overhang, and scattered boulders were in front of it, rocks that had tumbled down the mountain and fallen off the edge of the overhang, hitting the ground in front of it to form a not very effective parapet.

  “Are you all right?” Malinda asked.

  “Yes,” he said reassuringly, and Beamis moved over to him.

  “We heard a scuffle down there, and some shots.”

  “I think one of them is out of it,” Callaghen said. “I don’t know which one, but he was a good Injun….He came right up to me without a whisper.”

  “Champion?”

  “I don’t think so. He wouldn’t have spoken, and had it been Champion I’d be dead.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Malinda shuddered and moved closer to him.

  He liked having her close, but not now. A man had to keep his mind on the business at hand and not be thinking about a woman at a time like this.

  “Get some rest, Beamis,” he said. “I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours.”

  “We can watch,” Aunt Madge whispered. “Both of you need sleep.”

  Off to the northeast Callaghan could see the flat outline of Table Mountain, low on the horizon, and to the north the b
umpy ridge of the Mid Hills. Due west, not much over fifteen miles away, was the Marl Springs redoubt. Suddenly he realized he was behind the mountains at which he had gazed from Marl Springs.

  Then he slept, and in the night he dreamed again of his battle with Nusir Khan when he and his wild tribesmen swept down from the Suleimani Hills. He stirred restlessly in his sleep, his hand gripping for the sword hilt that was not there. He awoke suddenly in the gray of dawn and lay still for a few minutes, trying to figure out where he was.

  He sat up slowly, feeling the stubble of beard on his jaw, and hating the stiffness of his clothes—the stiffness of sweat, dust, and bloodstains. His mouth was dry. He stared around him.

  Only Malinda was awake. There was a faint grayness along the ridge, a fading of the darkness overhead.

  “You were dreaming,” she said.

  “I’ve not much to dream about…battles and blood and gunshots. It isn’t pleasant.”

  “No women?”

  “Here and there…one meets them.”

  “You’ve fought a lot?” she asked.

  “Most of twenty years…ever since I was a youngster in Ireland.”

  He turned to look down the slope. It was rocky, and dotted with cedar and brush. He could see the hindquarters of one of the horses, so he knew they were still down there.

  It was a steep drop, some of it a tough scramble, some of it not too difficult for climbing, but there was a lot of cover, areas where one could not be seen.

  Malinda sat close to him. She was wide awake now, and was not frightened. She had been somewhat conditioned for times like these by the tales her father and uncles had told; and there had been the time she first met Callaghen, when he had ridden up out of nowhere, a dashing and handsome man who had saved them all.

  He did not look dashing and handsome now. She smiled at the thought. His clothing was torn from his scrambles through brush and rocks, but he looked tough, capable, and confident.

  “Do you ever worry about how it will all turn out?”

  He shrugged. “A man does what he can, whatever the situation. There’s only one way to fight: to win, and anybody who uses force without using it to the utmost is playing the fool.