Callaghen

by Louis L'Amour

  "All right, Marriott. We'll take three men and a pack train. Rations for three weeks. We will march to Marl Springs, eastward to Rock Spring and Fort Piute, and if necessary to the Indian villages on the Colorado."

  Marriott thought of the discharge, pigeon-holed in Sykes's desk. "Sergeant Callaghen is out there, sir."

  "Oh, yes. So he is."

  Marriott hesitated a moment, then went about his business. Callaghen wanted that discharge badly, and Sykes knew it, and in all justice he should deliver it to him. However, if Sykes wanted Callaghen to return here it was Sykes's business, except ... Marriott frowned. Sykes had had the discharge before Callaghen left the post.

  There was much to do. Captain Marriott was a man who knew his men and delegated authority well, but on this occasion he personally checked every horse, walking among them, making certain they were in the best of shape, and talking to the riders. A desert campaign is fiercely demanding, and Marriott was uneasy. His every instinct told him there was trouble out there, or the others would have been back. Sprague was a good man, and he had good men with him.

  He checked the supply list, and after that he returned to his quarters to write letters. Several times his thoughts returned to Callaghen. He had liked the man—a good, solid man ... and that girl ... there was something going on there, all right.

  If they were still alive ...

  The morning was clear and bright when the command moved out from Camp Cady. Major Sykes, on a fine chestnut horse, rode in the van, preceded only by two scouts. The route he had chosen would follow the Mohave River, for the water it would provide. And that route would take them through Cave Canyon.

  Major Sykes had never entered Cave Canyon. He simply knew that it was the route followed by Jedediah Smith, by Fremont, and others ... therefore a good route. The bed of the Mohave River as it left the Camp Cady area was broad and sandy. It was easy traveling, and the two troops moved out with confidence.

  Chapter 19

  AT MARL SPRINGS the night was dark. A slight wind was blowing, and against the skyline the rugged mountains at which Callaghen had so often gazed stood out sharply against the sky.

  From his freshly cleaned rifle he could smell the gun oil as he stood in the open gate, looking out into the night. In a few minutes the stage would roll through that gate and move out toward the Government Road

  to Rock Springs. Ahead lay that long sweep of open country across the valley toward the Mid Hills. By day they would have been completely exposed, but at night there was a chance. Whether these Indians preferred fighting by day, as did their friends the Apaches, Callaghen did not know; he only knew that by night they seemed less vigilent.

  He heard the creak of the stage as Aunt Madge and Malinda got in, but he did not turn his head as he watched the area outside. Callaghen would go, and with him the Stick-Walker and Beamis, as Lieutenant Sprague had decided. Their mission would be to guard the stage and, if possible, to give help to the beleaguered station.

  Sprague came to the gate. He held out his hand to Callaghen. "Luck go with you. You'll need it."

  "And luck to you, Lieutenant. It has been a pleasure serving with you."

  Sprague smiled wryly. "Has it? We've had nothing but trouble, Sergeant."

  "We expected that when we joined up." He paused. "I'll get them through, Lieutenant, and then I'll come back."

  "You'll do no such thing!" Sprague spoke roughly. "Don't be a damn fool, Callaghen. You're out of it—your discharge is due. You stay with that girl. Anyway, we'll have relief before you could get back ... or it will be too late to do us any good."

  They stood silent, and Ridge came to them. "We're ready, Lieutenant. Sergeant, are you riding inside?"

  "No, I'll keep my horse."

  "All right. I'll take the Delaware on the box with me, and let Beamis ride inside with the women. He's a good lad, and he'll reassure them."

  Callaghen chuckled. "Reassure Aunt Madge? Ridge, you're joking. That woman is tougher than any one of us. She's got sand."

  Ridge shrugged. "All right," he said. "Let's go."

  Callaghen went to his horse and stepped into the saddle. He lifted a hand in salute to the Lieutenant, then led the way through the gate. All was quiet; there was only the stirring of the wind, only the odd moan of it through the Joshua leaves. He kept to the sand, and the stage rocked and rolled after him, moving slowly. Nothing else moved. The twin ruts of the trail showed white before them as they moved into the trail.

  They went ahead almost silently. He could hear the creak of the stage springs and an occasional rattle of harness, but nothing else. Out on the road he moved into a canter, and behind him Ridge shook his lines and the horses began to trot.

  They were well away, and whatever happened now, they were committed.

  The minutes went by ... nothing happened.

  When an hour had passed, Ridge drew up to rest his horses and Callaghen rode back beside the stage. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Yes. Is the worst over?" Malinda wanted to know.

  "Not until we get to Fort Mohave. We've gotten out without their hearing, or else they've been willing to let us go. Really, it is the station they want. They believe there's more there than there is."

  Then for another hour they moved steadily, walking the horses, with frequent stops to rest them and to listen. During all this time they saw nothing in the night around them, heard no sound; but off to the south they could make out the strange white gleam of the great dunes that banked the mountains, ahead of them the ridge of the Mid Hills.

  It was past midnight now. Callaghen rode back to the stage again and drew up where he could talk in low tones. "We've been climbing the last two, three miles. Right ahead is Cedar Canyon. It's narrow, and the road winds more than two miles through the canyon, every bit of it a danger. So sit tight."

  Beamis spoke up. "You think there'll be Indians?"

  "Maybe. You keep your gun handy, Beamis."

  One of the horses stamped on the hard road. The stars were bright, and the Joshua trees flung their wild arms to the sky.

  "If we get through the canyon it's a nice run to the Government Holes. Usually there's water there, but if there isn't, there's Rock Springs right beyond. There's too much cover there for safety, too much chance of an ambush. We'd have to stop short and one man would have to go for water."

  "I'll go," Beamis said.

  They waited there a moment more in the cool wind. Starlight glanced along the polished rock of the mountain's face a few miles south—just a black shine above the white of the sands.

  "All right, Sarge?" That was Ridge.

  "Let 'er roll."

  The Delaware looked at him. "I smell trouble," he said. "I do not like this place, this Cedar Canyon."

  The stage started on, and Callaghen rode on the left side of it, keeping pace with the window where Malinda sat. It was good to be that close to her.

  Now they were in the canyon itself, with only the sky overhead. The sides of the canyon rose up steeply. By the time they had rounded the second turn they could smell the cedars. The trail narrowed. The horses were pulling well. Callaghen rode forward, but he had not passed the driver's seat when there was a crashing volley and something struck him alongside the head. He felt himself falling, grabbed wildly, and held briefly as he fell clear. Then he hit ground, lost his hold, and darkness rolled over him.

  It was cold. He was lying on the hard ground, lying on stones. He opened his eyes slowly and saw a sky faintly gray-blue, with only a few stars remaining. He lay perfectly still, not yet fully aware of things. Then it returned to him—the sudden firing, falling ... He started to move, and felt a throb of pain in his skull. He lay still then, gathering strength to try again.

  He could hear nothing in the night. Slowly, more carefully this time, he sat up. It hurt, but he made it.

  The stage was gone. A dozen yards away lay the body of a man sprawled on the road. He got up, felt for his gun. It was there. His shirt had been ripped open.
He touched his pocket where he had put the map, and it was gone. No matter ... he didn't need it, and unless they could read it right it would do them no good.

  He succeeded in getting to his feet, and looked around for his rifle. It did not seem to be there.

  He went to the body and turned the man over. It was Ridge. He'd been hit at least twice through the lungs. There was no sign of Beamis—he must still be with the stage then ... but what of the Delaware? He was gone, too.

  Callaghen's head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache that made him wrinkle his forehead against it. Weaving slightly, he walked away from Ridge's body and looked down at the ground.

  The tracks of the stage were there, tracks of some horses, and the tracks of two feet, side by side, deep in the loose earth on the trail. Callaghen considered those tracks. He was only an average tracker, but those footprints ... Somebody had jumped from the stage, landing on both feet.

  Scouting, he picked up one more track. The man, whoever he was, had ducked into the rocks and cedars near the trail. It was poor cover, but for a man who knew how to use it, it might do. It was probably the Delaware, and there was a good chance he had gotten away, and would be trailing the stage.

  With the growing light he suddenly saw his rifle. It had fallen in the grass and prickly pear close to the trail. Retrieving it, he walked along the trail to higher ground. Where was his horse? He remembered it bolting as he fell, and it might have gotten away, or might be grazing somewhere nearby.

  He followed slowly along the stage tracks. He desperately wanted a drink, but the nearest water he knew of was at Government Holes, five miles away. And either the attackers or Indians ...

  Or Indians? Now, why had he thought that? Of course: his gun was still on him, and only the map was gone. Kurt Wylie then—Wylie, Champion, and Spencer. By this time there might be others, for Wylie might be working according to some preconceived plan that Allison's death had interrupted. They had the map, the stagecoach, and the women. They would certainly get rid of the stage, for it could only be a hindrance to them. But the women? Callaghen did not like to think of that.

  He walked on, but when he had gone less than a mile he pulled up short. A dim trail turned off to the south through the hills which would lead into a valley below and the stage tracks turned into it. He started to follow, but his eyes caught a glimpse of something farther ahead.

  He went on only a little way, and saw that the tracks of the stage returned to the trail. Evidently they had started to take the trail south, then changed their minds and turned back. He had gone but a short distance further when he saw the stage.

  It was standing alone, with no horses, on the edge of a small hollow. It was, he knew, standing at Government Holes. Taking position behind a Joshua tree, he studied the situation below him. He could see no one there, but that was what he expected. He felt sure that because of the bloody gash on his skull he had been left for dead.

  His head throbbed as he walked slowly down the slight grade toward the stagecoach. Several times he paused in slight cover to study the surrounding hills. There was a point of rocks not far south of the Holes, and a mile or so beyond were the rocks that surrounded Rock Springs.

  When he came to the stage he saw that it was empty. Nor was there any blood. Beamis, if he was not alive, had been killed after he left the stage. Malinda, he recalled, had kept food in a basket under the seat, and he felt for it. The basket of food had been taken, but somebody had left a few slices of bread and ham wrapped in a napkin on the floor under the seat. Evidently one or both of the women had thought someone might come to the coach hunting for food.

  There was nothing else of value but a blanket, which he took. The mail pouch under the seat in front was undisturbed. Taking the meat and bread, Callaghen retired to a shallow dip some yards off and ate his small meal.

  Returning to the Holes, he took a long drink, and then set out to follow the trail made by the horses.

  As he walked he kept glancing at the looming bulk of Table Mountain. From its flat top an observer could see anything moving within miles, but there was no other way to get where he was going. Several times he found spots of shade, and stopped in them. The wound on his head from what had evidently been a bullet had taken a lot out of him. He had lost blood, and the walking had tired him. He sat down, leaned his head on his arms, his arms resting on his knees. He felt dizzy and sick, and the distance he must cover worried him. What worried him even more was that they should be going north ... if they were following the map they had taken from him.

  He started to get up, but sagged back to the ground, and for a long time he sat there. Then his mind wandered off into a state bordering on delirium. When his mind cleared it was dark, and there was a soft wind blowing. The sky overhead seemed hazy.

  Using the rocks, he pulled himself up. When he felt for his rifle he almost fell. At last he started again, keeping along the dim trail in the darkness. He was close under the edge of a long ridge that cropped up from the desert, running roughly north and south. If he traveled by daylight he would be visible from the top of Table Mountain. He veered to the west, pointing toward a lower ridge that trailed out from the base of the mesa.

  Beyond, somewhere a mile or so away, would be Black Canyon, where the trail down which the horses had gone would go through. For him, without a horse, and with frequent stops to rest, it was almost daybreak before he topped out on the low ridge. Finding a hollow shaded by a boulder and masked by a cedar tree, Callaghen went to sleep.

  The sun was two hours high when he awoke, fighting his way to consciousness from a sleep of utter exhaustion. For several minutes he lay still, then he rolled over and sat up.

  A wide valley lay before him. Scanning it quickly, he saw a thin trail of smoke against the distant hills. Nearer, almost at the base of the ridge on which he sat, he saw movement. Quickly he took up his rifle and moved closer to the cedar that screened his shelter. It was a black horse, his horse, moving eastward at a steady walk. He whistled, but he was too far away and the horse did not hear.

  Rising, he moved down along the face of the ridge in the direction the horse was taking. Table Mountain loomed above him, and in line with it, two solitary buttes with cedars growing on each. He walked, ran, almost fell, and reached the bottom not far from the black horse. It was only then that he saw it was following a game trail. There were tracks of deer, and among them the track of a dog or coyote.

  He called out, and the black horse stopped, head up, looking toward him. He walked on and the horse moved away warily, then as he continued to talk, it stopped again and whinnied softly.

  Callaghen walked up to the horse, his hand out. The black sniffed at the hand, and shied only a little as he took up the reins. "I know there's water up there, boy. Let's go have a drink."

  He stepped into the saddle and the black walked forward eagerly.

  Chapter 20

  THERE WERE NO human tracks around the spring, which lay among the brush and rocks close behind Table Mountain. A butte was near by, one of the twin buttes that line up behind Table Mountain. But there were deer tracks, and several made by a wolf or a coyote—more likely the latter, judging by the size. Callaghen saw badger tracks too, and those of rabbits, ground squirrels, and quail.

  He stopped some fifty yards from the spring, with the surrounding area in sight, and spent a good twenty minutes scanning the cliffs and the brush around. At this stage of the game he did not want to lose his hair ... somewhere Malinda was a prisoner, and if she was to be left alive and free it was up to him. Beamis, he thought, was probably alive. Callaghen hoped the soldier would make no precipitate move. Champion or Wylie would be quite willing to kill him out of hand ... if they had not already done so.

  After a time he gave in to his horse's impatience and went down to the spring. The black drank beside him, and he refilled the canteen on the saddle. Squatting on his heels on a high point near the spring, Callaghen studied the country before him. An abrupt mesa lay to the south, gray-bla
ck and layered like a cake. East of it there was a gap that was probably Black Canyon.

  He was riding blind, knowing little about the land that lay ahead. Somewhere south of him Wild Horse Canyon cut off to the west, and that bulk of a mesa might be Wild Horse Mesa, supposedly unexplored. The ground that lay between him and what he thought was the mouth of Black Canyon, some four miles distant, was covered with desert plants, and there were frequent hollows. That ground could conceal an army, though it looked innocent and empty. However, there was a thin trail of smoke down there. A cooking fire? An invitation to die? He only knew he must go on.

  Back at the spring he drank again, gathered the reins, and mounted. He turned the black, and rode south along the foot of the first butte.

  The twin buttes were five or six hundred feet high, with some cedar growing on the summits and flanks. Even where he was riding, they offered some measure of cover. The air was still, and the distant smoke pointed a finger straight into the sky. On the valley floor Callaghen could detect no movement. Several times he drew up, listening, and watching his horse's ears.

  He kept on, and came abreast of the second butte. The smoke now lay southwest of him. To the east a mile-wide gap opened into Lanfair Valley. He rode quickly and crossed the gap, then skirting the base of the mountain, he rode toward the smoke. Black Canyon, with its wide gap, lay before him.

  Looking toward the smoke, he felt his first doubts. There could be no dodging the probable difficulties ahead. The indications pointed to the Indians being over there. Either they were careless, which he doubted, or they believed themselves safe from attack.

  Ridge was dead, and they believed Callaghen dead. Nobody was looking for a stagecoach yet, and the Indians seemed to be far from here, occupied with the army. After all, it was a big desert and there were few Indians. But why should Wylie and the others be in this area? Did Wylie know something he did not know? Did he have information that was not on the map?