Callaghen

by Louis L'Amour

  "All right," Sykes said, "let's get a couple of scouts out."

  Cave Canyon was about five miles long, and the walls were high, over four hundred feet in some places. They were a kind of conglomerate, and their sheer, fluted sides dwarfed anyone who sheltered in their shade. There were hiding places, too, in those walls, hollows washed out by water falling from the cliffs, and concealed spots behind the convolutions of the cliffs.

  Major Sykes liked nothing about this place, where the walls closed down on them. The men were hot and tired, and did not seem eager to go on. He himself had been glad to swing down and get his feet on the ground.

  The volley came out of the lengthening shadows, and the crash of sound cut the stillness, the echoes racketing away down the canyon. Only an instant, and several shots replied; but Sykes saw nothing that could be called a target. Hastily the horses were led aside, and the men fell into firing positions.

  "We've got some wounded, sir," one of the men said. "Two men seriously, three with scratches."

  "All right, Corporal—see to their comfort. I think the enemy may have pulled away." He got up to reach for his canteen and stopped, feeling a chill down his spine. Across the seat of his saddle, from which he had just stepped down, there was a neat groove. A bullet would have cut right through his hips had he stayed in the saddle a moment longer.

  For an instant he felt the coldness of fear—actually not the fear of injury so much as the fear of dying disgracefully, or ungallantly. He did not want to die at all, but if he must die he wanted it to be in a dramatic charge, or even in a last-ditch defense, not shot from his saddle by a sniper's bullet

  "No sense in looking for them," Marriott said. "They'd just fade away in the darkness."

  "Double the guard, Marriott," Sykes ordered. "They may make another try."

  He was in no mood for conversation as he sat at the mouth of the cave and finished his supper. For the first time he was beginning to see what the warnings meant. It was hard to find an enemy that struck and then vanished. But he might be able to trap them into the open. If they could effect an ambush, so could he.

  No enemy appeared, however. Sykes detached four of the men to take a litter and return one of the wounded men to Camp Cady. The other man died during the night.

  The twenty miles to Soda Lake was covered without incident, and the next day the march to Point of the Mountain, a further nineteen miles, was equally uneventful until a scout rode in.

  "Sir, there's tracks out there—the stage, sir."

  "The stage here? But that's impossible. The stage was bound for Vegas."

  "Nevertheless, it was the stage, sir. It was accompanied by one rider. I believe it was Sergeant Callaghen."

  Callaghen with the stage? How could that be? Sykes's lips tightened with sudden anger. He had deliberately assigned Callaghen to the Sprague patrol to get him away from the stage and from Malinda ... now he was with it. This could only mean that he had deserted his command to join the stage ... but why was the stage here?

  "Are they headed for Marl Springs?"

  "It seems so, sir. The rider was leading. I mean his tracks are sometimes wiped out by the stage tracks ... an' sometimes he rides beside the stage. There's been some trouble on the Vegas road, sir."

  "Perhaps," was all that Sykes said.

  The command moved out at his signal and he stifled his anger. But it remained within him, a cold, hard knot in his stomach. Damn the man! Was there no way he could keep them apart? Callaghen was no fit match for Malinda. He was only a common soldier, and Irish into the bargain. She was the daughter of a diplomat, the niece of a general—retired, but nevertheless a general. She had some foolish schoolgirl infatuation for him, no doubt because of those stories that he had once been an officer—if he ever had been.

  From their camp tonight they must go on to Marl Springs. There would be a showdown then.

  When daylight dawned at Point of the Mountain they had lost three horses and a rifle. The weapon had been stolen from a stack within six feet of a guard, and within a dozen feet of sleeping men.

  Noon was scarcely past when Major Sykes led his command around the shoulder of the mountain and into view of the redoubt at Marl Springs. There was no sign of life or movement around the fort until they were within a hundred yards of it, and then the gate opened slowly.

  Sergeant MacBrody stood inside, and he saluted as Sykes rode up. "It's good to see you, sir. We've been out of rations for two days."

  Sykes rode into the stockade, where three men manned the walls. "Where is Lieutenant Sprague, Sergeant?"

  "Dead, sir. He was in bad shape after Sergeant Callaghen brought them back here, but he was killed during an attack after they left ... shot through the head, sir."

  "After who left?"

  "The stagecoach, sir. Lieutenant Sprague assigned three men to escort it, hoping they'd get through. There was no food for the lot of us, sir, and it seemed best they make a break for it. I believe they got away, sir."

  Four wounded men lay inside the stone house. Sykes turned to Marriott. "Captain, will you see these men are cared for? And unload rations for the others. We'll noon here, and be prepared to move out."

  "This evening, sir?"

  "We will see. I want the sergeant's report first."

  MacBrody detailed the events of the past ten days—the continual sniping, the arrival and departure of the stage, Callaghen's rescue of Sprague's command.

  "And you say Lieutenant Sprague assigned him to escort the stage?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Were you a witness to that, Sergeant? I mean did you personally hear Sprague give that order?"

  "Well, no, sir, I didn't, but everybody knew—"

  "I am not interested in what 'everybody knew.' Usually, MacBrody, when everybody knows something it turns out that nobody actually knows anything."

  "Yes, sir. It was said, sir, that Lieutenant Sprague, knowing the sergeant's discharge was overdue, wanted him out of it, and Beamis also. He did not believe we had much chance here, sir."

  "But Lieutenant Sprague is dead, Sergeant. And we have no direct evidence that Callaghen was ordered anywhere. He may have taken it upon himself to go."

  "But sir—"

  "Yes?"

  "Somebody had to go with the coach, sir. Becker was dead, and Ridge had to handle the horses. The mail and the women had to be guarded."

  "I agree." Sykes considered the subject and then asked, "And what about the civilians—Wylie and Champion?"

  "They left before, sir. Spencer deserted, and they stole horses and left, sir. I believe they are hunting that mine, the one everybody is talking about—the cave with the river in it."

  For half an hour more Sykes questioned the sergeant on every aspect of the events of the past few days. At the end of it he was fairly certain of a few things. The stage had left, and had gotten away safely ... as far as those at Marl Springs could see there had been no attack, nor had they heard any shots, and in the clear desert air the sound of shooting would carry for a long distance.

  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 the 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.