Aunt Madge was lying down inside. It startled him, for he had never seen her lying down before. She sat up when he entered. “I’m sorry, Callaghen,” she said. “I just tired out all of a sudden.”
He went out, and she could hear Ridge talking to him and Sprague. “Becker saw a deer. We needed grub, so he stepped out with his rifle. We hadn’t seen an Injun in a long time. But we should have wondered about that deer. It came down into the hollow where the horses grazed. At first it looked wary, and then it settled down to eating grass.
I think the Indians saw that deer and deliberately moved so it would walk away from them, gradually working it within sight, knowing somebody would be damn fool enough to come after it.
“It was too much for Becker. He had to have a shot. He was just lifting his rifle—he’d got within a couple of hundred feet of it—when three arrows took him in the back.”
“How’d you get his body?”
“Oh, he wasn’t done for. Becker was always a tough man. He loosed a couple of shots at them, then started back. He almost made it, and whilst the women and MacBrody gave me cover, I went after him.”
Callaghen was tired, but he wanted to shave. He had been an officer too long in outfits where every officer was supposed to be neat and well groomed at any hour. He heated water, shaved, and combed his hair. He felt better, but he was hungry and he wanted water. He drank from the spring, and the water was cold and pleasant, and he felt refreshed all through his body.
He was thinking that by now Sykes must know something had gone wrong, for Sprague was overdue, and if anyone had come to Camp Cady along the Vegas trail he would have learned the stage had not arrived.
Sprague’s small command had been whittled down. Spencer had deserted, and possibly had escaped with Wylie and Champion. Sampson was dead, and Becker was dead. Sutton had recovered from his fever and was moving about, although he was weak. Garrick seemed to get no better.
Guarded by four men, the horses were taken out to graze, and no Indians appeared. Perhaps they were willing for the horses to be kept in good shape…they intended to eat them soon.
Seated near the wall, Callaghen tried to focus his thoughts on their problem. Lieutenant Sprague sat near him. The officer had aged considerably in the past few days. Losing good men had hit him hard.
“We will have to kill a horse,” Sprague said, suddenly. “There’s not food enough for another day.”
“Let’s wait.” The thought of killing a horse did not appeal to Callaghen…nor to Sprague.
When the horses were once more within the stockade, all was quiet. Callaghen went into the stone house to look at Garrick. He was sleeping or in a coma, he could not tell which. His breathing was ragged, and Callaghen did not like the look of him.
Ridge was waiting for him when he emerged. “Sergeant, I’ve been thinking. The horses are rested, and they’ve done better than any of us. I think I’ll hitch up, take the women, and make a run for it.”
He lit the stub of a cigar. “Look at it this way. If the women are willing, and I could make it, there’d be three mouths less and it would be easier all around.
“We could harness up at night. I’ve been studying a map MacBrody drew for me, and once I hit that road no Indian is going to catch me. They were ready for us out there on the route we always travel, but this time they won’t be waiting and won’t be able to get word ahead to stop me. I think I can make it to Fort Mohave. “I’ll need one man to fight them off whilst I drive. I’d like it to be you or the Stick-Walker.”
“Have you talked to Mrs. McDonald?”
“They’d like to go. They feel they are a burden here,” and they think we can make it.”
The more Callaghen thought of it, the better he liked the idea. There was no telling what would happen here.
Unless relief came soon there would be starvation within the stockade. The men had all been on short rations for days. With the stagecoach gone, they would have more room to move, and there would be fewer horses to watch and to feed. But could they make it?
Callaghen went to Lieutenant Sprague, who was sitting on the edge of a cot, figuring on a small notebook. As briefly as possible Callaghen explained. “And he would like one man, sir.”
Sprague studied the matter, chewing on his pencil. He gestured at the pad. “I’ve been studying the rations and what ammunition we have. We are in a bad way, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think of their chances?”
“Very good, sir. I do not think the Indians would suspect anything of the kind, and they’d have a running start.”
“They want to try to get back to the Vegas road?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think this road would be better. Get the stage to Fort Mohave and let them provide an escort for the stage on the road to Vegas from there. I doubt if Ridge could get over the desert to the Vegas road fast enough.”
“You may be right, sir. I would suggest, if the Lieutenant will permit, that Private Jason Stick-Walker, the Delaware, be assigned to the stage. He’s a reliable man, and knows this desert as well as anyone.”
“You tell Ridge he has my permission to go, if the ladies wish to make the attempt.” He considered a moment, and then added, “But one man is not enough. Why don’t you go yourself? Sergeant MacBrody is here, and I’ll have other good men beside me.”
After hesitating, he went on, “Callaghen, your discharge is overdue. I think you should go…and take Beamis.”
“Beamis, sir?”
“Yes. He was newly married when he joined, Sergeant. He might get out of this alive.”
“Major Sykes will be coming along, Lieutenant. By now he knows something is seriously wrong.”
“Perhaps. But Sergeant, take Beamis and go. Try for Fort Mohave. I think Ridge himself favors that route. You’ll have to run for it.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir.”
AT CAMP CADY there was shade beneath the trees. The air was hot and still except where that shade offered an island of suggested coolness. Major Sykes mopped the sweat from his face and swore softly when he saw that the sweat from his writing hand had ruined the report he was preparing.
Captain Marriott stood in the door. “Sir, there’s still no report. No mail has come through from either Vegas or Fort Mohave.”
“Sprague will investigate, Captain. He’s a competent man.”
“He may have run into trouble, sir.”
Sykes put down his pen. The heat had made him irritable, but he stifled the feeling. Marriott was a good man, and whatever he himself accomplished out here would be due in great measure to the kind of men who served him.
“You may be right,” he said, and walked to the door. Maybe this was his chance. At any rate it was an excuse to take the men into the field. If he could pin down the Mohaves…
It was abominably hot, but if they traveled early and late, resting through the heat of the daytime, they could make good time and save the horses.
“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 Frémont, 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 f
eet, 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 beyond, 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.
Novel 1972 - Callaghen Page 14
