Desert Crossing

by Short, Luke;

  According to his own close reasoning, Noonan was certain that Kirby had fired the shot. Noonan thought he knew why. Kirby was the only man in this collection of riffraff who would have the brains to assess the situation there in the malpais. Kirby undoubtedly saw that he was in complete command of the situation, that he could successfully bar the wagon train from water, and that the guns would eventually be his, either by waiting for the train to run out of water and surrender, or by attacking it when it moved and forcing it to corral, still without water. That being the case, why should he, Kirby, share with another man the loot from the sale of the guns?

  So Kirby had shot him, just as he would have shot Kirby in similar circumstances. Only I’d have made sure I killed him, Noonan thought. That’s where Kirby had made his mistake. Troopers of the detail had told Noonan that for moments, when his horse had halted and he was in a state of shock, he was a sitting duck for a good many of the rifles. Apparently Kirby thought he had done the job; the others had been warned not to shoot at him.

  When Kirby learned that his bullet in the back had been too high, then Noonan knew that Kirby would not stop until he had succeeded in killing him. From now on Noonan was number one on Kirby’s list.

  Ever since the pain of his wound had slacked off a little, Noonan knew what he was going to do. Now he listened to the small night noises of the sleeping camp—The stirring of horses within the circled wagons, the snoring of the exhausted men and, even more faintly, the slow pacing of the sentries. He waited another fifteen minutes to be sure the camp was asleep, and then painfully crept out of his blankets. He made sure that his pistol was in its holster before stooping down to pick up his hat. As he strolled out away from the wagons, he put on his hat, and waited until one of the sentries on his round approached.

  “Cleary,” he called softly.

  “Who is it?” a voice challenged.

  “Me. Noonan.” Noonan walked up to the sentry, who halted.

  “I’m going for a walk. Don’t shoot me.”

  “What the hell for?” Cleary demanded.

  “I can’t sleep with this shoulder,” Noonan said. “If I walk around the wagons I’ll spook somebody and they’ll take a shot at me.”

  Cleary was silent a moment. There was sense in what Noonan said, but he knew what would happen if Overman spotted Noonan’s absence. But why should he? He wasn’t counting his men on the hour. Besides, what harm would it do to let Noonan past?

  “Go ahead,” Cleary said. “Only remember, we’re breaking camp when the moon rises.”

  “I’ll be back long before that,” Noonan said. He moved past Cleary and within seconds was lost in the darkness.

  Noonan made his exit from the camp and headed west. Now he made a wide circle of the camp, picked up the road, and headed east toward the near malpais. He wondered, grimly, if Kirby’s guard would shoot first or challenge him. He wasn’t long in finding out.

  He had moved into the malpais less than a quarter-mile when a gun flared in the road ahead of him. The bullet ricocheted off the road and whistled as it touched his hat.

  “Quit it!” Noonan shouted. “It’s me! Noonan! Brick Noonan!”

  “Put a light on yourself,” a voice called back.

  Brick was ready for this too. He pulled out a match from his blouse pocket, wiped it alight, and held it in front of his face. He heard the sound of approaching boots and he waited. Undoubtedly the shot could have been heard at the wagon train, but what did it matter? He was more concerned as to whether it had been heard in Kirby’s camp.

  A man approached, and Noonan said, “Who is it?”

  “Bill Earl.”

  “Where you camped?”

  “At the Wells.” There was a pause. “They know back there you’re gone?”

  “I just walked out,” Noonan said. “I’m with Kirby from now on.” Then he added, “Move up closer to the edge of the malpais. They’ll be breaking camp at moonrise. Keep an eye on them.”

  At the man’s grunt of assent, Noonan went on. Presently he came to the captured wagon, and out of curiosity he struck another match against the wagon side to see what Kirby had done with the freight. It had simply been dumped into the malpais, undoubtedly the result of Kirby’s hopeful search for the rifles. Ahead of the wagon two dead horses had been dragged to the side of the road. Their legs were stiff, their bellies bloated. The other three teams, Noonan knew, were probably at Kirby’s camp.

  He walked on, and began to feel a lassitude that he knew he must fight. He had lost a lot of blood before his shoulder had been attended to, and it was telling on him. Ahead of him he could dimly see a notch in the night sky that told him he was approaching the end of the malpais. And now he lifted his gun from its holster. As quietly as possible he moved forward, wondering if Kirby would have a sentry posted at the camp.

  He saw the man before the sentry saw or heard him. The man was outlined against the night sky as he slowly tramped back and forth across the road. Noonan moved silently toward him until he was within earshot and then said quietly, “It’s me, Brick Noonan.”

  The sentry wheeled and lifted his rifle.

  “Don’t shoot. I’ll strike a match,” Brick said evenly. Again he struck a match and held it in front of his face, and the sentry came forward.

  “Was that you that shot?” the sentry said.

  “That was Bill Earl shooting at me,” Noonan said. “Did it wake the camp?”

  “No. It was too far off The man paused. “Are you hurt?”

  Noonan threw the match away. “A little,” he said. “Know where Kirby’s sleeping?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  “Let’s go quiet,” Noonan said. “No sense in waking everybody.”

  The man moved ahead and Noonan followed. Only a few yards beyond where the malpais ended was the old adobe stage station that had been abandoned. As at all desert wells, there were stunted trees around the water. Noonan could see well enough now to note that the men were scattered over the bare ground between the spring and the adobe. The guard circled them, and finally halted near a snoring figure.

  Brick whispered now, “Let me wake him. Got a candle?”

  For answer the man moved over to the edge of the spring, leaned down, and picked up a lantern, which he handed to Noonan. “Kirby got it from Layton today.”

  “Good. You better get back to your post.” The sentry turned and disappeared into the night. Now Brick gently put the bale of the lantern in his left hand and found he couldn’t hold it, so he pushed the bale up around his wrist. Softly, gently, he cocked the gun, muzzling its click against his blouse before he walked silently to where Kirby lay sleeping. Kirby was on his back and Noonan could hear his even breathing.

  Then Noonan pointed his gun and shot Kirby in the face.

  The bellow of the gun brought the men out of their blankets, and Noonan called out again, “It’s me, Brick Noonan. Don’t shoot.”

  “What was that shot?” somebody called.

  “Come over and see, all of you,” Brick said, and the men stumbled toward him in the darkness. To the first man who approached, Brick handed the lantern. “Light it,” he commanded.

  The man set the lantern on the ground beside Kirby, lifted the chimney, struck a match, and lit the wick. Only then by its light did he see Kirby. He dropped the match and jumped back, and then looked at Noonan.

  “Take a look, all of you,” Noonan said in a voice of iron.

  The men did. One brief glance was enough for most of them; afterwards they looked at Noonan.

  “Why’d you do that?” one of them asked.

  Noonan touched his bandaged shoulder. “Because he shot me in the back today.” Noonan looked around the group, and he was smiling faintly. “Anybody object?”

  None of them spoke up to ask how Noonan could be sure that it was Kirby who shot him. Kirby, never their real boss, was dead. Noonan, always their real boss, was still in command.

  “A couple of you lug him into that adobe there, then c
ome back.” Two men stepped forward, picked up Kirby’s slack form, and put him just inside the door of the tumbled-down building. The other men watched them go and return.

  “Now listen, all of you,” Brick said. “The wagon train is heading back to Layton’s at moonrise. Once they’re strung out, we’ll attack them. They’ll have to corral again, and that’s just the way I want them. We’ll hold them there until their water gives out.”

  He paused. “Better saddle up now. Let your horses drink, but fill your canteens first.”

  As the men squatted to pick up their canteens, Brick looked at the adobe. By the dim light of the lantern he could see Kirby’s boots. He thought: It was your own idea, Kirby. How do you like it now?

  Private Cleary halted in alarm at the distant sound of the shot which came from the malpais. Should he wake Lieutenant Overman to tell him? If he did, he ran the risk that Overman would rouse the camp and discover that Sergeant Noonan was missing. Had Noonan fired the shot, he wondered. No, Noonan had headed in the other direction.

  After an agonized moment of indecision, Cleary knew what he had to do. Since the other three sentries were freighters, it was his duty as a trooper to inform his lieutenant of the shot. He went over to the freight wagon under which Overman was sleeping and found the lieutenant standing beside the wagon.

  “You heard the shot, sir?”

  “I heard it,” Overman said slowly. “I wonder what it means?”

  “I couldn’t guess, sir. Quite a ways off, though.”

  “Right. Go back to your post, Cleary. Report anything you see or hear.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cleary walked away from the wagon with a vast sense of relief. Overman was not going to alert the camp after all. Now all Cleary had to worry about was Noonan being discovered by the lieutenant when he came back to camp. Well, that really wasn’t his worry. When it came down to it, he had simply deferred to a sergeant who outranked him.

  Cleary’s stretch of ground to guard paralleled the road, and when he reached its easternmost limit he met one of the teamster’s sentries.

  “Who’s shooting?” the sentry said.

  “Don’t know. But the lieutenant heard it. If you hear anything, walk back and tell him.”

  “If I hear anything, I’ll run back,” the teamster said drily.

  Cleary turned and slowly walked his beat. When he came to the western end of it he paused. He was about to turn when he caught the ever-so-faint sound of footsteps out in the darkness.

  He listened as they came closer. Then he called out softly, “Noonan, get back in your blankets.”

  The footsteps halted, and then a strangely hoarse voice said, “I’m not Noonan. I’m Trooper Adams.”

  Instantly Cleary brought up his rifle and said harshly, “Stand where you are, trooper!”

  Slowly, his rifle ready, Trooper Cleary advanced. When he was close enough to see the almost diminutive figure of Trooper Adams, he halted. “Identify yourself,” he said.

  “John Francis Adams, Squadron F, Fifth Regiment on special detail out of Camp McDowell.” His voice was still hoarse, and now he cleared his throat.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” Cleary demanded.

  “You Army?” Adams asked.

  Cleary now realized that his challenge was unorthodox and that this man had no way of identifying him as belonging to the Army. “I’m Trooper Jim Cleary, out of Fort Mohave,” he said.

  “Where’s you commanding officer?” Adams asked.

  “You got a match?”

  “No, have you?”

  “No,” Cleary answered. “I’m going to put my rifle in your back. Don’t try to run or I’ll let it off.”

  “Run,” Trooper Adams said with quiet derision. “You couldn’t make me run.”

  Trooper Cleary circled him, then prodded him with his rifle barrel. “Straight ahead and a little to the left. You’ll see the wagons in a minute.”

  It was less than a minute. The pair of them halted by the wagon under which Lieutenant Overman lay on his blankets. Cleary said loudly, “Lieutenant, are you awake, sir?”

  “Yes, Cleary,” Overman said sleepily.

  “I’ve got a man here says he’s army. Can you strike a light, sir?”

  Overman tumbled out of his blankets, fumbled in his pockets for a match, and struck a light. Before him he saw a small man, not much more than a boy. His blouse held the salt rime of sweat and his boots were in tatters. His face, oddly white, held a blond fuzz of beard, and the whites of his eyes, under swollen lids, were deeply blood-shot. He seemed to Overman on the verge of exhaustion.

  The match went out and Overman said, “Sit down, trooper. Cleary, get him some food.” Overman turned to the lantern hanging on the side of the wagon, struck another match, and lighted the lantern. He set it on the ground beside Trooper Adams, who had accepted Lieutenant Overman’s invitation to sit down.

  Out of the darkness Dave Harmon materialized as Overman extended a canteen to Adams. Hearing him approach, Overman turned to regard Dave, who gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing.

  Adams drank until Overman reached down, pulled the canteen away from his mouth, and said, “Easy does it.”

  When Adams relinquished the canteen, Overman said quietly, “Now, who are you?”

  Trooper Adams identified himself, then briefly told his story of Lieutenant Miller’s detail. When he mentioned that the detail consisted of nine men and an officer, Overman glanced quickly at Harmon. In a toneless voice Adams told of killing Reardon, finishing with, “It was me or him, sir. I don’t reckon I could have made it from there to here if he’d hit me.”

  “How long have you walked?” Overman asked.

  “Three days, sir. It was slow going.”

  Dave now asked, “Could you find the spot where your detail is camped?”

  “Yes, sir,” Adams answered. “I followed a true north compass course. When I came to this road, I stacked up a pile of rocks to mark it.”

  At that moment Cleary returned with food and a cup of cold coffee. Adams took them and began to wolf the food down, eating like an animal.

  Both Lieutenant Overman and Dave watched him in silence, not speaking until his plate and cup were emptied. Then Overman asked, “How far do you reckon your detail is from here?”

  “Forty miles maybe, Lieutenant. I can’t rightly tell. I had to rest a lot on account of the heat.”

  “You say they had rations for another week?”

  “Rations for ten men, sir.”

  Overman looked at Dave and tilted his head. Both men walked out of earshot of Adams. Now three of the troopers, roused by the talk, came up to the lantern and began to quiz Adams, who answered their questions in a toneless voice of exhaustion.

  Overman halted ahead and waited for Dave to come up to him. Then Overman remarked wryly, “Trouble on trouble, eh?”

  “Good luck on bad luck, Dick,” Dave answered.

  Overman regarded him with mild surprise. “How do we fight off this gang and still help Miller’s stranded detail?”

  Dave said thoughtfully, “Why not let me take ten horses and ride down to them?”

  “With ten horses missing, you think we can make it to Layton’s?” Overman asked dubiously.

  “Let’s forget Layton’s,” Dave said.

  “You mean stay here?”

  Dave said, “With ten horses gone our water will go further, won’t it?”

  “True,” Overman said. “But we’ll have to move sometime.”

  “But when we move we’ll have Miller’s men added to your escort. With that many extra men we might fight our way through to King’s Wells. Maybe we won’t have to go back to Layton’s.”

  Overman was silent for so long that Dave shifted his feet in impatience. Presently Overman said, “It just might work. I reckon they won’t attack us here while you’re gone, and if they did I think we could drive them off. Why should they attack when they figure we’re out of water and they’re keeping us from reaching it?”<
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  Dave nodded assent. The whole camp was awake by now and most of the men were clustered around Trooper Adams, listening again to the story of his incredible journey. Juliana, and even Thornton, came over to question Overman about what was happening.

  It was then that Overman announced the change in plans. Dave and one of his teamsters were to leave at moonrise with horses for the stranded troopers. The rest of the detail was to stay forted up here, and in the unlikely event they were attacked they had enough guns to defend themselves.

  Lieutenant Overman then went over to the group clustered around Adams and described the new plan. When he was finished, he looked around the men. “Where’s Sergeant Noonan?” he asked.

  “I’ll get him,” one of the troopers said. He disappeared into the darkness and presently returned. “He’s not in his blanket, sir,” the trooper reported.

  “All right, Mahoney, go out and relieve the sentries, one by one. Tell them to report to me. Don’t leave until you’re relieved.”

  To the still seated Adams he said, “Trooper Adams, roll into my blankets there. Get some sleep. Bosworth, you and Keef get a lantern and cut out the dozen best mounts we’ve got. No mules.”

  The men scattered and Lieutenant Overman came back to Dave, who was stuffing food for himself and his teamster in the saddle bags with Juliana’s help. Thornton was watching them, and Overman came up in time to hear Thornton ask sullenly, “How many days will this add?”

  “I can answer that, Mister Thornton,” Overman said flatly. “It’ll take as many days as necessary.”

  Now one of Dave’s teamsters who had been on sentry duty approached. “You wanted me?”

  “Yes. Did you pass Sergeant Noonan through the lines? Did you hear or see him pass through?”