It was that peak toward which he was now pointing. Opposite it, near the end of a rugged range of mountains was another peak. At the base of that was where Sprague and his men were believed to be.
He rode carefully, skirting the dome on a wide swing that kept him low enough so that he was not outlined against the sky. At intervals he hesitated, to listen. And always he watched those surest indicators of movement near by—the ears of his horse.
His rifle was slung to his pommel, his pistol ready to hand. If action came it would be at close range. He had gone a mile…and then went on another mile. He was walking his horse when suddenly of its own volition its pace quickened. Alert to every move of the horse, he sensed its fear at once. He heard nothing, but he knew there was some danger nearby.
It was out there in the night, and his horse knew it. The animal half turned its head, and he glimpsed the whites of its eyes. It was something coming up behind them, something that made no noise in the night.
There was no wind. He could hear only the movements of his horse, the creak of the saddle. Suddenly the horse shied, and from the ground in front of him a wraith-like figure came up. At that moment something whispered from the other side and he turned sharply.
The turn saved his life, for a thrown club just missed his skull. At the same instant something leaped at him from the other side.
He clubbed his pistol barrel over a skull, and slammed the spurs to his horse. The frightened animal, unaccustomed to such treatment, gave a great bound forward and he felt the clawing hands fall away. He swung the horse at right angles and went up the hill.
They were all around him now, and there must have been a dozen of them. They had been running to meet him, and now they tried to close in. He swung his horse again, driving at one of them, who tried to swing aside, too late.
The big animal charged into him and the man went down, a scream tearing from his throat as he went under the trampling hoofs. And then Callaghen was away, and running.
He heard something—it might have been an arrow—but he had slipped away from them—it was partly luck, but even more, it was the speed and intelligence of his horse that had saved him.
He did not for a moment believe they would fall back. A good runner can run a horse down…all it needs is time, and the Indians had time. He was away for now, but he could not run his horse forever and they would close in—those swift, deadly fighters following after him.
Dimly against the starry sky he could see the peak toward which he was aiming. The dome up which he was now riding went steadily upgrade, and he swung his horse along the side of the slope in a vast, easy circle, going always toward the peak. He scarcely hoped he would confuse his followers—he did not underestimate them, for he knew well enough that they were shrewd, relentless, and ruthless.
He moved his horse into a trot and held it so for a good half-mile. Then he slowed down and walked it up the dome. A dim shadow appeared on his left, another on his right. They were attempting to turn him. But if he turned back, those coming up behind would close in around him.
He drew up and stopped momentarily, listening, then he turned sharply at right angles and started his horse along the slope again at a rapid walk, turning constantly to look to all sides. By now they knew where he was going, and they had no intentions of permitting it. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he could now distinguish the Indians from the Joshua trees…if they moved.
Deliberately, he allowed one of them to close in, and when he turned his horse it was at an angle to cross in front of the Indians, trying to maneuver so only one of them could reach him at a time.
The one Indian was close, and Callaghen turned his head away to give him confidence, timing the steps the Indian must make. When he could have taken three steps, Callaghen turned sharply, drew, and fired.
His bullet was perfectly timed, and it was at point-blank range, for the Indian had just set himself to leap. The bullet struck him in the chest, and instantly Callaghen touched his horse with a spur and leaped away. The shot had been intended not simply to kill an Indian, but to alert Sprague that help was coming—such as it was.
He topped out on the dome, a wide-open area around him. He rode toward the rugged ground where the peak rose up above the surrounding country. At the edge of the rocks, he drew up.
He doubted there were Indians here, but he listened for a long moment. Then he walked his horse along the rocks toward the northwest, and crossing the low ridge he drew up again, looking off eastward to the mountain range that edged the sky.
There he waited, every sense alert. The chances were that the Indians would suspect him of having ridden right on toward Sprague and his men, and they might pass by these rocks, or signal to those surrounding the soldiers that he was coming.
The night was cool. Dawn would be coming soon. The mountains over there were a good two miles off and over open ground, scattered with Joshua trees, but offering no real cover.
The soldiers would have heard his shot, and would know something was happening out there in the dark. He waited, the bulk of his horse and himself merging with the towering rock beside him to leave no outline.
He could feel the horse slowly relaxing, the tenseness leaving his muscles. He opened a canteen and took a small swallow, rinsing his mouth before he let the water trickle down his throat. He was tired. The shirt under his uniform jacket was stiff with dust and sweat. He wanted a bath, a good meal, and forty-eight hours of sleep.
He wanted desperately to sleep, but to sleep now meant to die…and that could mean death as well for the men out there. He reloaded the empty chamber of his pistol, and stepped down from the saddle, resting a reassuring hand on the shoulder of his horse.
He must not risk getting killed by his own outfit as he rode in, and he must get those canteens of water to them, and then lead them to the spring that lay due south from here. It was only a mile from where they were—or had been—but a mile in the desert is a long way, and they did not even know the spring was there.
Callaghen scouted the rocks close to him. Already it was vaguely lighter, but he saw nothing…nobody.
He sat on a flat rock, his back to the rock wall within a few feet of his horse, and tried to think the situation through.
The Indians knew he was out here somewhere. At first they would believe he was in the rocks somewhere near the soldiers, but they would soon guess by the actions of the soldiers that he was still out here. Very soon they would figure out just about where he was. Then they would tighten their circle and come hunting for him, but they would be scattered out enough so that he must face at least some of them. They would be aiming for a kill.
Riding through them would not be easy, and first they would be trying to kill his horse. They would want him on foot, and also they would be wanting the horse for meat. The time to start was now.
He poured a couple of cupfuls of water into his hat and let the horse drink, just enough to freshen him a bit. He petted the animal and talked to him.
“You and me, boy, we’ve got to go through them. I’m counting on you.”
The black nudged him with his nose, and he gathered the reins and stepped into the saddle.
He looked at the dark saw-toothed range opposite and started his horse down from the rocks. At their base he hesitated a moment, looking out at the deceptively empty-looking space before him.
A few last stars still hung in the sky. A faint coolness touched his cheek as the wind stirred. The twisted Joshua trees thrust their thick arms at him. He spoke softly to his horse. “All right, boy, let’s go.”
He started to canter. Sitting tall in the saddle, a pistol in his right hand, he rode out into the last dim period before the dawn. His mouth was dry, his heart was beating with heavy throbs. He touched his tongue to his lips, his eyes slanting left and right.
They were waiting for him eagerly, he knew. They wanted him dead, they wanted his guns, they wanted his horse for the meat it would give, and they wanted to stop him fro
m reaching the beleaguered soldiers.
He rode straight into the morning, his gun ready, and death rode with him, almost at his side.
Chapter 16
TWO MILES TO go, and then to find where the command had holed up. Callaghen thought they might be of help. If he was attacked there would be shooting, and they might offer supporting fire. All he knew was the report from Garrick, that they were somewhere at the base of the peak before him. If they had not moved.
Now he could see a greater distance. The sky was gray now, and the last star, like a faint distant searchlight, was gone.
There was no sound but that of his horse’s hoofs. He started at a canter, covering distance, and riding easy in the saddle. The reins were in his left hand, his drawn pistol in his right.
When he had covered about half a mile there was still nothing in sight. The peak rose high above the surrounding desert, falling steeply, at its base.
He rode on, and then a mile was behind him. His mouth was dry, his heart was thumping. He slowed his horse to a walk, guiding him gently to avoid any possible dips or shallow places on the desert that might conceal an enemy. Another mile to go. It had to be soon.
His view was good now in all directions. He looked at the base of the mountain, at the rocks there. How long would it take to cover that if he had to run for it? Three minutes? Four?
The ground ahead seemed fairly level, with a gentle downward slope until the last quarter of a mile or less.
His mount seemed to tense a little, looking ahead. The ears were up, the nostrils flared. “All right, boy,” he said quietly, “we both know. When I ask you to run…be ready.”
Again, as in the night, they rose out of the desert. One moment the desert was empty, and the next it was alive with them. Early sunlight gleamed on a rifle barrel…on another.
His eyes swept the desert around him. One, two…four—there were ten of them within sight, moving toward him.
Only two of them had rifles, several had bows, and at least one seemed to be carrying only a club. There were four on his left flank, two on his right; three were ahead, and one some distance off further to the right. It was an open invitation to ride into that gap.
“Uh-uh,” he said aloud, “I’ll not buy that.” But he swung the black that way and walked him a good twenty yards; then suddenly, instead of continuing toward the inviting gap, he turned sharply left and slapped the spurs to the horse. It left the ground in a leap and drove in a plunging run toward the four men straight ahead. At the same moment he fired at the nearest Indian. The man broke pace, stumbled, and went to his knees. A gun roared on his left, an arrow struck the pommel, and then they were all around him. A club was thrown by one of them and missed by inches; another grabbed his pants leg and tried to hack at him with a knife, but missed his stride and fell into the sand. Another Indian leaped to the horse behind him and he smashed an elbow into the Indian’s ribs, but a strong arm came over his shoulder and around his throat.
His horse was running all out, frightened and out of control. Callaghen shoved his pistol under his arm and pulled the trigger.
There was a heavy jolt and he felt the arm around his throat loosen. Turning the pistol slightly, he pulled the trigger again, heard a grunt, and the grip at his throat let go and the Indian fell.
With a sharp turn he avoided two Indians rising from the ground and went racing toward the rocks. Shots sounded behind him, and then two Indians came up from the rocks right where he had believed Sprague might be. But even as they raised up, gunfire came from the rocks and one Indian fell. The other scrambled away, but then lunged for him. Instead of trying to evade him, Callaghen turned his horse and rode him down, the man screaming.
Then he was up among the rocks and he saw a spot of blue in front of him. He leaped the horse over a last circle of rocks and pulled up short in the little cul-de-sac where the soldiers were.
He dropped from the saddle. One quick glance showed him he had come none too soon.
Sprague was propped up against the rocks, his face gray with pain and exhaustion. Three of the others were wounded. One had his head wrapped in a bloody improvised bandage, another had splints on one leg. All were in desperate shape.
Callaghen glanced back at the desert.
The Indians were gone. One body lay out there on the sand. The others had vanished as if they had never been there.
He took a canteen from his horse. “Figured you boys might like a drink,” he said.
He held the canteen first for Sprague, whose hands were shaking as he reached out for it. He drank only a swallow. “The rest is for the men,” he said hoarsely.
Slowly the canteen went from man to man. “Take it easy,” Callaghen said. “Too much of this now is as bad as none.”
After all had had a drink Callaghen sat down and asked, “How long has it been?”
“We been out of water two days and two nights,” a man said. “They done stole our horses and pinned us down. You sure came when needed.”
“We’ve got to move. More of them will be coming now.”
“We’re in no shape,” Sprague said.
“There’s a water hole a mile or so south. We’ll have another drink of this, wait a bit, and have another. Then if it’s all right with you, sir, we’ll move out.”
“Any word from Major Sykes?” Sprague asked.
“No, sir. I doubt if he knows any of this is happening, for he’s had no word.” He explained about the stage, and his own actions. “The Delaware is at the Marl Springs redoubt,” he added, “and so is your man Garrick.”
He passed the canteen around again and each man took a careful swallow. One by one they began tightening belts, pulling on boots, getting ready for the move. None of them looked forward to it, but none of them wanted to stay here.
Crouched down, Callaghen drew a diagram in the sand. “Here’s where we are,” he said, pointing. “There’s a water hole about here, something like a mile. We should head for that and refill our canteens. Then southwest of there is Cut Spring—another two miles. I think we can make that all right. And we’ll have to fight.”
“That’s the pinch, Sergeant,” Sprague said. “We’re running short of ammunition.”
“I’m carrying a hundred rounds,” Callaghen said, “but mine won’t fit your guns. I did stick some of your ammunition in my gear, but it won’t come to more than five rounds per man.”
“That’s more than we have,” Sprague said. “Two of our men have nothing left. I doubt if there’s thirty rounds in the lot of us…for rifles, at least.”
He sat up. “Beamis, you and Wilmot and Isbel are the best shots. I want each of you to have ten rounds apiece.”
“Mercer’s as good a shot as me, maybe better,” Beamis suggested. “He done some fighting up Minnesota way.”
“All right—Mercer too. The rest of you divide up their packs and carry them so you can be free to shoot.” Sprague looked around at Callaghen. “Sergeant, we’ll need your horse. Will he carry double?”
“He will, sir.”
“We have two men who can’t walk, so they’ll ride. How soon should we move, Sergeant?”
“Right away, sir. It’s still cool. I think we can make that first spring before it warms up, and with luck the second. We’d better hole up there through the heat of the day—we can build shade with our coats, sir.”
Callaghen led the way, rifle in hand, with Beamis and Mercer behind him. Then the wounded men riding the black, the pack bearers next, and Wilmot and Isbel as rear guard. Sprague marched beside Callaghen, limping from a bruised foot. They saw no Indians on the way.
At the water hole they found no one, although there were fresh moccasin tracks, and here they refilled their canteens. An hour later they started out once more, marching slowly. Again, all the way to Cut Spring, they saw no one. By the time they arrived there the Indians had gone, and it was a good thing.
Callaghen, looking around him, decided he had never seen such a bedraggled lot of soldiers. “W
e’ll keep the horse right close to us,” he suggested to Sprague. “If they get him, we’ll have played out our hand.”
The night was clear after the hot afternoon was gone. The stars were very bright; the desert was still. After a brief fire to make hot soup and coffee, they let the small flame die down and all of them rested.
The spring was among low granite knobs that provided a certain amount of protection. There was another spring some distance off, separated from them by a low hill.
Callaghen slept a little, and when he woke he checked the two sentries, and permitted one of them to turn in. He touched the coffeepot that sat beside the coals. It was still hot.
He filled a cup, moved back to one of the rocks, and settled his back against it. “Heard anything?” he asked Mercer, sitting close by.
“No…I surely ain’t, but I’ve got a feelin’ they’re out there.”
“They are.” Callaghen agreed, and he sipped his coffee. “What did you do in Minnesota, Mercer?”
“Worked in a mill, as a boy. Then I kep’ store. I was doin’ fair to middlin’ when the massacree came. Little Crow, he went to church in the mornin’, all duded up in white man’s clothes, then he went home an’ put on his paint, an’ those Sioux, they turned to an’ kilt most ever’body around.
“They wiped me out, Sergeant. They taken whatever I had an’ set fire to the place. Lucky, me an’ the wife had stopped by the Larsons’ after church, or they’d surely have had us.”
“Your wife in Minnesota now?”
“No, she ain’t. Those injuns scared her. She taken off back east where she came from, an’ I joined up with the army. That was a few years back. I ain’t seen or heard from her since.”
“Tough.”
“Not the way I figure it. A woman should stick by a man, an’ up there most of ’em did. Trouble was, I married me a girl who’d never been far from her mama, an’ she wasn’t up to it, livin’ on the frontier, like. I don’t blame her, not none at all. I’d taken her to the wrong kind of world. Me, I’d been fetched up on the frontier in Illinois an’ Missouri, an’ I never knowed anything else.”
Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Page 12