Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) (17 page)

Becker watered the horses, waiting for the water to trickle into the basins, and it was a slow thing, watching that water. There was little food left, for Spencer, Wylie, and Champion had managed to carry off a week’s rations for themselves.

“If I could only get a shot at one of them!” Ridge complained.

“They ain’t fools,” Becker said dryly. “They ain’t there to get shot.”

Nothing moved out there—only the heat waves shimmering, only a bee buzzing, the sound adding to the oppression of the heat.

Within the stone cabins it was cooler. Garrick opened his eyes as Malinda came up to his cot. “Is there word? I mean, from Lieutenant Sprague and them?”

“No.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. He was very young, and his features were gaunt from pain. “They were bad off…mighty bad off.”

“Callaghen has gone to them. He took some water.”

Ridge came in with a cup of broth. “You want to feed him, miss? We’ve got to get some strength into him.”

“Of course.”

He stood in the shadows just inside the door, looking out toward the northeast. “Nothing out there,” he said. “But they’d travel by night, anyway.”

“Will they make it, Johnny?”

He shrugged. “You said you were army, so you know what the odds are. Some get back, and some don’t.” He paused. “It seems to me we should be hearing from Camp Cady. Lieutenant Sprague is overdue back there, and Sykes isn’t the man to put up with that. And from what I hear,” he added, “the Major is spoiling for a fight.”

T
EN MILES OR so to the east, squatted beside Mexican Water Spring, Kurt Wylie, Champion, and Spencer were feeling pleased with themselves. “You were right, Champ,” Wylie said. “Those Injuns want that fort more than they want us. Anyway, we got away scot free.”

“Looks like it.” Champion was more knowing, and less optimistic. He was quite sure one of the reasons they got away was because the Indians wanted fewer men at the post. He was also sure that had they started back toward Camp Cady or on toward where Sprague might be, they would have been attacked. Their route had led across the valley toward the east, and that way held no danger for the Indians. “Let’s wait an’ see,” he added.

Spencer was free of the army, which was what he wanted. He was a man of less than modest intelligence, and he had listened eagerly to the glib, easy talk of Wylie.

A possible chance of finding gold was a lure he was not prepared to resist. He did not like the strict discipline at Marl Springs, or Sergeant MacBrody, who was a tough, no-nonsense man. He was well content to be away.

“We’ve got to find Callaghen if we can,” Wylie said. “I’d bet every dollar I own that he has a copy of that map. Croker thought so, and he surely had the chance.”

“You should have gotten a copy from Allison.”

“It wasn’t that simple.” Wylie did not develop the subject, and Champion let it go.

Champion looked around them. The steep slope of Columbia Mountain was to the east, clad with scattered cedar and occasional pines. It tapered off toward the north and there was a saddle over which they might ride into Gold Valley. He took another drink from the spring and got up, wiping the water from his mouth. “No use to set here,” he said. “Them Injuns might change their minds.”

All three mounted and Champion led the way over the saddle and into the basin beyond. Table Mountain and the Twin Buttes loomed against the skyline some five miles off. Champion looked warily at the flat-topped mountain. The Indians knew it and used it for a lookout, for it lifted over a thousand feet above the surrounding country, higher than anything within miles.

Champion had been at loose ends when he encountered Wylie. He had worked for a while with the Pah-Utes, stealing horses from the ranches and running them back to Nevada to sell, stealing horses there and selling them in California. The fact that he knew the outlaw hangouts in the Kingstons had led Wylie to him.

Wylie had heard of Horsethief Spring, but he wanted to know more, and Champion, who had just spent the last of his horse-stealing money, knew when he had something somebody wanted. He held out for cash, and then when he got a smell of what it was all about, for a piece of the business.

He did not like Wylie. Spencer, big and dumb, he could ignore; Wylie he must watch as one watches a rattler. But somewhere along the line whatever they had was going to belong to Champion. How, he did not know—that remained for the gods of chance to dictate.

Champion had calculated his chances, and several things were in his favor. He was better with a gun than Wylie believed, and he could throw a knife as straight as he could shoot. Moreover, he had a good idea what Wylie was looking for, and possibly more knowledge of it than Wylie had. Wylie had been cagey, and had not told him anything definite, only advancing money to Champion and making large promises. But Allison liked to talk when he had the chance, and Champion proved a good listener.

Champion had heard all the stories—everybody had heard them. The story of the River of Gold he had heard as he had heard many others, but this was different, because one night on one of their horse-stealing forays he had listened to the Indians talking among themselves when they believed him asleep.

They had talked of the killing of some strange white men by their forefathers. Gold had been found among their possessions, gold the Indians knew had come from the cave where the river flowed. From what the Indians said the men killed had been not Spanish, but French…and two of them had escaped. The story had been told because one of the Indians had reminded them that they were near the spot.

Dozens of fake maps had been sold to credulous buyers, but one word uttered by Allison had been the tip-off for Champion, a word that would mean nothing to anyone unless he knew something of the location of the cave. From that moment Champion had put aside his doubts.

Allison’s map existed, and it was likely that Callaghen had it, or a copy. It was also likely that Wylie had memorized that map.

The basin into which they rode offered no suggestion of man. The mountain walls were stark, there were scattered Joshua trees, and in the east two buttes stood like sentinels by the gap that opened into the larger valley beyond.

Champion saw no tracks, but he was wary of this place. Table Mountain seemed to bar the way on one side. To the south was a high plateau of the Providence Mountains, Wild Horse Canyon, and some rugged terrain where there was a gap through which he had never ridden.

Ahead of them there was a spring. He studied the area and looked at the mountains around. He was definitely uneasy. “I don’t like the look of it,” he said to Wylie. “Something ain’t right.”

“You gettin’ the wind up?” Wylie asked. “I never saw an emptier place in my life. But this isn’t gettin’ us any closer to Callaghen and that map!”

“It’s a big cave.” Champion let his comment fall casually. “All the gold may not be in just one part of it.”

Kurt Wylie turned his neck with a certain stiffness, a poised readiness. “What cave are you talkin’ about?”

Champion took his plug of tobacco from his pocket and contemplated it gravely. Then he bit off some, rolled it in his jaws, and chewed silently for a few minutes. He spat, and then said, “The cave of the River of Gold. That’s what you’re huntin’, ain’t it?”

“Who told you that?”

“A man can figure,” Champion said. “That’s the most gold anywhere around, and it’s somewhere in this country. I’ve heard,” he added, “the Injuns say there’s a dozen entrances, and some of them say there’s miles of cave under this part of the Mohave.”

Wylie was not pleased.

Chapter 18

T
HERE WAS NO sun in the sky when Callaghen and the others started out and pointed across the long slope of the dome toward Marl Springs. Callaghen took the point position, and led off toward Wildcat Butte.

No Indians showed themselves, and they heard no shots. Callaghen walked steadily. Out on the slope there was no place to stop, no place to hide. Sparse scattered growth there was, but nothing like cover, only the open plain under a vast sky.

Callaghen held a modest pace. The men behind him were in no shape to go faster, and at any time they might be attacked.

Ten or eleven miles…between four and five hours if they were lucky. Six would be a fairer estimate, considering the shape they were in.

Callaghen was unshaven and dirty. He desperately wanted a bath and a chance to shave. More than that, he wanted water to drink and hours of sleep. When they had walked for an hour he stopped them for ten minutes, and each man took a drink of water.

“I never thought I’d grow to like that place,” Mercer commented, “but right now I’d give five years of my life to see it right there ahead of me.”

Callaghen looked around, studying every aspect of the slope. For them to be attacked here, their enemies must approach and be within sight for at least half a mile in any direction.

He had taken his bearings that morning. The rock that looked like a great rounded dome, or stupa, stuck in his mind. It was a natural comparison to make for anyone familiar with India, for the shape was identical. The rocks around it were a natural fortress with many good firing positions and a field of fire on all sides.

It was that stupa-like formation that had given him the idea that the map was deliberately wrong, purposely out of kilter. It was there on the map, not really noticeable, because it was small, but when a man had seen the formation he knew what it was, and he would remember it if he had a mind like Callaghen’s.

The real trouble was with the Indians. How could a man go against them? They seemed always to be close by, always to be ready, never wanting a fight they could not win, just coming and going like shadows.

He held no animosity for them. They were fighting men, as he was, and they fought for what they wanted, as he did, and he respected them for it. Being captured by them would be bad, but there were other places he had been where capture would have been no better.

Whoever had drawn that map had done so deliberately, so that if it fell into the wrong hands it would do them no good.

The Indians knew him now. He had killed several of their warriors, and they would want him dead so he could kill no more. At the same time, they were careful not to get too close.

As they approached Marl Springs it looked the same—the stockade, the stone houses, the low mountain rising behind, with the hollow where they had grazed the horses. Smoke rose from the stockade, but no one was in sight.

Sprague looked past him. “Do you think it’s safe, Sergeant?”

“I never try to outguess an Indian, sir. They have their own ways of thinking. We’ve come this far, so we’ll go on in.”

The gate opened. It was Ridge at the gate, rifle in hand. He looked drawn and exhausted.

“Becker’s dead,” he said. “They got him last evenin’. He was a damn good man.”

“Put that on his grave,” Callaghen said. “That’s epitaph enough for any man.”

Malinda came to the door, staring wide-eyed at him. He went to her. “I’m back,” he said, finding no quick words to say.

“Come in. There’s coffee.” She faced him. “Mort, you haven’t come back to much. There’s very little left.”

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.”