Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Read Free

step they could take would be a victory; and safety, at least for the moment, lay where water was.
    Eagle Mountain was ahead of them. Before them there was a long, shallow trough in the desert floor running toward the peak, a place where water must have run off, perhaps finding a way to the hollow where they had stopped.
    When to turn to the right toward the water hole? He considered that, and was suddenly aware the sky was already gray. He roused the men and they started on.
    For a hundred yards, two hundred yards, they walked fairly well. Then Croker’s legs began acting oddly. He stumbled, and could hardly keep from falling. Walsh did fall. The Delaware helped him up, almost lifting him to his feet, and holding him until he gained his balance.
    Walking and stumbling, falling occasionally, the men made another two hundred yards. It was light enough to be able to make out tracks, but Callaghen saw none…and with water near there should have been tracks.
    Suppose there was no water? Suppose that mountain ahead was not even Eagle Mountain? This was not the Delaware’s native country, and he had been through here only once…he could be wrong. And if there was no water, they were dead men.
    Walsh fell again. Again they helped him up. Callaghen looked at the mountain. By the look of it in the dim light, it was bare, basaltic rock. He glanced off to the right.
    “All right.” He had to try twice before he could get the words out. “We’ll turn here.”
    Croker fell, trying to climb the fifteen-inch embankment. He struggled up, stared blankly at Callaghen, then steadied himself. “All right, Irish,” he said. “I’m with you.”
    Walsh made it, and so did the Delaware. They were out in the open now; a shot struck into the dirt near them and they all knew this was a fight. They dropped to the ground.
    “Hold your fire!” Callaghen spoke sharply. “Walsh, you and Croker can load. Try not to get any sand into the actions.”
    He waited. His own hands were not steady, his vision was blurred. He was further along toward dehydration than he had thought.
    He rolled the dry pebble in his mouth. The skin on his hands looked wrinkled…like the hands of a very old man.
    An Indian out there moved, and Callaghen fired without looking at his piece; he looked only at the Indian. The Mohave stumbled and fell.
    That would put a scare into them. Indians were wise—they saw no advantage in a victory bought with the death of their own warriors. They did not believe in losing men to gain ground, or losing a man for any reason if it could be avoided. They were not afraid to die, but they knew that a dead warrior kills no enemies.
    “You got him.” The Delaware shaped the words with difficulty. “It is the first for us, I think.”
    Callaghen agreed. He had burned one other, he thought, perhaps scratched him a bit. Nobody ever killed as many Indians as he thought he had. When a report came in of Indians killed in battle, he usually discounted it by half.
    The sun came up. In that shallow basin between the ridges the heat was unbelievable. He waited, peering about for enemies that never showed themselves. Walsh did not move.
    A slow, long hour went by, and then another. Callaghen lay on the sand. He should move, he knew, for the heat was more intense down here. He should move, but he could not.
    Yet he must. They must try for the water. “All right,” he said aloud, and nobody stirred. “We will go now,” he said, but there was no movement, no response.
    Summoning all his strength, he pushed himself up. He got to his knees and slugged the Delaware. “Get up, damn you!” he managed. “Get up!”
    The Delaware got up, swaying on his feet. Then he helped Croker to his feet, and between them they got Walsh up.
    Callaghen stood erect. The weight of the spare rifle, slung across his back, was almost more than he could stand. With his own rifle in hand, he peered around.
    Only rocks and sand, sand and rocks. Sand, white and pink and