Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Read Free Page B

as he lifted his rifle the Indian wheeled and rode away. Behind him a yell sounded, and another Indian charged.
    “Hold your fire!” Callaghen warned. “They want us to empty our guns so they can close in and wipe us out.”
    Deliberately he fell back to cover the retreat of the others. Croker was helping Walsh. The Delaware, rifle at the ready, was walking backwards, watching the Indians.
    They came again in short, quick dashes, then wheeled to ride away. They raised up from their crude saddles and slapped their behinds derisively, taunting the white soldiers to get them to fire. Suddenly Indians on one side began to ride nearer. All eyes were on them. All eyes …!
    Realizing that this was what the Indians wanted—for all eyes to be directed on them so the others could close in, Callaghen whirled. As he did so, they charged. He did not drop to one knee, but fired quickly, almost offhand.
    His first shot caught a charging Indian full in the chest, knocking him backwards off his horse. At the same instant Callaghen dropped his rifle, drew his six-shooter, and fired, one, two, three!
    An Indian pitched over with the first shot, a second wheeled his horse and took the bullet in the shoulder and side. The third was shot in the head.
    From behind him he heard a shot, and another, and then the desert was empty, the Indians gone, except one who lay sprawled and dead on the desert.
    Holstering the pistol, Callaghen followed after the others, loading his rifle as he walked.
    Croker stared at him. “Man, that was shootin’! I never seen the like!”
    They broke through the mesquite, and saw a bare patch of sand, a basin of cracked mud, and no water.
    No water…
    Chapter 3

D ESPAIR GRIPPED CALLAGHEN for a moment. “Croker,” he said, “get back there with your rifle. The Mohaves knew about this, and they may hang back for a time, but they’ll be coming on.”
    “I do not think so,” the Delaware said. “I think it has cost them too much, and they will not risk your shooting again.”
    Callaghen sat down and carefully reloaded his pistol. As he did so he considered the situation. This basin was at the lowest point around. It lay at the end of a ridge of rocks where a spring might conceivably be, surrounded by mesquite and a healthy growth of salt grass. The place was a natural catch basin for water draining off the rocky ridges around it.
    “The mesquite is an indicator of ground water. So is salt grass.” Callaghen spoke slowly, for his tongue felt swollen and clumsy, and his lips were cracked.
    The Delaware looked at him with dull eyes. Walsh sprawled on the sand, making no sound. He lay in shade under the mesquite growth which towered six to seven feet above him.
    Callaghen’s own head seemed not to be working too well, but he tried to focus his attention on recalling what he knew about this plant. While it was regarded as a sure indicator of water, the roots might penetrate fifty feet into the earth. On the other hand, the roots of salt grass rarely went beyond ten feet, and the water table where the salt grass grew was often less than three feet beneath the surface.
    He put down his rifle, unslung the spare he had carried, and went into the basin. Throwing aside the slabs of cracked mud, he began to dig. The earth at the bottom was sand and clay, and it was very dry—dry as a buffalo skull that has lain twenty years out on the prairie.
    On his knees, he worked with his hands, digging. He did not think about the parched earth. He did not think about the sting of the alkali when it got into cuts on his hands; he thought only of the water below.
    Croker came back, staring dully at him, intent on his digging. “You waste your time. We are dead men,” he said.
    Callaghen did not look up. “Get back to your duty,” he said hoarsely. “Watch for the Mohaves.”
    “They are gone.”
    “Go back and watch for them!”
    Croker did not move. “You are not an officer. You have no authority here.”
    Callaghen stood up