“I haven’t decided, Malinda.” He looked straight into her eyes. “I have nothing, you know. I’ll have to start all over again.”
She lifted her chin. “Why not? The West is full of men who are doing just that, and many of them are far less well-equipped than you are. Uncle John is in Nevada. He’s bought land there and built a house. He’s planning to raise sheep. When you get your discharge you must join us there.”
“I might do that.”
Suddenly, Major Sykes was there beside them. “Sergeant, I believe you have your duties?”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”
Callaghen did an about-face and walked away, but he was irritated. Not at Sykes, who had a right to speak as he did, but at his bad luck to have Malinda come here at just this time. And she was en route to Nevada!
She had lived much of her life with her Uncle John McDonald, a man whose better world was always just across the horizon. There were many like him, but he was more fortunate than most, for he had married Aunt Madge, who was perfectly willing to cross any horizon by his side.
There was a saying in the West that certain men were men to ride the river with… for crossing rivers in flood while on horseback was no job for a tenderfoot. Aunt Madge was a woman to ride the river with. She had just as much eagerness as her husband had to see the other side of the mountain, and she had infinite patience. She also had a certain quiet beauty.
Malinda’s father was a diplomat, often stationed where a young daughter without a mother could be a problem. As a result, she had spent much of her time with the McDonalds, and some of their philosophy had rubbed off on her.
The desert sun was setting. The stage would remain here at Camp Cady overnight, and then move on to the next station. It was no trip for women. John McDonald was hardened to the West and to western ways, but sometimes he forgot that frontier traveling was not exactly simple for women, especially for ladies of good breeding.
Callaghen swore softly. If he were free now, he could ride on with them. The trail to Las Vegas, the nearest settlement, was long and difficult, with the danger of attack from Indians. And even at Las Vegas there was no real safety.
After the Mormons abandoned the place in 1857 it had been deserted until a rancher named Gass acquired the water rights at Vegas Springs and moved in. During the war soldiers had been stationed there at what was called Fort Baker. At present there were only a few soldiers not more than twenty or thirty men at best.
Did he dare leave without his discharge papers? Despite the fact that his time was up, he might legally be considered a deserter if he left without them, or before he was officially released. And he had no doubt that in such a case Major Sykes’s disciplinary action would be swift and harsh.
He was cleaning his rifle when he heard footsteps. The man who stopped in front of him had polished boots that were only slightly dusty. He looked up into a sharp, angular face.
“You’re Callaghen?”
“That’s right.”
“You were with Lieutenant Allison when he died, I believe?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he say anything before he died? Make any statement?”
Morty Callaghen ran a patch through his rifle barrel, studied it in the dim light, and then replied, “My report was completed and turned into the commanding officer. All such information is his to give out as he sees fit.”
The man, who obviously did not like it, had a gold piece in his hand. Callaghen gathered up his cleaning materials and stood up.
“That information might be important to me,” the man said. He tossed the gold piece in the air and caught it. “That, and where his personal effects are kept.”
Callaghen ignored the gold eagle. His contempt for the man was growing, and he liked him less because he was so foolish as to believe he could bribe Callaghen.
“Allison’s effects,” he replied, “have been sent to his next of kin, as is usual. Also, Allison was not an army officer, but an impostor.”
He started to move away, but the man grasped his arm to spin him around. Callaghen turned swiftly. “Take your hand off my arm,” he said, “or I’ll break it.”
The man jerked his hand away, but his face was harsh with anger. A gun had suddenly appeared in his hand. “You try that,” he said, “and I’ll kill you!”
Callaghen smiled. “My advice to you is to get out of this camp to get out and to stay out. As for killing me… if you ever try that, I’ll take down your pants and give you a spanking in front of the whole camp. You aren’t man enough to kill anybody who is facing you.”
The man drew himself up. “I am Kurt Wylie!” He threw the name at Callaghen like a whiplash.
Callaghen merely looked at him. “I’ve heard of you,” he said quietly. “Somebody said you killed a couple of drunks.”
Wylie reacted as if struck. His hand dropped, and Callaghen’s right fist shot out. The punch was short, sharp, and hard. Wylie’s heels flew up and he hit the dust on his shoulder blades, his gun flying from his hand to land a dozen feet away.
Sykes’s voice sounded cold and hard, as he came striding across the compound. “Callaghen! What the hell is going on over here?”
He stopped abruptly when he saw Wylie lying in the dust. The light was dim, but there was enough for him to see the gun in the dust.
Callaghen stood at attention. “Sir, this man is somewhat unsteady on his feet. He seems to have fallen down.”
“I see.”
Sykes stooped and picked up the gun, looking at it with distaste. “You have peculiar friends, Callaghen.”
“He is no friend of mine, sir.” Then he added, with just a slight note of warning in his tone, “He claims to have been a friend to Allison.”
Wylie was trying to get up, shaking his head to clear it. He fell once, then he got up and brushed himself off.
Sykes said to him, “When the stage leaves in the morning, be on it Until then you are confined to your quarters.”
“You can’t tell me what to do! I’m not in your blasted army!”
“Beamis!” Sykes’s voice rapped out against the stillness. “You are on guard in the compound. There are Indians about. If you see anything moving in the compound, shoot. Do you understand?”
Beamis was pleased. “Yes, sir, I understand. Shall I escort this man to his quarters, sir?”
“If you please.” When they were gone, Sykes took a step nearer to Callaghen. “Sergeant, come with me. I want to know what happened out here.”
In Sykes’s quarters, Callaghen told him, without holding anything back, just what had happened. He did not like Sykes, but this was army business, army responsibility, and something was happening here that might lead to serious trouble.
“And did Allison say anything before he died?”
“No, sir. Only that he regretted not following the Delaware’s advice, sir.”
“What do you know about this man Wylie?”
Callaghen hesitated. “Not very much, really. I believe he’s a gambler, sir, but I could not say for sure. He is reported to travel in some bad company, and he has killed three or four men in gun duels. I believe he rather fancies himself in that capacity, sir.”
“I see.” Sykes looked at him sharply. “And you say he fell down?”
“The light was bad, sir. He made as if to use a gun, and then he seemed to run into something in the dark. The next thing I knew he was lying in the dust.”
“That will be all, Callaghen.”
Callaghen turned to go, then said, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I believe from the description we were given that Kurt Wylie is the man who gave Allison his orders. The men who arrived in company with Allison might be able to say for sure.”
Mercer was on duty as a horse guard, and Callaghen went out to him, was challenged, and replied. Standing close to Mercer he asked, “Were you there when the stage arrived? And did you see the man who got off the stage? The dark man with the broken nose?”
“Yes, sir. That’s the one, Sergeant, who handed those orders to Lieutenant Allison.”
“Thanks, Mercer.”
Just before daybreak Callaghen felt somebody touch his shoulder. “Sergeant? I’m Corporal Williams. Lieutenant Sprague is taking out a patrol, and he would like you to accompany him.”
He dressed in the dark, gathered his equipment, and hurried to the corrals, where his horse was already saddled. He checked his gear. All around him in the dark, men were mounting their horses. Suddenly he felt someone close beside him. It was the Delaware, Jason Stick-Walker. “We go again,” he said. “They say we show them the country, you and me.”