Deliberately, he chose soft sand. The hard surface nearer by was easier walking, but it made more sound. He followed the route of a tiny desert runoff. When he had walked perhaps a hundred steps he paused. No sound… He waited a moment, and then, scowling, he went on another short distance… He paused again and listened. He heard the sound again, a little clearer now.
Suddenly it came to him. It was the sound of a wagon… it might be the stage. If it was the stage, Malinda was on it… or she had been. He strained his ears to get the sound of the wheels.
All wheel sounds are not alike. The weight of a wagon and the size of its wheels change the effect. A narrow rim makes a sound different from that of a wider rim; a heavy wagon rumbles. What he had first heard must have been the slide of the wheels when the driver applied brakes going into a wash or down a small slope.
Now he could hear the strike of iron-shod hoofs on stones, the creak of suspension straps. His greatest danger at present was in getting shot, either by Indians, or by somebody on the stage itself who saw him loom suddenly out of the dark.
The stage appeared, the horses climbing first out of a small gully, then the head of the driver followed by the coach. He held his horse’s nostrils and waited for the stage to pass. It was moving slowly, and a man was sitting beside the driver, rifle in hand.
When the stage had gone past, Callaghen took his hand from the nostrils of his horse. After a moment the stage reached the top of the small knoll and the driver drew up to rest his horses. Just then Callaghen’s horse whinnied.
The man with the rifle turned sharply around, and the driver called, “Who’s that?”
Callaghen spoke distinctly. “It’s the army, or part of it.”
“Come in slow. Keep your hands empty.”
Then he heard Malinda speak. “That’s Morty! It’s Morty!”
He walked up, leading his horse. “Looks to me like you’re off your trail,” he said mildly. “What happened?”
The driver was Johnny Ridge, whom Callaghen had seen around the camp on several occasions. The man beside him was a stranger.
“Injuns,” was the answer. “We spotted them moving to head us off, so when the stage was out of sight behind a mountain we pulled off the trail and tried to circle around, but we got ourselves bogged down and found our way cut off.”
“The patrol’s somewhere ahead of us,” Callaghen said, “but I think your best bet, Ridge, is to follow along the base of the mountain, keeping clear of the sand of the Devil’s Playground, until we can find a pass through to the east.”
“And how far will that be?” Ridge asked doubtfully.
Callaghen shrugged. “This is no great mountain. There’s sure to be a way to the other side.”
“But it’s further from the Vegas trail, and my horses are about played out.”
“You’ve got Indians behind you, man. Drive on. You can rest your horses farther along. I’ll scout ahead for you.”
Callaghen went to the coach. Malinda was there, and her aunt, but Kurt Wylie was, too, and the dark man who had come with him to Camp Cady. “You’ll be all right,” he told Malinda, and rode on ahead.
The mountain lifted two to three thousand feet above them in what seemed to be a solid wall, but these desert ranges were all short, up-thrusts made during some violent time in the earth’s building. The Indians would be watching for them… by day they would find their tracks, no doubt, and then they would come running.
For three miles Callaghen led the way; then he turned into a cove of the mountain and stopped. Dismounting, he waited for the stage to catch up.
The trail, such as it was, had never been used by a wheeled vehicle before, that was obvious, but Ridge was a hand with the lines and he tooled his team nicely, taking his time.
Wylie was the first man down from the stage. He walked up to Callaghen. “You, is it? I’ve been wanting to see you.”
Ridge turned sharply. “Whatever you’ve got in mind, forget it. Just now we need all the help we can get.”
In a hollow among the rocks, where they were concealed except from someone who stood right above them, Callaghen put together a small fire. “Have you coffee?” he asked. “It will put everybody’s spirits up.”
The coffee was produced. The man who had ridden the box brought down a basket and began to prepare food. Malinda came to the fire and stretched her fingers toward it. Aunt Madge moved in briskly, pushing the guard aside. “Leave that to someone who knows how,” she said. “You’ve done a-plenty today.”
Ridge squatted on his heels, holding a piece of hardtack in his mouth to soften it. “You know where we are?” he asked.
Callaghen took up a small stick and drew a line to the northeast. “These are the Old Dads. Somewhere over in there is Marl Springs. There should be three or four men at Marl. There’s water there, and supplies for emergencies.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Ridge said. “I never drove that route.”
“When the patrol doesn’t find you or me, I think they will turn about and ride to Marl. That was on their route, anyway. With luck, they’ll be there when we arrive… or shortly after.”
“All right,” Ridge said, “I’ll go along.” He thrust a couple of roots into the fire. “You see the Injuns?”
“Swapped some shots,” Callaghen said. “I don’t know how many there were, but we counted the tracks of a dozen to fifteen before we started over to help you.”
“That’s a-plenty more than a-plenty.”
Callaghen was tired. He got up and went over to his horse, stripped the saddle from its back and rubbed it with a handful of galleta grass. He held his canteen in his hand, but decided to wait until morning to drink. He led his horse deep into the cove and drove the picket-pin down solidly. When he got back to the fire, the coffee was ready.
The guard, whose name was Becker, gestured toward the food. “Beats army rations, don’t it, Sarge? I done my time on them desecrated vegetables, hardtack, and salt pork. In an outfit with a good Company Fund where you I can buy extry, it ain’t so bad.”
The coffee was good. Callaghen held his cup in both hands, listening to the talk around the camp. He was thinking he had better get some sleep.
Malinda came over to him. “What about your discharge, Mort? Has it come through?”
“It should have,” he said. “I expect I’ll get it fast enough when it comes. Sykes will want to be rid of me.”
“When it does come, what will you do?”
He shrugged. “I’ve saved a little. I’ll have to make a start somewhere. The trouble is, all I know is soldiering.”
Malinda put her hand on his sleeve. “Morty Callaghen, that’s not true, and you know it. You’ve handled men, you understand administration, you know something about law… there’s a lot you could do.”
He looked at her, only half believing. He had never been able to decide what to do, once he left the service. He knew a little of too many things, not enough of anything.
“Sarge?” It was Ridge. “Somebody’s comin’!”
CHAPTER 11
Instantly there was silence. Overhead the stars hung bright in the black sky, and around them the mountain seemed to crouch, waiting. Callaghen stepped from the firelight into the darkness, and stood still, listening.
Ridge moved close to him. “I surely heard something out yonder,” he said softly. “Heard it clear.”
Callaghen heard nothing. Ridge was not a tenderfoot. If he believed he had heard something, that was the way to bet.
They moved farther away from the fire, into the darkness. “Stay close, Ridge. I’ll scout around.” He hesitated, then added, “Keep an eye on Wylie and his partner. I don’t trust them.”
“Heard you had a run-in with Wylie.”
“So did Major Sykes. He’s got something going, but I don’t know what it is.”
The night was cool. Away from the fire, he saw at once how good their choice for a camp had been. At a distance of perhaps sixty steps only a faint glow was visible, and as he moved away that diminished, then disappeared.
The camp was in a cul-de-sac, a break that notched the wall of the mountain, and was screened by a slight bend in the notch as well as by rocks and brush. It was a spot such as might be found at fifty places within as many square miles, no more unusual than any of the others.
He paused when well out toward the open desert. That sound could well have come from up on the mountain itself. A sure-footed man could cross any part of it, although there would be difficulties here and there.