He expected Indians, and that was the trouble, for the mind must be always open and alert, excluding no possibility.
A curious deer or mountain sheep will not move as does a prowling mountain lion or coyote, and the movements of men are different, too. A white man wears shoes or boots; the hard leather tends to scuff upon rock, to bear down too heavily on dead grass or leaves, in a way which the Indian’s soft moccasin does not, and a white man’s clothing is likely to make rustling noises in his movements, or against rocks and brush.
Callaghen thought of none of this. He simply listened. He had stopped, as he always did, where his body made no outline against the night, merging with a tall grease-wood and a clump of staghorn cactus.
Suddenly, standing alone at the edge of the desert moonlight, silent in the stillness, Callaghen knew it was here he was going to stay. How, he did not know, for around him was desolation, yet a desolation that spoke to him in the softness of the wind, in the bareness of the mountains. But he knew at that moment that he would not leave the desert… or leaving, he would return.
He had known deserts before, but somehow it was to this particular desert he wanted to return. Here he wished to stay. Wind stirred the sand out there on the timeless dunes.
He heard it then, some slight sound in the sand… then silence. He held himself still, hardly breathing for fear that might blot out a sound he was listening for. Again it came! Somebody or something was out there. Then he heard a low, shuddering moan, and he left the shadow of the brush with a quick stride.
He saw the man lying on the sand before he reached him, and was still half a dozen yards away when he realized who it was… the Delaware! It was The Stick-Walker.
He went to him quickly, stooped and lifted him from the sand, and carried him back to the fire. “Water,” he said to Aunt Madge. “Water first.”
There was no sign of a wound, but there was evidence that the Delaware had walked for miles his shoes were in frightful shape.
Wylie stared at them. “Why would a man go into the desert with shoes like that?”
“His shoes weren’t like that,” Callaghen replied shortly. “He was riding with me only a short while ago. That’s what lava does to shoes. He’s crossed the lava beds getting to us.”
Aunt Madge touched the Indian’s lips with water, and let a drop trickle down his throat. He gasped, and struggled up to his elbow, Callaghen helping. The Delaware took another swallow of water.
He looked around, his eyes staring. Comprehension came suddenly when he saw Callaghen. “We thought you were dead,” he said.
“Where’s the command?”
“Gone… all gone.”
“Killed?”
“I do not know. I don’t think so.” He looked at Aunt Madge and the others. “We were attacked and took shelter; we returned the fire… After a while one of our men moved. He was killed instantly… three arrows, two in his throat. We thought we heard shooting to the north” he glanced at Callaghen “that was you, I think.”
“I did my share.”
The Delaware drank again; then when helped to his feet he walked to the fire where Aunt Madge had prepared some soup.
“I wanted to look for you,” he told Callaghen, “but Sprague refused. He had lost enough men, he said, and he must risk no more. Hours passed. There had been shots, but not many. We were not sure if we were pinned down there or not. I volunteered to scout their position, and after a while he let me go.
“There had been at least a dozen Indians… all gone. I found cartridge cases from their firing, and I found tracks. They were not mounted. I took a chance and went north. I knew I would be gone longer than Sprague would think necessary, but I wanted to know about you.”
“Thanks, amigo.”
The Delaware swallowed some of the soup. “I found where you had been,” he said, “and I was sure some men had died, but there were no bodies, and there was not you, so I went back to join the command, only it was no longer there. They had vanished… there were no tracks.”
“Over the rocks behind them?”
“Maybe… I started to skirt the rocks, going the way as I believed they would go, and I came upon the tracks of the stage… and of the Indians. So I went into the lava beds.
“There were places to hide there, but no Indians would travel there unless there was no other way. I followed a wash between lava flows, and crossed a wide flow; several times I saw Indians. There were a dozen at first, then four more, then five more.
“I stayed in the lava. There was no way I could get around them to the stage, so I crossed the trail behind them and got into the mountains. The stage had turned along the western face of the mountains, and I came in from the east.”
“What about the Indians?” Ridge asked. “They’re out there, you can be sure of that. I do not think they have found where you are, but when morning comes they will.”
“We’re going to Marl Springs,” Callaghen said.
“Then go now. Do not wait until morning.”
Callaghen considered, then said, “We’ll go back and rest,” he said. “We’ve got five good hours of darkness ahead of us, but the stock needs rest and so do we. We’ll start before daylight.”
They let the fire die down. All of them stretched out on blankets and slept. Wylie stood watch first, then Becker.
Becker shook Callaghen awake, when the stars were still large in the sky. “Sarge? Time’s a-wastin’.”
He sat up, pulled on his boots and checked his gun, then rolled his blanket and took it to his horse. In a matter of minutes he was saddled and bridled, ready to go. At the fire he said to Becker, “Wake them up.”
There were still coals, and the blackened coffeepot was still hot. He filled a cup, held it in his chilled fingers, and drank. There was no nonsense and no delaying in either Malinda or Aunt Madge both had lived too much in army camps. In fifteen minutes they moved out, cautiously, to make no more sound than necessary. Callaghen led off, walking his horse. The Delaware rode inside.
After a few minutes they dipped through a dry wash, came up on the other side, and found a dim trail leading southwest, the one they had followed the evening before along the face of the mountain.
They traveled an hour… perhaps four miles at the pace they were taking, and then a gap opened in the range. He dropped back beside Ridge. “Wait here.”
He rode ahead swiftly, and when well into the opening he dismounted and struck a light. He found tracks, going and coming, and he had an idea that it was a pass. A little further on he found the tracks of wheeled vehicles. He rode back to the stage, and it followed him into the pass. On his left the cliff rose steeply for several hundred feet; on the right it was just as high, but not quite so steep.
It was darker in the pass. Callaghen kept well ahead of the sounds of the moving stage so that he could listen, but he heard nothing. The sky overhead was growing gray. Before them loomed a tremendous rock wall, blacking out the sky ahead of them but the trail curved around it, straightening out to a general northeast direction.
He had no idea how far they were from Marl Springs, but it must be at least several hours away. He looked around. The stage was coming on, Ridge tooling his teams over the trail, saving them wherever possible. Callaghen dropped back.
“Want to give them a chance to rest?”
“I’d better.” Ridge drew them in, and then as they stood, stamping and blowing, he asked, “We going to have to run for it, Sarge?”
It was light enough to see now, and within minutes the Indians, if they had not already done so, would find their trail. They had gone about eight miles, and with luck it would take the Indians an hour and a half to come up with them though less if they cut across the mountains to gamble on heading them off. The Indians were not trail-bound as were the stage and Callaghen himself. Make it two hours to come up with them, for the stage would be moving.
“How far to Marl Springs?” Ridge asked. Callaghen hesitated, trying to remember all he had heard and what he believed. “Twelve… maybe fifteen miles,” he answered.
“Then we’ll have to fight. All right, let’s go.” They moved out, Callaghen scouting well ahead. The coolness of the deeper canyon was behind them and the space between the mountain ridges was widening out. A long, comb-like ridge about four hundred feet high and very steep, cut them off. They must follow the trail around it.