Deliberately, he allowed one of them to close in, and when he turned his horse it was at an angle to cross in front of the Indians, trying to maneuver so only one of them could reach him at a time.
The one Indian was close, and Callaghen turned his head away to give him confidence, timing the steps the Indian must make. When he could have taken three steps, Callaghen turned sharply, drew, and fired.
His bullet was perfectly timed, and it was at point-blank range, for the Indian had just set himself to leap. The bullet struck him in the chest, and instantly Callaghen touched his horse with a spur and leaped away. The shot had been intended not simply to kill an Indian, but to alert Sprague that help was coming such as it was.
He topped out on the dome, a wide-open area around him. He rode toward the rugged ground where the peak rose up above the surrounding country. At the edge of the rocks, he drew up.
He doubted there were Indians here, but he listened for a long moment. Then he walked his horse along the rocks toward the northwest, and crossing the low ridge he drew up again, looking off eastward to the mountain range that edged the sky. There he waited, every sense alert. The chances were that the Indians would suspect him of having ridden right on toward Sprague and his men, and they might pass by these rocks, or signal to those surrounding the soldiers that he was coming.
The night was cool. Dawn would be coming soon. The mountains over there were a good two miles off and over open ground, scattered with Joshua trees, but offering no real cover. The soldiers would have heard his shot, and would know something was happening out there in the dark. He waited, the bulk of his horse and himself merging with the towering rock beside him to leave no outline.
He could feel the horse slowly relaxing, the tenseness leaving his muscles. He opened a canteen and took a small swallow, rinsing his mouth before he let the water trickle down his throat. He was tired. The shirt under his uniform jacket was stiff with dust and sweat. He wanted a bath, a good meal, and forty-eight hours of sleep.
He wanted desperately to sleep, but to sleep now meant to die… and that could mean death as well for the men out there. He reloaded the empty chamber of his pistol, and stepped down from the saddle, resting a reassuring hand on the shoulder of his horse.
He must not risk getting killed by his own outfit as he rode in, and he must get those canteens of water to them, and then lead them to the spring that lay due south from here. It was only a mile from where they were or had been but a mile in the desert is a long way, and they did not even know the spring was there.
Callaghen scouted the rocks close to him. Already it was vaguely lighter, but he saw nothing… nobody. He sat on a flat rock, his back to the rock wall within a few feet of his horse, and tried to think the situation through.
The Indians knew he was out here somewhere. At first they would believe he was in the rocks somewhere near the soldiers, but they would soon guess by the actions of the soldiers that he was still out here. Very soon they would figure out just about where he was. Then they would tighten their circle and come hunting for him, but they would be scattered out enough so that he must face at least some of them. They would be aiming for a kill.
Riding through them would not be easy, and first they would be trying to kill his horse. They would want him on foot, and also they would be wanting the horse for meat. The time to start was now.
He poured a couple of cupfuls of water into his hat and let the horse drink, just enough to freshen him a bit. He petted the animal and talked to him.
“You and me, boy, we’ve got to go through them. I’m counting on you.”
The black nudged him with his nose, and he gathered the reins and stepped into the saddle. He looked at the dark saw-toothed range opposite and started his horse down from the rocks. At their base he hesitated a moment, looking out at the deceptively empty-looking space before him.
A few last stars still hung in the sky. A faint coolness touched his cheek as the wind stirred. The twisted Joshua trees thrust their thick arms at him. He spoke softly to his horse. “All right, boy, let’s go.”
He started to canter. Sitting tall in the saddle, a pistol in his right hand, he rode out into the last dim period before the dawn. His mouth was dry, his heart was beating with heavy throbs. He touched his tongue to his lips, his eyes slanting left and right.
They were waiting for him eagerly, he knew. They wanted him dead, they wanted his guns, they wanted his horse for the meat it would give, and they wanted to stop him from reaching the beleaguered soldiers.
He rode straight into the morning, his gun ready, and death rode with him, almost at his side.
CHAPTER 16
Two miles to go, and then to find where the command had holed up. Callaghen thought they might be of help. If he was attacked there would be shooting, and they might offer supporting fire. All he knew was the report from Garrick, that they were somewhere at the base of the peak before him. If they had not moved.
Now he could see a greater distance. The sky was gray now, and the last star, like a faint distant searchlight, was gone. There was no sound but that of his horse’s hoofs. He started at a canter, covering distance, and riding easy in the saddle. The reins were in his left hand, his drawn pistol in his right.
When he had covered about half a mile there was still nothing in sight. The peak rose high above the surrounding desert, f ailing steeply, at its base. He rode on, and then a mile was behind him. His mouth was dry, his heart was thumping. He slowed his horse to a walk, guiding him gently to avoid any possible dips or shallow places on the desert that might conceal an enemy. Another mile to go. It had to be soon.
His view was good now in all directions. He looked at the base of the mountain, at the rocks there. How long would it take to cover that if he had to run for it? Three minutes? Four?
The ground ahead seemed fairly level, with a gentle downward slope until the last quarter of a mile or less.
His mount seemed to tense a little, looking ahead. The ears were up, the nostrils flared. “All right, boy,” he said quietly, “we both know. When I ask you to run… be ready.”
Again, as in the night, they rose out of the desert. One moment the desert was empty, and the next it was alive with them. Early sunlight gleamed on a rifle barrel… on another.
His eyes swept the desert around him. One, two… four there were ten of them within sight, moving toward him.
Only two of them had rifles, several had bows, and at least one seemed to be carrying only a club. There were four on his left flank, two on his right; three were ahead, and one some distance off further to the right. It was an open invitation to ride into that gap.
“Uh-uh,” he said aloud, “I’ll not buy that.” But he swung the black that way and walked him a good twenty yards; then suddenly, instead of continuing toward the inviting gap, he turned sharply left and slapped the spurs to the horse. It left the ground in a leap and drove in a plunging run toward the four men straight ahead. At the same moment he fired at the nearest Indian. The man broke pace, stumbled, and went to his knees. A gun roared on his left, an arrow struck the pommel, and then they were all around him. A club was thrown by one of them and missed by inches; another grabbed his pants leg and tried to hack at him with a knife, but missed his stride and fell into the sand. Another Indian leaped to the horse behind him and he smashed an elbow into the Indian’s ribs, but a strong arm came over his shoulder and around his throat.
His horse was running all out, frightened and out of control. Callaghen shoved his pistol under his arm and pulled the trigger. There was a heavy jolt and he felt the arm around his throat loosen. Turning the pistol slightly, he pulled the trigger again, heard a grunt, and the grip at his throat let go and the Indian fell.