The river had to be not far away. Perhaps north of here. He finished his cup and threw the dregs into the coals.
CHAPTER 17
Malinda awoke suddenly, the sound of a shot ringing in her ears. Her first thought was of Mort.
Swiftly, she was out of bed and dressing. Half of the room had been curtained off for Aunt Madge and herself, the other half was given over to supplies and ammunition. Sergeant MacBrody had thoughtfully left a guard on duty outside.
Aunt Madge was awake too. “You think it is Callaghen coming back? It is too soon, honey. It may take him days to find them… and at least a day to return. It can’t be him.”
“I guess not.” Malinda felt deflated, but not entirely so. It mightbe Mort. And the Indians would surely try to prevent his return, and there would be shooting.
After another minute a second and a third shot followed. These sounded closer… right outside, in fact.
Aunt Madge was dressing. “I’ll make some coffee for the boys,” she said. “They’ll be needing it.”
Mahnda opened the door and stepped out. A soldier was sprawled on the ground, Ridge bending over him. He looked up at her question.
“It’s Sampson, ma’am. He started across the yard an’ some sharpshootin’ Injun cashed him in.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes, ma’am, and that ain’t all. Spencer deserted in the night, and Wylie and Champion with him, and four horses.”
“You mean they got away? Without any trouble?”
MacBrody, who was close to them now, answered. “Well, we heard no shootin’. They must have found some place where the Injuns couldn’t watch, or they just had luck. Anyway, they’re gone, and with Sampson dead our force is cut right in half. Garrick is in no shape for duty, and Sutton’s down with the fever, which leaves the Stick-Walker and me.”
Ridge looked at him. “What about me? And Becker?”
“Aw, you’re bloody civilians, an’ we’re here to protect you!”
“And likely the civilians will pull you out of the soup,” Ridge commented. “When the shooting starts, you’ll see what bloody civilians can do… beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Ridge said, glancing at Malinda.
“I can shoot,” she said quietly, “and although I’m a civilian I’m an army brat, so I’ll be on both your sides. So will Aunt Madge.”
Aunt Madge was busy at the fire, and the others were keeping close to the walls, away from the center of the enclosure. Becker, rifle in hand, was watching the peak for a shot.
“Sergeant,” Malinda said suddenly, “did you know Morty Callaghen in the old country?” Malinda asked MacBrody.
“No, ma’am, I knew of him. He was an O’Callaghan then. And I notice he writes the name with an ‘e’ now instead of the ‘a.’ That sort of thing happens when a man’s name is misspelled by some clerk.
“But names have all changed down the years. There’s many a Sutton or Chester who was Irish as Paddy’s pig in the beginning. There’s hardly a man alive whose name hasn’t been changed more than once since men first had surnames.
“The Mac on my name means ‘the son of,’ and the same it is with Fitz, only the Fitz wasn’t Irish, it was Norman. And many a man took the name of a clan when he was not of the original family at all.”
This was MacBrody on one of his favorite subjects, talking at length, as always.
“Mort now, he was a genuine O’Callaghan, the son of a father who had been a leader of a clan that went back into history for centuries. The Irish were a fighting lot and might have whipped the British a dozen times over if they could have stopped fighting amongst themselves, but they wouldn’t put aside their old hatreds, and some of thern invited the Danes to help, and a sorry day it was.”
“You know a lot of your history, Sergeant,” Malinda said.
“No more than many an Irishman, and not as much as Mort. It was taught in the darkness by the hedges or old stone walls, along with a lot of other learning. They were the only schools we had, and those not permitted if the law learned of them.
“The O’Callaghans, now, were wild geese who flew away to the wars in France, Austria, or Spain, and there was many another. Sometimes they came back, often they died on foreign fields, and sometimes they married and stayed abroad, as Mort is likely to do.”
“Why do you say that?”
He grinned at her slyly. “Aw now, ma’am, you wouldn’t be foolin’ a man, would you? I’ve seen the look in your eye, and in his. You can be sure that if he goes back to the old country it’ll be you he has with him.”
The day drew on. The sun was hot. No breeze stirred. The horses were restless, wanting to be out and grazing, but they dared not risk it. Twice, bullets came into the corral, and once an arrow, which cut through Ridge’s sleeve as he was crossing to the other stone house.
“I’m worried about McDonald,” Aunt Madge said. “It would be like him to come looking for me.”
“He’ll not come,” Malinda replied. “I think he’s wise enough to stay, and to wait.”
Becker watered the horses, waiting for the water to trickle into the basins, and it was a slow thing, watching that water. There was little food left, for Spencer, Wylie, and Champion had managed to carry off a week’s rations for themselves.
“If I could only get a shot at one of them!” Ridge complained.
“They ain’t fools,” Becker said dryly. “They ain’t there to get shot.”
Nothing moved out there only the heat waves shimmering, only a bee buzzing, the sound adding to the oppression of the heat. Within the stone cabins it was cooler. Garrick opened his eyes as Malinda came up to his cot. “Is there word? I mean, from Lieutenant Sprague and them?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. He was very young, and his features were gaunt from pain. “They were bad off… mighty bad off.”
“Callaghen has gone to them. He took some water.”
Ridge came in with a cup of broth. “You want to feed him, miss? We’ve got to get some strength into him.”
“Of course.”
He stood in the shadows just inside the door, looking out toward the northeast. “Nothing out there,” he said. “But they’d travel by night, anyway.”
“Will they make it, Johnny?”
He shrugged. “You said you were army, so you know what the odds are. Some get back, and some don’t.” He paused. “It seems to me we should be hearing from Camp Cady. Lieutenant Sprague is overdue back there, and Sykes isn’t the man to put up with that. And from what I hear,” he added, “the Major is spoiling for a fight.”
Ten miles or so to the east, squatted beside Mexican Water Spring, Kurt Wylie, Champion, and Spencer were feeling pleased with themselves. “You were right, Champ,” Wylie said. “Those Injuns want that fort more than they want us. Anyway, we got away scot free.”
“Looks like it.” Champion was more knowing, and less optimistic. He was quite sure one of the reasons they got away was because the Indians wanted fewer men at the post. He was also sure that had they started back toward Camp Cady or on toward where Sprague might be, they would have been attacked. Their route had led across the valley toward the east, and that way held no danger for the Indians. “Let’s wait an’ see,” he added.
Spencer was free of the army, which was what he wanted. He was a man of less than modest intelligence, and he had listened eagerly to the glib, easy talk of Wylie. A possible chance of finding gold was a lure he was not prepared to resist. He did not like the strict discipline at Marl Springs, or Sergeant MacBrody, who was a tough, no-nonsense man. He was well content to be away.
“We’ve got to find Callaghen if we can,” Wylie said. “I’d bet every dollar I own that he has a copy of that map. Croker thought so, and he surely had the chance.”
“You should have gotten a copy from Allison.”
“It wasn’t that simple.” Wylie did not develop the subject, and Champion let it go.
Champion looked around them. The steep slope of Columbia Mountain was to the east, clad with scattered cedar and occasional pines. It tapered off toward the north and there was a saddle over which they might ride into Gold Valley. He took another drink from the spring and got up, wiping the water from his mouth. “No use to set here,” he said. “Them Injuns might change their minds.”
All three mounted and Champion led the way over the saddle and into the basin beyond. Table Mountain and the Twin Buttes loomed against the skyline some five miles off. Champion looked warily at the flat-topped mountain. The Indians knew it and used it for a lookout, for it lifted over a thousand feet above the surrounding country, higher than anything within miles.