Walsh fell again. Again they helped him up. Callaghen looked at the mountain. By the look of it in the dim light, it was bare, basaltic rock. He glanced off to the right.
“All right.” He had to try twice before he could get the words out. “We’ll turn here.”
Croker fell, trying to climb the fifteen-inch embankment. He struggled up, stared blankly at Callaghen, then steadied himself. “All right, Irish,” he said. “I’m with you.”
Walsh made it, and so did the Delaware. They were out in the open now; a shot struck into the dirt near them and they all knew this was a fight. They dropped to the ground.
“Hold your fire!” Callaghen spoke sharply. “Walsh, you and Croker can load. Try not to get any sand into the actions.”
He waited. His own hands were not steady, his vision was blurred. He was further along toward dehydration than he had thought. He rolled the dry pebble in his mouth. The skin on his hands looked wrinkled… like the hands of a very old man.
An Indian out there moved, and Callaghen fired without looking at his piece; he looked only at the Indian. The Mohave stumbled and fell.
That would put a scare into them. Indians were wise they saw no advantage in a victory bought with the death of their own warriors. They did not believe in losing men to gain ground, or losing a man for any reason if it could be avoided. They were not afraid to die, but they knew that a dead warrior kills no enemies.
“You got him.” The Delaware shaped the words with difficulty. “It is the first for us, I think.”
Callaghen agreed. He had burned one other, he thought, perhaps scratched him a bit. Nobody ever killed as many Indians as he thought he had. When a report came in of Indians killed in battle, he usually discounted it by half.
The sun came up. In that shallow basin between the ridges the heat was unbelievable. He waited, peering about for enemies that never showed themselves. Walsh did not move.
A slow, long hour went by, and then another. Callaghen lay on the sand. He should move, he knew, for the heat was more intense down here. He should move, but he could not.
Yet he must. They must try for the water. “All right,” he said aloud, and nobody stirred. “We will go now,” he said, but there was no movement, no response.
Summoning all his strength, he pushed himself up. He got to his knees and slugged the Delaware. “Get up, damn you!” he managed. “Get up!”
The Delaware got up, swaying on his feet. Then he helped Croker to his feet, and between them they got Walsh up. Callaghen stood erect. The weight of the spare rifle, slung across his back, was almost more than he could stand. With his own rifle in hand, he peered around.
Only rocks and sand, sand and rocks. Sand, white and pink and dirty gray, and above them the sullen rocks. He turned squarely right. “March!” he said, and the sound was choked and hoarse from his dry throat. He tried to swallow, and found he could not. He stepped out, almost fell, but then walked on.
Staggering, the others followed.
Suddenly a rider appeared, then another. The Mohaves were closing in; they thought they had them now.
“Come on,” Callaghen muttered. “Maybe not with a rifle, but with this pistol ”
The men behind him had stopped, but he turned, got behind them and drove them on, cursing hoarsely, waving his rifle.
Befuddled as he was, he could still see there were no tracks. Tracks meant water, they were fingers pointing the way to it; no tracks meant no water… But there hadto be water.
He peered ahead, and saw that the Indians were not much over two hundred yards off now.
He plodded on, keeping the men together. Eagle Mountain was on his left now, and still no tracks. He fought back his dismay, and realized that his eyes were blurred.
Heat waves shimmered between himself and the Indians; even the mountain seemed unreal, lacking substance. Walsh was down again, and Callaghen stopped while the others got him up. He waited, his rifle up and threatening. Again they started on.
The Delaware turned toward him. “See? It is in the mesquite. Right ahead.”
Past the point of rocks was a clump of mesquite, green and lovely. Certainly water could not be far… The Mohaves were closer now.
“Be ready,” Callaghen said. “After I fire, you fire, but give me a little time to reload.” He looked at the others. “Can you fire?” he asked Croker.
“Try me,” the wounded man replied grimly. Walsh stared at him dumbly, but he unslung his rifle. Well, he might not hit anything, but the act of firing itself would help.
They moved ahead and the Mohaves came closer. Deliberately Callaghen stopped, dropped to one knee on the blistering sand and held his rifle on the nearest Indian.
The man reined his horse around, dropped onto the far side of it, and rode on.
“Go ahead,” he told the others. “Head for the mesquite.”
He did not think the Indians knew about the pistol. He was saving that, hoping to draw them in close enough to get two or three before they could get away.
Only one of the Indians seemed to have a rifle. The others needed to get within bow shot, and he had heard somewhere that such weapons were not very effective unless within sixty yards. And at that distance, with a pistol, he knew what he could do.
They were brave men brave, but not foolish. They wanted him dead, but most of all they wanted to be alive. They were wary of him, for he had shot one of them and killed him. He had wounded another, at least slightly. So he did not shoot now, but waited, letting them think about what he might do.
The soldiers ahead were beginning to hurry. He got up and walked on to join them. The water hole was supposed to be in that clump of mesquite, yet he had still seen no tracks. Nor were there bees, an almost certain indication of water if the bees were flying toward it.
He faced the situation calmly. He had been close to death too many times not to know that he was living on borrowed time. If there was water there they would drink, and if there was no water they would die. There was no chance of going farther, at least not for Walsh, and perhaps not for Croker.
He had been watching carefully, and he did not believe there were more than eight or ten Indians. They had water and they had horses and this was their country, over which they must have traveled before this, so the advantage was theirs. They had no need to return to a distant post; they had no need to report to a superior officer. The horses gave them mobility and they could ride far to water and ride back again, while the soldiers must move slowly, and with great care.
Some of the Mohaves were closing in again, but the soldiers kept moving. Suddenly one Indian dashed at Callaghen, but as he lifted his rifle the Indian wheeled and rode away. Behind him a yell sounded, and another Indian charged.
“Hold your fire!” Callaghen warned. “They want us to empty our guns so they can close in and wipe us out.”
Deliberately he fell back to cover the retreat of the others. Croker was helping Walsh. The Delaware, rifle at the ready, was walking backwards, watching the Indians.
They came again in short, quick dashes, then wheeled to ride away. They raised up from their crude saddles and slapped their behinds derisively, taunting the white soldiers to get them to fire. Suddenly Indians on one side began to ride nearer. All eyes were on them. Alleyes… !
Realizing that this was what the Indians wanted for all eyes to be directed on them so the others could close in, Callaghen whirled. As he did so, they charged. He did not drop to one knee, but fired quickly, almost offhand.
His first shot caught a charging Indian full in the chest, knocking him backwards off his horse. At the same instant Callaghen dropped his rifle, drew his six-shooter, and fired, one, two, three!
An Indian pitched over with the first shot, a second wheeled his horse and took the bullet in the shoulder and side. The third was shot in the head. From behind him he heard a shot, and another, and then the desert was empty, the Indians gone, except one who lay sprawled and dead on the desert. Holstering the pistol, Callaghen followed after the others, loading his rifle as he walked.
Croker stared at him. “Man, that was shootin’! I never seen the like!”