They broke through the mesquite, and saw a bare patch of sand, a basin of cracked mud, and no water.
No water…
CHAPTER 3
Despair gripped Callaghen for a moment. “Croker,” he said, “get back there with your rifle. The Mohaves knew about this, and they may hang back for a time, but they’ll be coming on.”
“I do not think so,” the Delaware said. “I think it has cost them too much, and they will not risk your shooting again.”
Callaghen sat down and carefully reloaded his pistol. As he did so he considered the situation. This basin was at the lowest point around. It lay at the end of a ridge of rocks where a spring might conceivably be, surrounded by mesquite and a healthy growth of salt grass. The place was a natural catch basin for water draining off the rocky ridges around it.
“The mesquite is an indicator of ground water. So is salt grass.” Callaghen spoke slowly, for his tongue felt swollen and clumsy, and his lips were cracked.
The Delaware looked at him with dull eyes. Walsh sprawled on the sand, making no sound. He lay in shade under the mesquite growth which towered six to seven feet above him.
Callaghen’s own head seemed not to be working too Well, but he tried to focus his attention on recalling what he knew about this plant. While it was regarded as a sure indicator of water, the roots might penetrate fifty feet into the earth. On the other hand, the roots of salt grass rarely went beyond ten feet, and the water table where the salt grass grew was often less than three feet beneath the surface.
He put down his rifle, unslung the spare he had carried, and went into the basin. Throwing aside the slabs of cracked mud, he began to dig. The earth at the bottom was sand and clay, and it was very dry dry as a buffalo skull that has lain twenty years out on the prairie.
On his knees, he worked with his hands, digging, he did not think about the parched earth. He did not think about the sting of the alkali when it got into cuts on his hands; he thought only of the water below.
Croker came back, staring dully at him, intent on his digging. “You waste your time. We are dead men,” he said.
Callaghen did not look up. “Get back to your duty,” he said hoarsely. “Watch for the Mohaves.”
“They are gone.”
“Go back and watch for them!”
Croker did not move. “You are not an officer. You have no authority here.”
Callaghen stood up stiffly and turned around. “Croker, you’ve got one chance to live. You get back to your job, or I’ll kill you.”
Croker hesitated, but then he turned and went back through the mesquite, and Callaghen dropped to his knees again.
He was a tall man, with wide shoulders, a well setup man who ordinarily moved easily and with some grace. Around the post he was something of a mystery. Everyone knew that his enlistment period would soon be over. When he enlisted he had given his home as Boston. He had twice been advanced to sergeant and had twice been broken back to private, each time for fighting. He was known among those who served with him as a rough fighter, a good man to leave alone.
He drank rarely and sparingly, read a great deal, and had few real friends, although he was friendly enough. He rarely spoke of himself. He was proficient with all weapons, and was a superb horseman.
Croker, who had served with him for more than a year, had never known him to receive mail. He was really a loner. Many a man who joined the Indian-fighting army did so because he wished to disappear… and the rate of desertion was high.
Now he continued to dig steadily. A foot… two feet. The hole was still dry, and he was gasping for breath. The heat, the lack of water, and the long exhausting march had taken their toll, but he went on digging. Finally the Delaware came and pushed him aside, and after that they took turns.
Callaghen was down four feet before he felt dampness in the earth. He grunted suddenly and began digging harder. The sand grew damper, and finally it began actually to ooze water. The Delaware pressed his face against the sand thrown up at the edge, feeling its coolness.
Callaghen went on digging. The work was harder now, for the sand was firmly packed, but he gouged out great handfuls and tossed them on the growing bank. At last he sat back, hands hanging, and watched. Slowly, water began to seep into the hole.
He dipped up a little, and touched his lips with it, letting a few drops fall on his tongue. A drop or two went down his throat, and he felt a delicious coolness go all through him. When he could get a few mouthfuls down his throat, he took up his rifle and walked out to where Croker sat. “Go on back for a while,” he said. “There’s water there.”
Croker stared at him, incredulous. Then he scrambled to his feet, and fell. He got up slowly, and went back through the mesquite. Callaghen sat down and let his eyes sweep the terrain before him. Their position was not a bad one, the only real danger lying in the rocks behind them. But he detected no movement there.
They were going to make it back. Of that he could feel sure now. None of them was in shape for a long march, but with water they could make it; once they filled their canteens he doubted the Mohaves would follow them… unless their numbers were greatly increased.
He began to think out a route, estimating the distances they must make, and the time it would take. It was time that they must think of. With luck they could find more water on the way, but they would have long marches, and no food.
The Mohaves really seemed to have gone. He studied the land ahead of them. There was a spring in the Ibex Mountains to the southeast, he knew. Trying to recall what he had learned from listening to Indians, to travelers, trappers, and occasional prospectors, he decided the spring must be twelve to fifteen miles away, a difficult walk for men in their condition, but now that they had water it was possible.
After a while he went back to the water hole. It was half filled with muddy water now, and he drank sparingly. Croker was lying on his face, his head on his arm, asleep. The Delaware was sitting back, his head tilted against a rock. Walsh was sleeping.
“You brought us through,” the Indian said quietly. “You are a good man, Callaghen. I think you have been an officer before this.”
“We have a long way to go,” was Callaghen’s reply. He squatted on his heels where he could watch the approach from under the brush. “Do you know Ibex Spring?” he asked.
“I have heard of it. I have not been there.”
“Can you do twelve miles?”
“Yes, I think so. With water, we can go as far as you wish.” He brought his head into position. “You are a good man with a gun, Callaghen, and you are a good leader. You knew about mesquite and salt grass as indicators of water. What else do you know?”
“That I am tired, and it is your turn to go on watch.” The Delaware got up and stretched. The water in the hole was clearing as the silt settled to the bottom, and he drank long and deep, then drank once again.
When he got up, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think the lieutenant should have talked to you,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you not know that he questioned everybody about the desert? He was a very young man, and he wanted to know a great deal.”
“He was a shrewd young man, then. That’s one way of learning.” Callaghen paused. “When one is to travel in a new area, one had better learn all he can.”
The Delaware smiled. “I suppose so, but that did not account for all of his questions.”
The Indian left him, and after Callaghen drank again he lay down on the sand. Night would soon be here. He thought of his feet. He should bathe them, but he was afraid if he took his boots off he would never get them on again, for his feet would swell. They were blistered, he knew, and it must be the same with the feet of all the others.
What had the Delaware meant about the questions the lieutenant had asked, he wondered. It was natural for a man who was new to a country to ask questions.