Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour

night sound carries far. He listened first for sounds close to him, then for those farther out.
    At first he heard nothing, nothing at all. He was about to move on when some sound came to him from far off, a regular, continuing sound. The desert normally has no sound like it. Even the sound of the wind has changes.
    This was a sound of something moving…not exactly dragging, yet not unlike that. He heard it, and then there was silence.
    The sound had come from the north, perhaps a little east of north. Callaghen’s horse had heard it, too. His ears were up and he was looking in that direction, nostrils flaring for scent.
    “We’ll go see,” Callaghen said softly.
    Callaghen’s eyes had been picking out ways to move from where he was, and now he chose one of them. He did not mount, not wanting to offer too much of a silhouette to whatever or whoever might be out there, and he did not reach for his carbine, which was slung to the pommel. He would get close enough for a hand gun, and now he unbuttoned a button of his blouse, eased the butt of the gun there toward the opening, and then went ahead.
    Deliberately, he chose soft sand. The hard surface nearer by was easier walking, but it made more sound. He followed the route of a tiny desert runoff.
    When he had walked perhaps a hundred steps he paused. No sound…He waited a moment, and then, scowling, he went on another short distance.…He paused again and listened. He heard the sound again, a little clearer now.
    Suddenly it came to him. It was the sound of a wagon…it might be the stage. If it was the stage, Malinda was on it…or she had been. He strained his ears to get the sound of the wheels.
    All wheel sounds are not alike. The weight of a wagon and the size of its wheels change the effect. A narrow rim makes a sound different from that of a wider rim; a heavy wagon rumbles. What he had first heard must have been the slide of the wheels when the driver applied brakes going into a wash or down a small slope.
    Now he could hear the strike of iron-shod hoofs on stones, the creak of suspension straps. His greatest danger at present was in getting shot, either by Indians, or by somebody on the stage itself who saw him loom suddenly out of the dark.
    The stage appeared, the horses climbing first out of a small gully, then the head of the driver followed by the coach. He held his horse’s nostrils and waited for the stage to pass. It was moving slowly, and a man was sitting beside the driver, rifle in hand.
    When the stage had gone past, Callaghen took his hand from the nostrils of his horse. After a moment the stage reached the top of the small knoll and the driver drew up to rest his horses. Just then Callaghen’s horse whinnied.
    The man with the rifle turned sharply around, and the driver called, “Who’s that?”
    Callaghen spoke distinctly. “It’s the army, or part of it.”
    “Come in slow. Keep your hands empty.”
    Then he heard Malinda speak. “That’s Morty! It’s Morty!”
    He walked up, leading his horse. “Looks to me like you’re off your trail,” he said mildly. “What happened?”
    The driver was Johnny Ridge, whom Callaghen had seen around the camp on several occasions. The man beside him was a stranger.
    “Injuns,” was the answer. “We spotted them moving to head us off, so when the stage was out of sight behind a mountain we pulled off the trail and tried to circle around, but we got ourselves bogged down and found our way cut off.”
    “The patrol’s somewhere ahead of us,” Callaghen said, “but I think your best bet, Ridge, is to follow along the base of the mountain, keeping clear of the sand of the Devil’s Playground, until we can find a pass through to the east.”
    “And how far will that be?” Ridge asked doubtfully.
    Callaghen shrugged. “This is no great mountain. There’s sure to be a way to the other side.”
    “But it’s further from the Vegas trail, and my horses are about played out.”
    “You’ve got