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

Indians behind you, man. Drive on. You can rest your horses farther along. I’ll scout ahead for you.”
    Callaghen went to the coach. Malinda was there, and her aunt, but Kurt Wylie was, too, and the dark man who had come with him to Camp Cady. “You’ll be all right,” he told Malinda, and rode on ahead.
    The mountain lifted two to three thousand feet above them in what seemed to be a solid wall, but these desert ranges were all short, up-thrusts made during some violent time in the earth’s building. The Indians would be watching for them…by day they would find their tracks, no doubt, and then they would come running.
    For three miles Callaghen led the way; then he turned into a cove of the mountain and stopped. Dismounting, he waited for the stage to catch up.
    The trail, such as it was, had never been used by a wheeled vehicle before, that was obvious, but Ridge was a hand with the lines and he tooled his team nicely, taking his time.
    Wylie was the first man down from the stage. He walked up to Callaghen. “You, is it? I’ve been wanting to see you.”
    Ridge turned sharply. “Whatever you’ve got in mind, forget it. Just now we need all the help we can get.”
    In a hollow among the rocks, where they were concealed except from someone who stood right above them, Callaghen put together a small fire. “Have you coffee?” he asked. “It will put everybody’s spirits up.”
    The coffee was produced. The man who had ridden the box brought down a basket and began to prepare food. Malinda came to the fire and stretched her fingers toward it. Aunt Madge moved in briskly, pushing the guard aside. “Leave that to someone who knows how,” she said. “You’ve done a-plenty today.”
    Ridge squatted on his heels, holding a piece of hardtack in his mouth to soften it. “You know where we are?” he asked.
    Callaghen took up a small stick and drew a line to the northeast. “These are the Old Dads. Somewhere over in there is Marl Springs. There should be three or four men at Marl. There’s water there, and supplies for emergencies.”
    “I’ve heard of it,” Ridge said. “I never drove that route.”
    “When the patrol doesn’t find you or me, I think they will turn about and ride to Marl. That was on their route, anyway. With luck, they’ll be there when we arrive…or shortly after.”
    “All right,” Ridge said, “I’ll go along.” He thrust a couple of roots into the fire. “You see the Injuns?”
    “Swapped some shots,” Callaghen said. “I don’t know how many there were, but we counted the tracks of a dozen to fifteen before we started over to help you.”
    “That’s a-plenty—more than a-plenty.”
    Callaghen was tired. He got up and went over to his horse, stripped the saddle from its back and rubbed it with a handful of galleta grass. He held his canteen in his hand, but decided to wait until morning to drink. He led his horse deep into the cove and drove the picket-pin down solidly. When he got back to the fire, the coffee was ready.
    The guard, whose name was Becker, gestured toward the food. “Beats army rations, don’t it, Sarge? I done my time on them desecrated vegetables, hardtack, and salt pork. In an outfit with a good Company Fund where you can buy extry, it ain’t so bad.”
    The coffee was good. Callaghen held his cup in both hands, listening to the talk around the camp. He was thinking he had better get some sleep.
    Malinda came over to him. “What about your discharge, Mort? Has it come through?”
    “It should have,” he said. “I expect I’ll get it fast enough when it comes. Sykes will want to be rid of me.”
    “When it does come, what will you do?”
    He shrugged. “I’ve saved a little. I’ll have to make a start somewhere. The trouble is, all I know is soldiering.”
    Malinda put her hand on his sleeve. “Morty Callaghen, that’s not true, and you know it. You’ve handled men, you understand administration, you know something about law…there’s a