Novel 1972 - Callaghen (v5.0) Read Online Free

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