Daylight came noticeably earlier along the Mogollon Rim. O’Callan and Brannigan rose early and feasted heartily on the sumptuous rations brought along by Red Clay and his gang. Squirrels scampered about, chittering saucily. Jays and crows made insulting noises that echoed in the canyon. The two soldiers could hardly believe that only the night before they had bested this band of outlaws and reclaimed their gold find. Both had killed many times. That part didn’t bother them.
That such lawlessness, greed, and inhumanity could be spawned by the mere presence of a yellow metal, difficult to find and hard to reap, yet plentiful by all appearances, somehow depressed the both of them. That he had been compelled to take the lives of four men to protect the rights to a vein of that metal dampened even Terry O’Callan’s spirits. He said little until after their ample breakfast.
“I suppose we ought to be gatherin’ up the bodies and cartin’ ’em back down to Slaughter,” O’Callan suggested offhandedly.
“Now why would ye be wantin’ to do that? Do ye figger there’s bound to be a passel of grievin’ relatives to care far the poor souls? Chances are, Terry, we’d wind up havin’ to pay for their funerals oursel’s. That bein’ the case, I’d as leave dig a hole here and make done with it.”
O’Callan considered it. “Will ye be doin’ the diggin’, Jimmy lad?”
“Who’s the first sergeant and who the troop jack?”
“Ouch, naw! Ye’ve a hard heart, Jimmy Brannigan.
“We’ll take turns, Terry. How’s that?”
Once the mass grave had been dug, occupied, and filled over, the stalwart pair began to take stock of their situation. Rumors that the Mogollon strike was playing out would be proved true if their find could be considered typical. Amid the rubble of rock and mud that lay around camp, they discovered a disappointing reality. The outcrop exposed by the mudslide turned out to be a thin ledge. Blasted off by the dynamite, it exposed far less gold than they had imagined. O’Callan couldn’t hide the glum disappointment that clouded his face.
“They damn near gouged it all out,” he complained.
“Cheer up, Terry lad. Look at it this way: We’ve only a couple o’ weeks left o’ this furlough, and now the dynamite’s busted up all that rock fer us. We’ve less than half the work to do to take out the gold we do have.”
Slowly, O’Callan’s scowl turned to a beaming smile. “Right ye are, Jimmy. Yet, still an’ all there’s a heartbreakin’ scene to behold. Rather than millionaires, we be only a little better off than when we started.”
“Not so, Terry. There’s that bit over two thousand worth the claim-jumpers were kind enough to dig out fer us. An’ all that’s left here to dig. Have a drink o’ Red Clay’s whiskey and look on the bright side.”
A week of sweating, back-straining effort gathered in the last, smallest fleck of gold, and they made ready to pack up and be on their way. Even used mining equipment brought good prices in Slaughter, O’Callan knew, so he insisted on taking it along. He looked forward to putting away a tidy sum for his retirement. The agreed that they would of needs stop by the Llewellyn claim for a last goodbye.
Morgan Llewellyn sobbed and carried on fiercely when O’Callan and Brannigan came to reclaim their burro and load him for the journey to Slaughter. She flung herself out of the cabin and off into the woods. O’Callan found her crying bitterly under a tree.
“How can you be so heartless and run off, leavin’ me in ... in ... this ... condition?” she wailed.
“What condition would that be, me lovely?” O’Callan inquired in all innocence.
“I—I’m wi-with ... ch-ch-child!” she stammered.
“Well, congratulations to ye and to the babe’s father, whoever he may be.”
“But ... but, it’s ... it’s—”
“Impossible!” O’Callan snapped, his quick, though unlettered, mind instantly grasping what she was about to say. “How long does it take fer a woman to know such a thing ... for sure, that is?”
“More’n a month ... two, three to be sure,” she answered without thinking.
“An’ how long is it we’ve been yer neighbors?”
“A little over three wee—Oh! I ... I ... Oh, you’re awful, Terry O’Callan!”
“So, like I was sayin’,” O’Callan continued, breathing easier. “My congratulations to the happy parents, and her grandfather’ll have ta be pointin’ that shotgun another direction to find the proper sire. Now, I’ll bid ye farewell, Miss Morgan Llewellyn, an’ wish ye the joy o’ it. Settlin’ down and raisin’ another man’s gettin’ just ain’t me inclination.”
“You’d like family life, honest you would, Terry,” Morgan murmured, softening her voice.
“What I’m wonderin’ is, why ye’d want to marry up with a broken-down old cavalry sergeant near old enough to be yer father? I’m fair burstin’ with curiosity.”
Morgan smiled sweetly. “You fellers in the army have regular paydays ... at least most o’ the time you know you’re gonna get paid by-an’-by. You don’t have to scratch for it, never knowing if you’re really earning something or just bursting your heart for nothing. Mines can go dry and the army still gets paid. Crops can fail and the army has its money. Cows can die and—well, you see, that’s why I want to marry a soldier.”
“’Tis a pity, it is. But, ye ain’t marryin’ this so’jer lad, so ye kin jest forgit it,” O’Callan sympathized harshly.
Morgan spat, then raised her voice in a shrill shriek. “O’Callan, you rotten son of a bitchin’ Mick Irishman’s bastard outta Hades. I hate your crawling green guts!”
“Tell me, love,” O’Callan responded calmly. “Was there ever really a wee one on the way?”
“Ooooh! Go to hell, O’Callan!”
All the way to Slaughter, Morgan’s barracks-room language echoed in O’Callan’s ears. When they reached their destination surprise filled them at a strange turn of events. The streets lay nearly empty, abandoned and forlorn. They found Casey packing bottles of whiskey into crates of excelsior, his bouncers nailing on lids and stacking them in two guarded wagons drawn up out front.
“What’s goin’ on here?” O’Callan demanded when their friend stopped long enough to serve them with a bottle on the house.
“Where ye been? Didn’ ye hear the news? Everyone is pullin’ out. The strike’s gone bust and there’s a new gold field. Down south it is, in the Dolores Range. If ye’ve gold to sell, best be hurryin’ around to the assay office before they load the safe and head out themselves.”
~*~
“A gold rush in the Dolores Range?” Jimmy Brannigan asked in wonder as they walked down the street. They led their heavily laden pack animals with ease, for once not encumbered by the noisy throng of Slaughter.
“This could be serious business, Jimmy me boy. That’s Halcon’s hangout. He’s been peaceable enough fer a couple o’ months, but now what?”
“We’d best be gettin’ word to Fort Dawson ... ” Jimmy Brannigan began.
“Or we’re liable to have another Apache war on our hands,” O’Callan completed the thought.
“An’ we oughtta be advisin’ Sean Casey not to be headin’ there. Nothin’ but trouble can come from this.”
They cashed in at the assay office, the small clerk jittering around nervously, anxious to get off with his heavy load that was so important to the boomtown that would be built in the Dolores Range.
“Ye’ll be a fool for goin’ there,” Brannigan advised.
“Why’s that?” the turkey-necked man with tiny, greedy eyes demanded.
“There’s a whole bloody double band o’ Apaches makes the Dolores Range their home, that’s why,” O’Callan explained.
“Phaugh! It’s the army’s job to protect settlers and prospectors. They’ll make short work of those savages.”
Brannigan’s eyes narrowed, as did those of Terry O’Callan. “Don’t be makin’ any large wagers on that,” O’Callan reposted. “Technically, that’s a reservation.”
“Bull pucky! There’s no reservation down there.”
“Wherever they remains peaceable, that’s where the army considers it to be a reservation. Mark me words. Nothin’ but grief can come from going into the Dolores’. Why you think they call ’em the Sorrowful Mountains?”
The clerk blinked at O’Callan, unwilling or unable to accept the cold facts. Quickly he counted out stacks of double-eagles. Great good luck, O’Callan considered, for he was able to recoup all his expenditures and put away near another two thousand dollars in savings, having split the difference down the middle with Brannigan.
Their good fortune didn’t hold out in selling all of their equipment. They unloaded the picks, shovels, and other items that were light and would travel fast, but had to abandon the rocker cradle and riffle box. The burro they sold to a Chinese who eyed the animal hungrily, saliva flowing freely over his lips. When he opened his chop joint in the new boomtown, O’Callan thought to himself, beware o’ the steaks. That is, if Halcon allowed him to live long enough to open. Throughout the transactions, he and Brannigan had discussed possible courses of action.
Should they try to head off the impending invasion of unwitting prospectors or go directly to the fort? They decided to split up, Brannigan heading to Fort Dawson and O’Callan riding hell-for-leather to try to stop what could only become a massacre. Then fortune placed an alternative in their path. After replenishing their food supplies, at markedly lower prices, and deciding O’Callan should take along the mule, they were making ready to light out when a young voice greeted them.
“Hello, O’Callan, Brannigan. You goin’ on the new gold rush, too?”
“‘Marnin’, Timmy,” O’Callan greeted the towel boy from the Carter sisters’ sporting house. “What ye be doin’ out so early?”
“I’m without a job. All the girls loaded up in a wagon yesterday and headed off to this new gold strike. So, no more work for me.”
“Why didn’ ye go along?” O’Callan asked idly. “I didn’ want to go down there. So I stayed last night in the house. They left me enough food for half a month. But then this mornin’ ... Well, I sorta figured—when I saw you two—maybe I should ask to ride along. If you were goin’ there?”
“Well now,” came O’Callan’s soothing voice, an idea blooming in his fertile mind. “Kin ye ride a horse like the very wind?”
Timmy beamed proudly. “You bet I can.”
“Would ye be willin’ to deliver a very important message ta the cavalry at Fort Dawson? Ye might save hunnards o’ lives.”
“Really?” Timmy tried to cover his boyish enthusiasm with a boastful swagger. “Hell, I’d chase the damn devil himself—if the price was right.”
O’Callan took a small gold coin from his pocket. “Here’s two and a half dollars in gold. An’ Brannigan here’ll write ye a note ta our darlin’ colonel, askin’ him to reward ye with ten more when ye get to Fort Dawson.”
It took no time to think that over. “I’ll need a horse.”
A quarter of an hour later, the trio left town, headed south with all the speed their mounts could safely endure. For the first day, they remained in foothills. Rough going for man and beast. For the next three days, they traveled together, alternately galloping, walking, and cantering their horses, then walking afoot, leading the animals to give them a blow. By conserving energy this way, they were able to outstrip most of the migrating prospectors, whom they passed on the trail amid loud curses. It also let them travel long after darkness fell. Late on the afternoon of the fourth day, Timmy parted from the two cavalry sergeants, the all-important messages in his saddlebags, to head due west to the fort. O’Callan and Brannigan continued on southeast toward the distant purple line of the Dolores Range.
O’Callan and Brannigan reached the lower foothills of the Sierra Dolores shortly after noontime the next day. Only a few prospectors, who had deserted the Mogollon Rim early, had preceded them. They spent the afternoon scouting the location of camps and trying to determine what they could say to convince the miners of their danger and get them to leave.
~*~
“Gawdammit, man!” O’Callan yelled angrily in his best parade-ground voice. “Can’t ye understand plain English? I’m tryin’ ta tell ye that yer gonna git an arraw in yer gullet if ye don’t git outta these mountains.”
The strange words meant nothing to Halcon as he crouched in the rocks, watching the activity below. He only knew that three of his warriors were dead and that all the signs identified the killers as the men who had told him falsely that they had come from the Spirit-touched colonel. The strange, gentle soldier-chief who talked of birds and lizards and peace, Halcon thought, would never send men like these to muddy the waters, drive off game, and kill men when there is no war between our people. Yet the one whose words sounded of anger in the ear was certainly the little soldier chief with the burning lip. Where he went, many warriors died. Halcon decided to watch and learn.
O’Callan and Brannigan had dressed in their uniforms early that morning and ridden directly to this camp. The prospectors turned obdurate. “Listen you smart-ass Mick sergeant. You so’jer boys are supposed to protect us, not them Injuns. We’re here, and we’re gonna prospect for gold. That means you gotta bring in troops to guard us so’s we don’t get an arrow in our guts.”
“Halcon’s own rancheria ain’t three miles from here, I’ll wager,” O’Callan persisted. “We sent word to Fort Dawson about this gold strike. Until the troopers arrive, we’re the only ones here—and sure’s I’m Irish, we ain’t enough to protect ye from half a hunnard unhappy Apache bucks. Now pack yer gear an’ get the hell outta here.”
The sense of that finally penetrated the sourdoughs’ gold-crazed mind, and the men began to break camp. Halcon looked on with confusion swirling in his brain. Never before had the gallito with the hair under his lip done anything but evil to the People. As the disgruntled prospectors headed for the main trail down the mountains, Halcon slipped away, waiting to follow the pony-soldiers below.
At the second camp, they were fired on. “Stop yer shootin’, ye stupid bastards,” Brannigan called out. “Yer firin’ on the United States Cavalry.”
They rode in unmolested, while in the shadows of a tall piñon Halcon shook his head in wonder. It actually looked as though the fiery-lipped white-eye was running his own kind out of the mountains, and for sure the pen-dik-oye who hunted the yellow rocks had fired on them.
After the third and final camp, Halcon reached his decision. O’Callan and Brannigan rode at ease in their saddles, relaxed after successfully chasing the miners out. They talked lightly as they rode along.
“‘Tis a good feelin’ to get that outta our hair,” O’Callan said with a sigh, “—Though I wonder how long before we get relief from the fort?”
“Two, maybe three more days,” Brannigan replied. “Then there’s gonna be hell to pay when the rest o’ them prospectors gets—oh-oh!”
They had rounded a bend and come face to face with Halcon.
The stern-faced war chief sat astride his pony, arms crossed over his chest, cradling a shiny new Winchester rifle. He said nothing and betrayed no emotion as the two soldiers looked at each other and back at the man who blocked their path.
“Sweet Ja-sus,” O’Callan exclaimed for both of them. “Now what are we gonna do?”