Dead Man's Walk

“I wouldn’t set off with a load of flour and nothing to defend myself with except a fowling piece—not in this country,” Blackie Slidell remarked.

“There’s empty sacks in that other wagon that ain’t too burned,” Bigfoot said. “Go get a few, Gus, and roll these men in them. We need to move out. I make it about nine Indians that cooked these men, and one of them was Buffalo Hump.”

“Did you see him?” Johnny Carthage asked, turning white. All the Rangers touched their weapons, to make sure they were still there.

“No, but he’s still riding that painted pony he rode that day he killed Josh and Zeke,” Bigfoot said. “I studied his track, in case I ever had to fight him again, and his track is all around these wagons.”

“Oh, Lord—I was afraid it was him,” Rip Green said. He was white and shaky.

Johnny Carthage knew a little cobbling. He had been offered a job making shoes in San Antonio. Looking at the two burned wagoneers, their bodies blackened and swollen, their teeth bared in terrible grimaces, he wondered why he hadn’t had the good sense to take the job. Cobbling down by the San Antonio River had a lot to recommend it. It wasn’t exciting, but neither would it expose you to the risk of being caught on the open prairie, roped to a wagon wheel, and burned to death. Of course, he could go back and take the job—the old cobbler liked him—but he was already a long ride out of San Antonio, and would run the very risk he wanted to avoid if he tried to go back alone.

“I wish there was more timber on this road,” Blackie Slidell said. “I don’t know if we could whip nine of those rascals if they came charging and we had nothing to hide behind.”

“Nine’s about the right size for a raiding party,” Bigfoot observed. He had about finished his digging. The grave wasn’t deep enough, but it would have to do.

“Why?” Call asked.

“Why what?” Bigfoot replied. The youngster was a good digger, and besides, he was steady. Of all the troop, he was the least affected by the sight of charred bodies. Of course, Long Bill wasn’t shaking or puking, but Long Bill was notorious for his bad eyesight. He probably hadn’t come close enough to take a good look.

“Why is nine a good size?” Call asked, as Gus handed him an armful of sacks. He spread one layer of sacking over each man, and then rolled the bodies over and tucked another layer of sacking over their backsides. It was curious how stiff bodies got—the dead men’s limbs were as stiff as wood.

“Nine’s about right,” Bigfoot said, impressed that young Call was eager to learn, even while performing an unpleasant task. “Nine men who know the country can slip between the settlements without being noticed. They can watch the settlers and figure out which farms to attack. If there’s a family with four or five big strapping boys who look like they can shoot, they’ll leave it and go on to one where there’s mostly womenfolk.”

Matilda Roberts stood looking at the corpses as Call and Gus finished covering them with sacking. She recognized one of the men; his name was Eli, and he had come to her more than once.

“That nearest one is Eli Baker,” she said. “He worked in the flour mill. I know him by his ear.”

“What about his ear?” Bigfoot asked.

“Look at it, before you rake the dirt over him,” Matilda said. “He got half his ear cut off when he was a boy—the bottom half. That’s Eh Baker for sure. We ought to try to get word to his family. I believe he had several young ‘uns.”

“And a wife?” Bigfoot asked.

“Well, he didn’t have the young ‘uns himself,” Matilda said. “I ain’t seen him in a year or two, but I know he’s Eli Baker.”

When the corpses were covered, everyone stood around awkwardly for a minute. The wide prairie was empty, though the tall grass sang from the breeze. The sun shone brilliantly. Bigfoot took the stock of the broken shotgun and tamped the dirt solidly over the grave of the two wagoneers.

“If anybody knows a good scripture, let them say it,” Bigfoot said. “We need to skedaddle. I’d rather not have to race no Comanches today—my horse is lame.”

“There’s that scripture about the green pastures,” Long Bill recalled. “It’s about the Lord being a shepherd.”

“So say it then, Bill,” Bigfoot said. He caught his horse and waited impatiently to mount.

Long Bill was silent.

“Well, there’s the green pastures,” he said. “That’s all I can recall. It’s been awhile since I had any dealings with scriptures.”

“Can anyone say it?” Bigfoot asked.

“Leadeth me beside the still waters,” Matilda said. “I think that’s the one Bill’s talking about.”

“Well, this is a green pasture, at least,” Bigfoot said. “It’ll be greener, if it keeps raining.”

“I wonder why people want to say scriptures when they’ve buried somebody?” Call reflected to Gus as they were trotting on toward Austin. “They’re dead—they can’t hear no holy talk.”

Gus had the scared feeling inside again. The Indian who had nearly brought him down with a lance was somewhere around. He might be tracking them, or watching them, even then. He might be anywhere, with his warriors. They were approaching a little copse of live-oak trees thick enough to conceal a party of Comanches. What if Buffalo Hump and his warriors suddenly burst out, yelling their terrible war cries? Would he be able to shoot straight? Would he have the guts to fire a bullet through his eyeball if the battle went against them? Would he end up burned, swollen, and stiff, like the two men they had just buried? Those were the important questions, when you were out on the prairie where the wild men lived. Why people said scriptures over the dead was not an issue he could concentrate his mind on, not when he had the scared feeling in hisstomach. Even if he could have had the pork chop his mouth had been watering for the night before, he had no confidence that he could have kept it down.

“It’s the custom,” he said, finally. “People get to thinking of heaven, when people die.”

Call didn’t answer. He was wondering what the mule skinners were thinking and feeling when the Comanches tied them to the wagon wheels and began to build fires under them. Were they thinking of angels, or just wishing they could be dead?

“As soon as we get to Austin, I want to buy a better gun,” he said. “I mean to practice, too. If we’re going on this expedition, we need to learn to shoot.”

Toward evening, the sky darkened again toward the southwest. Once again the sky turned coal black, with only a thin line of light at the horizon. The rolls of thunder were so loud that the Rangers had to give up conversation.

“It might be another cyclone,” Blackie yelled. “We need to look for a gully or a ditch.”

This time, though, no twisting snake cloud formed, though a violent thunderstorm slashed at them for some fifteen minutes, drenching them all. They expected a wet, cold night but by good fortune came upon a big live-oak tree that lightning had just struck. The tree had been split right in two. Part of the tree was still blazing, when the rain began to diminish. It made a good hot fire and enabled everybody to strip off and dry their clothes. Matilda, far from shy, stripped off first—Call was reluctant to take all his clothes off in her presence, but Gus wasn’t. He didn’t have a cent, but hoped the sight of him would incline Matilda to be friendly, or a little more than friendly, later in the evening—a hope that was disappointed. Bigfoot had Buffalo Hump on his mind: there was a time for sport, and a time to keep a close watch. None of the Rangers slept much —but the blazing fire was some comfort. By midnight, when it was Call’s turn to watch, the sky was cloudless and the stars shone bright.