Dead Man's Walk

The men were silent, watching the horses approach. They gave ground a few steps, so that the Comanches could ride up to Caleb’s tent, but their mood was dark. While not eager to be hanged, they all knew that hanging was gentle compared to what would happen to them if Buffalo Hump caught them. Those who had lost sons in the Comanche wars, or had daughters stolen, thought that a hanging would be a cheap price to pay for the opportunity to put a bullet in the big war chief. Yet they held back—bound, if uneasily, by the rules their commander had laid down.

Buffalo Hump still had the three scalps tied to his lance when he rode into camp. He had on leggins but no shirt—he had coated his face and body with red clay and had painted yellow lines across his cheeks and forehead. The three women riding behind him were all young and plump. If frightened at riding into the white man’s camp,they didn’t show it. They rode a short distance behind Buffalo Hump, and kept their eyes on the ground.

Call thought it remarkably bold of the war chief to ride into such a camp alone. Gus agreed. He tried to imagine himself riding into a Comanche camp with no one beside him but a whore or two, but remembering the tortures Bigfoot had described, he thought he would decline the invitation, if one ever came.

“He ain’t afraid of us—and every man in camp wants to kill him,” Call said. “He don’t think much of Rangers, I guess.”

When Buffalo Hump dismounted, his wives did, too—they quickly spread a robe for him outside the Colonel’s tent. Caleb Cobb offered tobacco. One of the wives took it and gave it to Buffalo Hump, who smelled it briefly and gave it back. Call knew the man had to be powerful just to carry his own hump, a mass of gristle as broad as his back—it rose as high as his ears.

Yet, Buffalo Hump wasn’t stooped. He didn’t so much as glance at the massed Rangers, but he did take note of Caleb Cobb’s Irish dog, who was watching him alertly. The dog wasn’t growling, but his hair bristled.

“Tell him he’s welcome and put in some guff about what a great chief he is,” Caleb instructed Bes-Das.

Bes-Das turned to Buffalo Hump and spoke five or six words. Buffalo Hump was watching the dog; he didn’t answer.

“That was too short a compliment,” Caleb said. “Tell him he’s stronger than the buffalo and wiser than the bear. Tell him his name is enough to freeze Mexican blood. We need some wind here —they expect it.”

Bes-Das tried again, but Buffalo Hump didn’t appear to pay his words the slightest attention. He gestured toward the food, which Sam had waiting, but he made no gesture at all toward Caleb Cobb. Two of the plump young women took wooden bowls and went over to Sam, who ladled up his sweetbreads and filled the other bowl with large slices of liver. Gus thought the red clay and the yellow paint made the Comanche look even more terrible. Call watched closely, wondering why the air itself seemed to change when a wild Indian came around. He decided it was because no one but the Indian knew the rules that determined actions—if there were rules.

For a moment it seemed that Buffalo Hump was simply going to eat his food standing up, ignoring Caleb Cobb. Caleb himself was worried—with all his men watching, it would only do to let himself be insulted up to a point. But after he had sniffed the dishes, Buffalo Hump gestured again to the young women, who took two more bowls and filled them; these they brought to Caleb.

Buffalo Hump looked at Caleb for the first time, lifting the bowls. Then he took a place on the robe and handed the bowls to his young wives, who then began to take turns feeding him with their fingers.

“If I could find a woman to hand-feed me sweetbreads, I expect I’d get married too,” Caleb said. “Tell that to the rascal.”

At the word “rascal,” Buffalo Hump lifted his head slightly. It occurred to Caleb too late that perhaps the Comanche had picked up a few words of English—after all, he had taken many captives who spoke it.

Bes-Das spoke at length, in Comanche, but if his words made any impression on the chief, Buffalo Hump didn’t show it. His young wives continued to feed him buffalo liver and sweetbread stew. The camp had become completely silent. The men who had been cursing Buffalo Hump merely stood looking at him. Several who had proposed to risk hanging by attempting to kill him offered no threat. Call and Gus stood stock-still, watching, while Buffalo Hump ate. Caleb Cobb took a bite or two of liver himself, but seemed to have lost his usual vigorous appetite.

Buffalo Hump paid little attention to the company, at least until he noticed Matilda Roberts, standing with Shadrach. Once he noticed, he gave Matilda a long look; then he turned to Bes-Das and spoke what seemed like a long speech. Bes-Das glanced at Matilda and shook his head, but Buffalo Hump repeated what he had said.

“Taken a fancy to Matty, has he?” Caleb asked.

“Yes, he wants her for a wife,” Bes-Das said. “He has seen her before. He calls her Turtle Catching Woman.”

“First he wants a rifle and now he wants a wife,” Caleb said. “What is it they call Shadrach, in Comanche?”

“They call him Tail-Of-The-Bear,” Bes-Das said.

“Tell the great chief that Matilda is the wife of Tail-Of-The-Bear,” Caleb said. “She ain’t available for marriage unless she gets divorced.”

Bes-Das spoke to Buffalo Hump, who seemed amused by what was said. He replied at length, in a tone of derision; the reply made Bes-Das rather uncomfortable, Call thought.

“Well, what’s the report?” Caleb asked, impatiently.

“He says Tail-Of-The-Bear is too old for such a large woman,” Bes-Das said. “He says he will give him a young horse, in exchange.”

Neither Matilda nor Shadrach moved, or changed expression.

“Tell him we can’t accept—it is not our custom to trade people for horses,” Caleb said. “Falconer, go get your fancy rifle.”

Captain Falconer was startled.

“What for?” he asked.

Ignoring this exchange, Buffalo Hump suddenly spoke again. This time he spoke at more length, looking at Shadrach as he talked. When he stopped he reached for the pot that had the sweetbread stew in it, and drained it.

“What was that last?” Caleb said. “It had a hostile kind of sound.”

“He says he will take the scalp of Tail-Of-The-Bear if he crosses the Canadian River,” Bes-Das said. “Then he will take the woman and keep the horse.”

“Go get the rifle, Billy—supper’s about over,” Caleb said, though in a mild tone.

“Why, it’s my rifle?” Captain Falconer said.

“Go get it, Billy—we need a good present and it’s the only gun in camp fine enough to offer the chief,” Caleb said. “Hurry. I’ll buy you one just as good as soon as we get to Santa Fe.”

Captain Falconer balked. The Holland and Holland sporting rifle was the finest thing he owned. He had ordered it special, from London, and had waited two years for it to come. The case he kept it in was made of cherry wood. One of his reasons for signing on with the expedition was an eagerness to try his rifle on the game of the prairies—buffalo, elk, antelope, maybe even a grizzly bear. The rifle had cost him six months’ wages—he intended to treasure it throughout his life. The thought of having to hand it over to a murdering savage with yellow paint on his face was more than he could tolerate, and he said so.

“I won’t give it up,” he said bluntly. “Give the man a musket. It’s more than he deserves.”

“I’ll decide what he deserves, Captain,” Caleb Cobb said. He had been sitting, but he rose; when he did, Buffalo Hump rose, too.

“I won’t do it, Colonel—I’ll resign first,” Captain Falconer said.