Dead Man's Walk

Even through the howling of the wind, Call could hear the grinding sound, as Kirker whetted his scalping knife. Gus heard it too, but his mind had not moved very far from his favorite subject, whores.

“Be hard to poke in a wind like this,” he surmised. “Your whore would fill up with sand—unless you went careful, you’d scrape yourself raw.”

Call ignored this comment, thinking it foolish.

“Kirker and Glanton ain’t Rangers—I don’t know why the Major lets ‘em ride with the troop,” he said.

“It’s a free country, how could he stop them?” Gus asked, though he had to admit that the scalp hunters were unsavory company. Their gear smelled of blood, and they never washed. Gus agreed with Matilda that it was good to keep clean. He splashed himself regularly, if there was water available.

“He could shoot ‘em—I’d shoot ‘em, if I was in command,” Call said. “They’re low killers, in my opinion.”

Only the day before there had nearly been a ruckus with Kirker and Glanton. The two came riding in from the south, having taken eight scalps. The scalps hung from Kirker’s saddle. A buzzing cloud of flies surrounded them, although the blood on the scalps had dried. Most of the Rangers gave Kirker a wide berth; he was a thin man with three gappy teeth, which gave his smile a cruel twist. Glanton was larger and lazier—he slept more than anyone else in the troop and would even fall asleep and start snoring while mounted on his horse. Shadrach had no fear of either man, and neither did Bigfoot Wallace. When Kirker dismounted, Shadrach and Bigfoot walked over to examine his trophies. Shadrach fingeredone of the scalps and looked at Bigfoot, who swatted the cloud of flies away briefly and sniffed a time or two at the hair.

“Comanche—who said you could smell ‘em?” Kirker asked. He was chewing on some antelope jerky that black Sam, the cook, had provided. The sight of the old mountain man and the big scout handling his new trophies annoyed him.

“We picked all eight of them off, at a waterhole,” Glanton said. “I shot four and so did John.”

“That’s a pure lie,” Bigfoot said. “Eight Comanches could string you and Kirker out from here to Santa Fe. If you was ever unlucky enough to run into that many at once, we wouldn’t be having to smell your damn stink anymore.”

He waved at Major Chevallie, who strolled over, looking uncomfortable. He drew his pistol, a precaution the Major always took when he sensed controversy. With his pistol drawn, decisive judgment could be reached and reached quickly.

“These low dogs have been killing Mexicans, Major,” Bigfoot said. “They probably took supper with some little family and then shot ‘em all and took their hair.”

“That would be unneighborly behaviour, if true,” Major Chevallie said. He looked at the scalps, but didn’t touch them.

“This ain’t Indian hair,” Shadrach said. “Indian hair smells Indian, but this don’t. This hair is Mexican.”

“It’s Comanche hair and you can both go to hell,” Kirker said. “If you need a ticket I can provide it.”

The gap-toothed Kirker carried three pistols and a knife, and usually kept his rifle in the crook of his arm, where it was now.

“Sit down, Kirker, I’ll not have you roughhousing with my scouts,” the Major said.

“Roughhousing, hell,” Kirker said. He flushed red when he was angry, and a blue vein popped out alongside his nose.

“I’ll finish them right here, if they don’t leave my scalps alone,” he added. Glanton had his eyes only half open, but his hand was on his pistol, a fact both Bigfoot and Shadrach ignored.

“There’s no grease, Major,” Bigfoot said. “Indians grease their hair—take a Comanche scalp and you’ll have grease up to your elbow. Kirker ain’t even sly. He could have greased this hair if he wanted to fool us, but he didn’t. I expect he was too lazy.”

“Get away from them scalps—they’re government property now,” Kirker said. “I took ‘em and I intend to collect my bounty.”

Shadrach looked at the Major—he didn’t believe the Major was firm, although it was undeniable that he was an accurate shot.

“If a Mexican posse shows up, let ‘em have these two,” he advised. “This ain’t Indian hair, and what’s more, it ain’t grown-up hair. These two went over to Mexico and killed a passel of children.”

Kirker merely sneered.

“Hair’s hair,” he said. “This is government property now, and you’re welcome to keep your goddamn hands off it.”

Call and Gus waited, expecting the Major to shoot Kirker, and possibly Glanton too, but the Major didn’t shoot. Bigfoot and Shadrach walked away, disgusted. Shadrach mounted, crossed the river, and was gone for several hours. Kirker kept on chewing his antelope jerky, and Glanton went sound asleep, leaning against his horse.

Major Chevallie did look at Kirker hard. He knew he ought to shoot the two men and leave them to the flies. Shadrach’s opinion was no doubt accurate: the men had been killing Mexican children; Mexican children were a lot easier to hunt than Comanches.

But the Major didn’t shoot. His troop was in an uncertain position, vulnerable to attack at any minute, and Kirker and Glanton made two more fighting men, adding two guns to the company’s meager strength. If there was a serious scrape, one or both of them might be killed anyway. If not, they could always be executed at a later date.

“Stay this side of the river from now on,” the Major said—he still had his pistol in his hand. “If either of you cross it again, I’ll hunt you down like dogs.”

Kirker didn’t flinch.

“We ain’t dogs, though—we’re wolves—at least I am. You won’t be catching me, if I go. As for Glanton, you can have him. I’m tired of listening to his goddamn snores.”

Gus soon forgot the incident, but Call didn’t. He listened to Kirker sharpen his knife and wished he had the authority to kill the man himself. In his view Kirker was a snake, and worse than a snake. If you discovered a snake in your bedclothes, the sensible thing would be to kill it.

Major Chevallie had looked right at the snake, but hadn’t killed it.The sandstorm blew for another hour, until the camp and everything in it was covered with sand. When it finally blew out, men discovered that they couldn’t find utensils they had carelessly laid down before the storm began. The sky overhead was a cold blue. The plain in all directions was level with sand; only the tops of sage bushes and chaparral broke the surface. The Rio Grande was murky and brown. The little mare, still snubbed to the tree, was in sand up to her knees. All the men stripped naked in order to shake as much sand as possible out of their clothes; but more sand filtered in, out of their hair and off their collars. Gus brushed the branch of a mesquite tree and a shower of sand rained down on him.

Only the old Indian woman and the boy with no tongue made no attempt to rid themselves of sand. The fire had finally been smothered, but the old woman and the boy still sat by it, sand banked against their backs. To Call they hardly seemed human. They were like part of the ground.

Gus, in high spirits, decided to be a bronc rider after all. He took it into his head to ride the Mexican mare.

“I expect that storm’s got her cowed,” he said, to Call.

“Gus, she ain’t cowed,” Call replied. He had the mare by the ears again, and detected no change in her attitude.

Sure enough, the mare threw Gus on the second jump. Several of the naked Rangers laughed, and went on shaking out their clothes.

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, still carrying more sand in his clothes than he would have liked, Major Chevallie attempted to question the old woman and the boy. He gave them coffee and fed them a little hardtack first, hoping it would make them talkative—but the feast, such as it was, failed in its purpose, mainly because no one in the troop spoke any Comanche,