Dead Man's Walk

“I’d give three months wages to be crossing the Brazos right now,” Gus said. “I expect I could drink about half of it.”

“Would you give up the gal in the general store for a drink?” Bigfoot asked. “Now that’s the test.”

He winked at Call when he said it.

“I could drink half a river,” Gus repeated. He thought the question about Clara impertinent under the circumstances, and did not intend to answer it. If he starved to death he intended, at least, to spend his last thoughts on Clara.

The next morning, the sorrel horse that Gus and Call had both been riding refused to move. The sorrel’s eyes were wide and strange, and he did not respond either to blows or to commands.

“No use to kick him or yell at him, he’s done for,” Bigfoot said, walking up to the horse. Before Gus or Call could so much as blink, he drew his pistol and shot the horse. The sorrel dropped, and before he had stopped twitching Bigfoot had his knife out, working to remove the bladder. He worked carefully, so as not to nick it, and soon lifted it out, a pale sac with a little liquid in it.

“I won’t drink that,” Gus said, at once. The mere sight of the pale, slimy bladder caused his stomach to feel uneasy.

“It’s the only liquid we got,” Bigfoot reminded him. “We’ll all die if we don’t drink it.”

He lifted up the bladder carefully, and drank from it as he would from a wineskin. Call took it next, hesitating a moment beforeputting it to his mouth. He knew he wouldn’t survive another waterless day. His swollen tongue was raw, from scraping against his teeth. Quickly he shut his eyes, and swallowed a few mouthfuls. The urine had more smell than taste. Once he judged he had had his share, he handed the bladder to Gus.

Gus took it, but, after a moment, shook his head.

“You have to drink it,” Call told him. “Just drink three swallows —that might be enough to save you. If you die I can’t bury you— I’m too weak.”

Gus shook his head again. Then, abruptly, his need for moisture overcame his revulsion, and he drank three swallows. He did not want to be left unburied on such a prairie. The coyotes and buzzards would be along, not to mention badgers and other varmints. Thinking about it proved worse than doing it. Soon they went on, Bigfoot astride the one remaining horse.

That afternoon they came to a tiny waterhole, so small that Bigfoot could have stepped across it, or could have had there not been a dead mule in the puddle. They all recognized the mule, too. Black Sam had had an affection for it—in the early days of the expedition, he had sometimes fed it carrots. It had been stolen by the Comanches, the night of the first raid.

“Why, that’s John,” Gus said. “Wasn’t that what Black Sam called him?”

John had two arrows in him—both were feathered with prairie-chicken feathers, the arrows of Buffalo Hump.

“He led it here and killed it,” Bigfoot said. “He didn’t want us to drink this muddy water.”

“He didn’t want us to drink at all,” Call said, looking at the arrows.

“I’ll drink this water anyway,” Gus said, but Bigfoot held him back.

“Don’t,” he said. “That horse piss was clean, compared to this water. Let’s go.”

That night, they had no appetite—even a bite was more than any of them could choke down. Gus pulled out some rancid horse meat, looked at it, and threw it away, an action Bigfoot was quick to criticize.

“Go pick it up,” he said. “It might rain tonight—I’ve been smelling moisture and my smeller don’t often fail me. If we could get a little liquid in us, that horse meat might taste mighty good.“About midnight they heard thunder, and began to see flashes of lightning, far to the west. Gus was immediately joyful—he saw the drought had broken. Call was more careful. It wasn’t raining, and the thunder was miles away. It might rain somewhere on the plain —but would it rain where they were? And would any water pool up, so they could drink it?

“Boys, we’re saved,” Bigfoot said, watching the distant lightning.

“I may be saved, but I’m still thirsty,” Gus said. “I can’t drink rain that’s raining miles away.”

“It’s coming our direction, boys,” Bigfoot said—he was wildly excited. Privately, he had given the three of them up for lost, though he hadn’t said as much to the young Rangers.

“If the rain don’t come to us, I’ll go to the rain,” Call said.

Soon they could smell the rain. It began to cool the hot air. They were so thirsty it was all they could do to keep from racing to meet the storm, although they had nothing to race on except one tired horse and their feet.

Bigfoot had been right: the rain came. The only thing they had to catch it in was their hats—the hats weren’t fully watertight, but they caught enough rainwater to allow the starving men to quench their thirst.

“Just wet your lips, don’t gulp it—you’ll get sick if you do,” Bigfoot said.

The lightning began to come closer. Soon it was striking within a hundred yards of where they were huddled; then fifty yards. Call had never been much afraid of lightning, but as bolt after bolt split the sky he began to wonder if he was too exposed.

“Let’s get under the saddle,” Gus said. Lightning spooked him. He had heard that a lightning bolt had split a man in two and cooked both parts before the body even fell to the ground. He did not want to get split in two, or cooked either. But he was not sure how to avoid it, out on the bare plain. He sat very still, hoping the lightning would move on and not scorch anybody.

Then a bolt seemed to hit almost right on Bigfoot. He wasn’t hit, but he screamed anyway—screamed, and clasped his hands over his eyes.

“Oh, Lord,” he yelled, into the darkness. “I looked at it from too close. It burnt my eyes, and now I’m blind.

“Oh Lord, blind, my eyes are scorched,” Bigfoot screamed. Call and Gus waited for another lightning bolt to show them Bigfoot. When it came, they just glimpsed it—he was wandering on the prairie, holding both hands over his eyes. Again, as darkness came back, he screamed like an animal.

“Keep your eyes shut—don’t look at the lightning,” Call said. “Bigfoot’s blind—that’s trouble enough.”

“Maybe he won’t be blind too long,” Gus said. With their scout blinded, what chance did they have of finding their way to someplace in New Mexico where there were people? He thoroughly regretted his impulsive decision to leave with the expedition. Why hadn’t he just stayed with Clara Forsythe and worked in the general store?

Bigfoot screamed again—he was getting farther and farther away. Dark as it was, once the storm passed, they would have no way to follow him, except by his screams. Call thought of yelling at him, to tell him to sit down and wait for them, but if the man’s eyes were scorched, he wouldn’t listen.

“At least it’s washing this dern blood off me,” Gus said. Having to wear clothes encrusted with buffalo blood had been a heavy ordeal.

For a few minutes, the lightning seemed to grow even more intense. Call and Gus sat still, with their eyes tight shut, waiting for the storm to diminish. Some flashes were so strong and so close that the brightness shone through their clamped eyelids, like a lantern through a thin cloth.

Even after the storm moved east and the lightning and thunder diminished, Call and Gus didn’t move for awhile. The sound had been as heavy as the lightning had been bright. Call felt stunned— he knew he ought to be looking for Bigfoot, but he wasn’t quick to move.

“I wonder where the horse went?” Gus asked. “He was right here when all this started, but now I don’t see him.”