Dead Man's Walk

“The man who took us prisoner said a general was coming,” Call said—Salazar had dropped the remark while they were on the march.

“Well, there’s generals and generals,” Caleb said. “Maybe their general will be a drunk, like old Phil Lloyd.”

“Caleb, there’s too many of them,” Bigfoot said. “They’re raising the whole country against us. If you don’t have enough bullets to shoot a few deserters, how are we going to whip a thousand men?”

“You damn scouts are too pessimistic,” Caleb said. “Let’s go to sleep. Maybe we can wipe out a battalion and steal their ammunition.”

He walked off and settled himself by his own campfire, leaving the men apprehensive. Seeing the leg irons on the three Rangers had put the camp in a dour mood.

“We ought to turn back,” Johnny Carthage said. “I can barely walk as it is. If they catch me and put me in leg irons I’ll be lucky to keep up.”

“This is like it was the first time we went out,” Call said. “Nobody knows what to do. We’re worse off than we were with Major Chevallie. We’ve got no food and no bullets, either. We can’t whip the Mexicans and we can’t get home, either. We’ll starve if we turn back, and they’ll catch us all, if we don’t.”

Gus had no rejoinder. The fact that there was no food in camp had left him in soggy spirits. All during the long, cold walk, through the snow and drizzle, he consoled himself with the prospect of hardy eating once they got back to their companions. Maybe someone would have killed a buffalo—he had visions of fat buffalo ribs, dripping over a fire.

But there were no buffalo ribs—there was not even corn mush. He* had eaten nothing since the prairie chickens—he felt he might become too weak to move, if he didn’t get food soon.

“At least the Mexicans fed us,” he said, echoing Bigfoot’s remark. “I’d rather be taken prisoner than starve to death.”

Caleb Cobb’s indifference to their plight annoyed Call. The man had led them so far out on the plain that they couldn’t get back— and yet the company was so weakened and so badly supplied that they couldn’t expect to defeat a Mexican army, either. He wondered if he would live long enough to serve under a military leader who really knew what he was doing. So far, he had not found one who could survive the country itself, much less one who could beat the country and the enemy. Buffalo Hump, with only nine men, had nearly destroyed Major Chevallie’s command, and now Caleb Cobb’s force of two hundred men had dwindled to forty before it even got to its destination.

There was nothing to do but keep the campfires going and wait for morning. They made a fire not far from where Shadrach lay with Matilda. The old man was coughing constantly. Matilda came over briefly, to welcome them back. She looked dispirited, though.

“This bad weather’s bad for Shad,” she said. “I’m afraid if it don’t dry up he’ll die. I do my best to keep him warm, but he’s getting worse, despite me.”

Indeed, the old mountain man coughed all night—long, heaving coughs. Gus finally got warm enough to stretch out and sleep, but Call was awake all night. He didn’t leave the fire and walk, as he often did, but he didn’t sleep, either. Both the Mexican boys came and sat with him. They were fearful of all Texans, except the three they knew.

Finally, just as grey light was edging across the long plain, Call slept a little, but the sleep produced a nightmare in which the great bear and Buffalo Hump both attacked the troop. Men were falling and running, and he had become separated from his weapons and could not defend himself. He saw arrows going into Long Bill Coleman; the great bear had knocked Gus down and was snarling over him. Call wanted to attack the bear, but he had nothing but his hands. Then he saw Buffalo Hump catch Bigfoot and slash at his head with a knife. Bigfoot’s head came off, and the huge Comanche held it up and cried a terrible war cry.

“Wake up … Woodrow … you’ve skeert the camp!” Matilda said, shaking him out of his dream. Juan and Jose were staring at him as if he had gone mad. Gus still slept, but men from the other campfires were rousing themselves and looking at Call, who felt deeply embarrassed by the scrutiny.

“I didn’t mean to scare folks,” he said, his hands shaking. “I was just dreaming about that bear.”

THE TROOP, HUNGRY, COLD, and discouraged, had marched only five miles when they topped a rise and saw the Mexican army camped on the plain before them. The encampment seemed to cover the whole plain; it stretched far back toward the mountains.

Bigfoot saw the camp first and motioned for the troop to hold up, but the signal came too late. Two Indian scouts on fast horses were already speeding back toward the Mexican camp.

Caleb Cobb was the only man on horseback. He rode to the crest of the ridge and surveyed the encampment, silently.

“I told you they’d raise the whole country,” Bigfoot said.

“Shut up, I’m counting,” Caleb said. He had his spyglass out and was looking the Mexicans over—if he was alarmed he didn’t show it.

Bigfoot, though, immediately saw something he didn’t like.

“Colonel, they have cavalry,” he said. “I’d make it at least a hundred horses.““More than a hundred,” Caleb said, without removing his spyglass from his eye. “That’s what I’m counting. I make it a hundred and fifty horses.”

Then he took the spyglass out of his eye and looked around at the men. He was astride the only horse.

“That beats us by one hundred and forty-nine horses, I guess,” he said.

“Hell, they’ve even got a cannon,” Bigfoot said. “They drug a cannon all this way, thinking we was an army.”

“We are an army, Mr. Wallace,” Caleb said. “We’re just a small army. It looks like we’re up against superior numbers.”

“Not all armies can fight,” Shadrach said. “Maybe they’re an army of boys, like these two here. We’re an army of men.”

Call and Gus stood looking at the assembled Mexicans, wondering what would happen.

“I guess we need a herd of bears,” Call said. “Ten or twelve big bears could probably scatter them like that one bear scattered that first bunch.”

Long Bill Coleman began to look around for cover—only there was no cover, only rolling prairie. Shadrach was still coughing, but he had his long rifle in his hand and seemed invigorated by the prospect of battle. Matilda had even acquired a rifle from someone —she planted herself by Shadrach.

The troop stood together, and watched the two scouts race toward the Mexican camp.

“Them scouts were Mescalero Apache,” Bigfoot said. “Those hills are their country. The Mexicans must have paid them big, because Apaches don’t usually work for Mexicans.”

The arrival of the Texans, in plain view on the ridge, put the whole Mexican encampment into a ferment of activity. The cavalrymen raced to saddle their mounts, many of which were skittish and resistant. Everywhere men were loading guns and making ready for war. In the center of the encampment was a huge white tent.

“I expect that’s where the general sleeps,” Caleb said. “I regret losing my canoe.”

“Why?” Bigfoot asked. “We’re on dry land.”

“I know, but if I had my canoe I’d hurry back with it to the nearest river, and I’d paddle down whatever stream it was untilI came to the Arkansas, and then I’d paddle down the Arkansas until I came to the Mississippi, and then I’d paddle right on down Old Miss until I struck New Orleans.”

He stopped and smiled at Brognoli, who stared back, glassy eyed.

“Once I got to New Orleans I’d stop and buy me a whore,” Caleb went on. “Once I had my fill of whores I’d go back to the pirate life, on the good old gulf, and rob all the ships leaving Mexico. That would be the easy way to get the Spanish silver. They ship most of it to Spain, anyway. It would sure beat traipsing across these goddamn plains.”