Dead Man's Walk

“I think we should count the ammunition, Colonel,” Bigfoot said. “We don’t have any to waste.”

Caleb ignored this sensible suggestion.

He sat on his horse, watching the flurry of preparations in the Mexican camp.

“The truth is, I ain’t felt the same about this enterprise since Corporal McCrae let my dog, Jeb, fall to his death,” Caleb said. “I think I’ll just ride over and have a parley with this army. Do we still have the flag?”

They had brought along the flag of the Republic of Texas, but no one had seen it in awhile.

“Why would you need a flag?” Bigfoot asked.

“Well, we brought the damn rag, why not use it?” Caleb said. “It might impress that general, if there is a general.”

The flag was finally located, in Johnny Carthage’s kit. At some point he had become the keeper of the flag, but life had been so strenuous that he had forgotten the fact.

Caleb tied the flag to his rifle barrel, and prepared to leave. The troop was apprehensive, not sure what his intentions were. Half of the men were disposed to run, though running across the prairies on foot, with their stomachs empty, offered a poor prospect, considering that the Mexicans, by Caleb’s count, had one hundred and fifty cavalrymen.

At the last minute, Caleb looked at Call and nodded.

“Come with me, Corporal—I need attendants,” he said. “You too, McCrae. Let’s march over there and test this general’s manners. If he’s got any, he’ll ask us to breakfast.”

“If he does, snatch us some bacon,” Long Bill Coleman said. “I sure would like to have a nice bite of bacon.““Can we take our guns?” Gus asked. He did not want to go among so many Mexicans without his guns.

“You’re my escort—take your guns,” Caleb said. “An escort’s supposed to march in front. I wish we had a drummer, but we don’t. Let’s get going.”

Gus and Call started marching straight for the Mexican camp. Caleb paused long enough to light a cigar—he had carefully preserved and rationed his cigars—before coming along behind them.

“Good Lord, look at them,” Gus said, pointing toward the Mexican camp. “We ought to have brought the whole troop as an escort.”

“I don’t think they’ll shoot us—this is a parley,” Call said, though he wasn’t fully confident on that score. Across the plain the whole Mexican army stood in battle readiness, waiting for them. The one hundred and fifty cavalrymen were mounted—the infantry, hundreds strong, had been assembled in lines by several captains and lieutenants, who rode back and forth yelling instructions. There were men standing by the cannon. An imposing man in a white uniform stood outside the tent, surrounded by aides.

For once, the law of distance that seemed to govern their travels on the prairies was reversed. Instead of the Mexican army being farther away than it seemed—half a day away would have been fine with Gus—it proved to be closer than it seemed. In no time, Call and Gus were looking right down into the barrel of the cannon—or so it seemed. The first line of soldiers was only a hundred yards away.

“They won’t kill us,” Call said. “It wouldn’t be worth their while. There’s only three of us, and look at them. They’d be behaving like cowards if they took advantage of us.”

“But maybe they are cowards,” Gus suggested. “If they shoot off that cannon it will blow us to bits.”

Now and then they looked back at their commander, Caleb Cobb —he seemed undisturbed, keeping his horse to a walk and smoking his long cigar.

“Just ignore the army,” he told them. “Head right for that tent. The only person we need to talk to is the jefe.”

The young Rangers did as instructed, passing between the lines of infantry and the massed cavalry. Both of them looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the fact that hundreds of men around them were all primed to kill them.On the ridge behind them, Matilda Roberts gave way to a fit of crying.

“They’re lost—they’re just boys,” she said. “They’re lost—they’ll kill them for sure.”

“Now, Matty—it’s just a parley,” Bigfoot said, but Matilda would riot be comforted. Her worries overcame her. She put her face in her hands and sobbed.

Gus was disconcerted, as they approached the General’s tent, to see Captain Salazar standing amid the Mexican officers.

“I was hoping the bear got him,” Gus said.

“Well, the bear didn’t,” Call said.

Seven officers stood around the General, a heavy man with much gold braid on his uniform. He had a curling mustache and held a silver flask in his hand, from which he drank occasionally. Several of the officers surrounding him had sabres strapped to their legs— they looked at the young Rangers sternly, as they continued toward the tent. The only one, in fact, who seemed well disposed toward them was Captain Salazar himself. He stepped forward to greet them, and actually saluted.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said. “You escaped the bear. Ordinarily, of course, I would shoot you for escaping, but no one could be blamed for running from a grizzly bear. That bear killed my horse and my cook. I have another horse, but I miss the cook.”

“I guess you soldiers are acquainted,” Caleb said. He dismounted and handed his reins to a Mexican orderly, who took them with a look of surprise.

“Yes, we traveled together, Colonel,” Captain Salazar said. “Unfortunately our travels were interrupted, as you may have heard.”

“Oh, the bear, yes,” Caleb said. “You’re Captain Salazar?”

“At your service,” the Captain said, saluting again. “Allow me to introduce you to General Dimasio.”

The large General did not salute—he nodded casually, and gestured toward his tent.

“We hope you will join us for coffee,” Salazar said, to Caleb. “It is fortunate that we found one another so quickly. General Dimasio does not like to travel on the llano. The fact that you came to greet us will save him much trouble.”

“Why, that’s lucky, then,” Caleb said. Without a word to Gus or Call, he bent and went into the tent.As soon as Caleb Cobb disappeared into the General’s tent, the two Mexican soldiers closed the flaps and stood in front of it, muskets held across their chests. Call and Gus were alone amid hundreds of enemy soldiers, most of whom clearly registered hostility. No guns were pointed at them, and no sabres drawn, but the moment was awkward. Across the plain, on the neighboring ridge, the little knot of Rangers stood watching. To Call’s mind, they looked forlorn. The Mexicans mostly wore clean uniforms; cooking pots simmered on many campfires. The army they were in the midst of was well equipped and well trained, a far cry from the frightened village militia they had encountered in Anton Chico.

“Well, here we are,” Gus said. He found the silence uncomfortable.

“Yes, for now,” Captain Salazar said. He was the only Mexican whose manner was friendly.

“Would you like breakfast?” he asked. “As you can see, we have plenty to eat. We even have eggs.”

Gus was about to accept, happily—he felt he could eat thirty or forty eggs, if he were offered that many—but Call immediately rejected Salazar’s offer.

“No sir, much obliged,” Call said. “We’ve et.”

“In that case, at least let me offer you coffee,” Salazar said.

“I’ll have some coffee, thanks,” Gus said at once, fearing that his friend would decline even that.

Salazar motioned to an orderly, who soon brought each of them coffee in small cups.

“Why did you say we et?—you know we ain’t et since we killed those prairie chickens,” Gus said. “You could have let them feed us —they’ve got plenty.”

“Our men ain’t got plenty,” Call reminded him, glancing toward the little group on the distant ridge. “I won’t sit down and stuff myself with these enemies when our men are about ready to eat their belts.”