Dead Man's Walk

“Hell, she’s smelling you,” Bigfoot said. “I wonder if you smell like venison.”

Bigfoot’s remarks were sometimes so foolish that Call was irritated by them. Why would he smell like venison? And why was the wizened little Mexican woman smelling him, anyway? He was passive, though—he didn’t answer Bigfoot, and he didn’t move away from the woman. The village women had been unexpectedly kind—the food they brought was warm and tasty; one woman had even given him an old serape to cover himself with. It had holes in it, but it was thickly woven and kept out the chill. He thought perhaps the tiny woman who was sniffing him was some kind of healer; he knew he was in no position to reject help. He was still very weak, often feverish, and always in pain. He could survive while in the warmth of the sheep shed, but if he were forced to march and was caught in another sleet storm, he might not live. He could not ask Gus or Matilda to carry him again, as they had the first time.

The little woman sniffed him thoroughly, as a dog might, and then set her pot in the edge of the nearest campfire. She squatted by it, muttering words no one could understand. When she judged the medicine to be ready, she gestured for Call to remove his shirt; she then spent more than two hours rubbing the hot ointment into his back. She carefully kneaded his muscles and spread the ointment gently along the line of every scar. At first the ointment burned so badly that Call thought he would not be able to stand the pain. The burning was far worse than what he could remember of the whipping itself. For several minutes, Gus and Matilda had to talk to him, in an effort to distract him from the burning; at one point, they thought they might have to restrain him, but Call gritted his teeth and let the little woman do her work. In time a warmth spread through his body and he slept soundlessly, without moaning, for the first time since the whipping.

The next day, through a crack in the wall, Gus saw the same woman applying ointment to Captain Salazar’s neck. The Captain looked weak. He had taken a fever, which soared so high that he was sometimes incoherent; the jefe took him into his house and the little woman tended him until the fever dropped. Even so, the Captain was at first too weak to walk in a straight line. He wanted to stay and rest in San Saba, but when the weather warmed a little, he decided he had better take advantage of it and press on. He came to the Texans’ shed, to inform them of his decision.

“Enjoy a warm night,” he told them. “We leave tomorrow.”

“How many days before we get across this dead man’s walk?” Long Bill asked.

“Senor, we have not yet come to the Jornada,” Salazar said. “The land here is fertile because of the underground water. Once we get beyond where the sheep are, we will start the dead man’s walk.”

The Texans were silent. They had all convinced themselves that the day of the sleet would be their worst day. They had forgotten that Salazar said the dead man’s walk was two hundred miles across. They had grown used to the coziness of the shed, and the warmth of the campfires. Each of them could remember the bitter cold, the pain of marching on frozen feet, the sleet, and the hopeless sense that they would die if they didn’t find warmth.

They had found warmth; but Salazar had just reminded them that the hardest part of the journey had not even begun. Some of the men hunched closer to the campfires, holding out their hands to the warmth—they wanted to hug the warmth, keep it as long as they could. Few of them slept—they wanted to sit close to the fires and enjoy every bit of warmth left to them. They wanted the warmth to last forever, or at least until summertime. Johnny Carthage, terrified that he would fall so far behind that Long Bill Coleman couldn’t find him and rescue him, asked over and over again, through the night, how long it would be until morning.

Informed by the old jefe that there was neither food nor water enough for many horses in the barren region that awaited them, Salazar kept only one horse—his own—and traded several for two donkeys and as much provender as the donkeys could carry. On the morning of departure, abruptly, he decided to reduce the force to twenty-five men. He reasoned that twenty-five could probably hold off the Apaches, if they attacked—more than twenty-five would be impossible to provision on such a journey. The Texans alone would account for most of the provisions the donkeys could carry.What that meant was that the Texans would slightly outnumber his own force; and the Texans, man for man, were stronger than his troops.

“Senores, you will have to be tied,” he informed the Texans, when they were led out into the cold air. “I regret it, but it is necessary. I can afford no risks on this journey—crossing the dead man’s walk is risk enough.”

Bigfoot swelled up at this news—Gus thought he was going to make a fight. But he held on to his temper and let his wrists be bound with rawhide thongs, when his turn came. The other men did the same. Even Call was tied, though Matilda lodged a strong protest.

“This boy’s hurt—he can’t do nothing—why tie him?” she asked.

“Because he has fury in him,” Captain Salazar said. “I saw it myself. He almost killed Colonel Cobb while he was riding in our General’s buggy. If I had to choose only one of you to tie, I would tie Corporal Call.”

“I suppose that’s a compliment, ain’t it?” Gus said.

“I don’t care what it is,” Call said. Since the old woman had treated him with her ointment he could at least stretch his muscles without groaning in pain. He glared at the young Mexican who tied him, although he knew the boy was simply doing his job.

Many of the women of San Saba broke into tears when they saw the Texans being tied. Some of them had formed motherly attachments to one prisoner or another. Some pressed additional food, tortillas or pieces of jerky into the men’s hands as they were marched through the street, out of the village.

The fertile country lasted only three miles. By the fourth mile, only the smallest scrub grew. Soon even that disappeared—before them, as far ahead as they could see, was a land where nothing grew.

“This is the dead man’s walk,” Captain Salazar said. “Now we will see who wants to live and who wants to die.”

“I intend to live,” Gus said, at once.

Call said nothing.

“Even the Apaches won’t cross it,” Salazar said.

One-eyed Johnny Carthage looked at the emptiness before them, and was filled with dread.

“What’s the matter, Johnny?” Long Bill said, noting his friend’shaggard look. “It’s warmer now, and we got food. We’ll get across this like we got across the plains.”

Johnny Carthage heard what Long Bill said, but didn’t believe him. He looked at the great space before them and shivered_not from cold, but from fear.

He felt that he was looking at his death.

ON THE FOURTH NIGHT out from San Saba, a warm night that left the men encouraged, Captain Salazar’s horse and both donkeys disappeared. Some of their provisions were still on the donkeys— they had traveled late and had only unpacked what they needed for the evening meal, corn mostly, with a little dried mutton.

Captain Salazar had tethered his horse so close to his pallet that the lead rope was in reach of his hand as he slept. He had only to turn over to reassure himself that his horse was there. But when he did turn over, in the grey dawn, all he had left was the end of the lead rope, which had been cut. The horse was gone.

“I thought you said Indians didn’t come here,” Bigfoot said, annoyed. He had wondered at the laxness of the Mexicans, in setting no guard. The foot soldiers had simply lain down and slept where they stopped, with no thought of anything but rest. The Texans did the same, but the Texans were tied—guard duty was not their responsibility.