Dead Man's Walk

Captain Salazar was silent, shocked by what had happened andwhat it meant. He stared for a long time across the dry plain, as if hoping to see his horse and the donkeys, grazing peacefully. But all he saw was the barren earth, with an edge of sun poking above it to the east.

Bigfoot had to repeat his statement.

“I guess those Indians that don’t come here took your horse,” he said.

“Gomez took my horse,” Salazar said. “Gomez is not like the rest. He has no fear of this country. No one else would be so bold.”

“That rope he cut was about three feet from your throat,” Bigfoot remarked. “He could have cut your throat if he’d wanted to.”

Captain Salazar was looking at the cut end of the lead rope. A scalpel could not have cut it more cleanly. Bigfoot was right: Gomez could easily have cut his throat.

“He could have, but there would have been little sport,” he said. “We must walk.”

By midmorning all the men felt the air, which had been warm, turn chill. The north wind picked up.

“Oh God, I don’t want it to get cold,” Johnny Carthage said. “I wouldn’t mind to die if I could just do it warm.” The great dread had not left him.

“Shut up your complaining, it’s just a breeze so far,” Long Bill said. “I carried you once and I’ll carry you again, if it comes to that.”

“No you won’t, Bill—you can’t carry me no hundred miles,” Johnny said, but the wind was already howling at their backs, and no one heard him.

Call walked between Matilda and Gus—he was still unsteady on his feet and was swept, at times, by waves of fever that made his vision swirl. Matilda was the only one of the Texans who had not been tied. Captain Salazar had come to like her—from time to time, she consented to play cards with him. He would not fraternize to that extent with the prisoners, and his own men were mostly too young to be good cardplayers. An old bear hunter had taught him rummy—it was mostly rummy that he played with Matilda Jane.

As they were stumbling along, pushed by the cold north wind, Gus happened to look back, a habit he got into after his encounter with the grizzly bear. He could not get Bigfoot’s story about thet man who had been stalked while fishing out of his mind. It was worrisome that bears could be so stealthy.

When he glanced over his shoulder he got a bad start, for something large and brown was hurtling down toward them. Whatever it was was still far away—he could only see a shape, but it was a brown shape, the very color of a bear.

“Captain, get the rifles!” he yelled, in consternation. “There’s a bear after us.”

For a moment, the whole troop believed him—no one could clearly determine what was moving toward them, but something was, and fast. Salazar lined his men up and had them ready, their guns primed.

“I wish you’d let me shoot, Captain,” Bigfoot said. “Your boys are so scared I expect half of them will miss.”

“I expect it, too,” Salazar said. He walked over to the nearest soldier and took his musket. He walked over to Bigfoot, untied his hands, and handed him the musket.

“The last time I handed a Texan a gun, he shot me,” Salazar reminded him. “Please be honorable, Mr. Wallace. Shoot the bear. If we kill it we will have meat enough to make it across the dead man’s walk.”

Just then, Gus saw something that was even more unnerving: the bear leapt high in the air. It seemed to fly for several yards, before coming back to earth.

“Good Lord, it’s flying,” he said.

As he said it, the shape flew again—the whole troop was transfixed, even Bigfoot. He had heard many bear stories, but no one had ever told him that grizzly bears could fly. He squatted and leveled his musket, though the bear—if it was a bear—was still far away.

Some of the young Mexican soldiers became so nervous that they ‘ began firing when the hurtling brown object was still two hundred yards away. Salazar was irritated. The wind whirled dust from the plain high, so that it was hard to see anything clearly.

“Don’t fire until I say fire,” he said. “If you all fire now you will be out of bullets when the bear gets here, and he will eat us all.”

“I’m saving my bullet,” Bigfoot said. “I intend to shoot him right between the eyes—that’s the only sure way to stop a bear.”

Just then, the hurtling brown object collided with a hump of rocks and flew high in the air, above the dust. For the first time Bigfoot saw it clearly and he immediately lowered his rifle. “Boys, old Gomez has got us rattled,” he said. “That ain’t a bear—that’s a tumbleweed.”

Salazar looked disgusted.

“Seven of you shot, and the tumbleweed is still coming,” he said.

“Why, it’s the size of a house,” Gus said. He had never imagined a weed could grow so big. It hurtled by the company, rolling over and over, as fast as a man could run. From time to time it hit a bump or a small rock and sailed into the air. Soon it was a hundred yards to the south, and then it vanished, obscured by the blowing dust.

“Let us have no more talk of bears,” Salazar said, looking at Gus.

They marched late into the night, with only a few bites of food. In San Saba the men had been given gourds, to use as water carriers —some of them had already drunk the last of their water, while others still had a little. The temperature had dropped and all the men longed for a fire, but there was nothing to burn, except the branches of a few thin bushes. The Texans gathered enough sticks to make a small blaze and were about to light it when Salazar stopped them.

“No fires tonight,” he said.

“Why not?” Gus asked. “I’d like to warm my toes.”

“Gomez will see it if he is still following us,” Salazar said.

“Why would he follow us—he’s done got our donkeys and most of our food,” Bigfoot asked.

“He might follow us to kill us,” Salazar replied.

“He could have killed you last night and he didn’t,” Bigfoot said. “Why would he walk another day just to do what he could already have done?”

“Because he is an Apache, Serior,” Salazar said. “He is not like us. He may have gone home—I don’t know. But I want no fires tonight.”

By midnight, the cold had become so intense that the men were forced to huddle together for warmth. Even huddled, they were so cold that several of them ceased to be able to feel their feet. Johnny Carthage could not overcome his dread. He tried to think of the sunlight of south Texas, but all he could think of was the terrible white sleet that had nearly taken his life a few days before. He was squeezed up against Long Bill—he could feel his friend shivering. Long Bill shivered violently, but slept, his mouth open, his breath a cloud of white in the cold night. Johnny began to wish that Bill would wake up. Bill had been his pard—his companero. Bill had risked his life to locate him and bring him out of the terrible sleet storm. Now the dread of the cold was overwhelming him—he wanted Long Bill to sense it and wake up, to talk him out of what he meant to do with the small knife he had just taken out of his pocket. He wanted his oldest and best friend to help him through the night. Johnny Carthage began to tremble even more violently than the man he was huddled against. He trembled so that he could scarcely hold the knife, or raise the blade. He didn’t want to drop the knife. If he did, he might not have the strength to find it in the freezing night. He didn’t want to wake his friend, so tired from the long day’s march; yet, he needed his help and began to cry quietly, in despair. He didn’t want to live, his hope was broken; no more did he want to die, without his friend to help him. There was no sound on all the plain except the breathing of the exhausted men around him. The darkness was spotted with little clouds—the white breath of his companeros. Johnny’s gimpy leg was aching terribly from the cold; his foot twitched, twitched, twitched; though he could not feel his foot he felt the twitching, regular as the ticking of a clock.