Dead Man's Walk

Buffalo Hump, though, was impatient. It was true that Kirker was a bad man who deserved to be tortured by the squaws, but the squaws were four days’ ride to the north, and the raiders’ business lay to the south. Kicking Wolf might not be as expert at torture as Three Seed, but he was good enough to make Kirker writhe and gurgle through a whole afternoon. He had been burned and cut and blinded when they took him to a small tree near the Pecos and tied him upside down. They built a small fire beneath his dangling head, and prepared to ride off; the greasewood would burn all night. Long before the sun rose, Kirker’s head would be cooked.

Even so, when Buffalo Hump mounted and indicated that it was time to take advantage of the Comanche moon and get on with the serious business of the raid, Kicking Wolf refused to leave. He was determined to enjoy Kirker’s torture to the end. He jabbed a thorny stick into Kirker’s other ear, and let blood from his head drip into the fire.

Buffalo Hump was irritated, but Kicking Wolf, as a warrior, could do as he pleased, up to a point. The man knew the way to Mexico as well as anyone. It was not likely that Kirker would last until the morning—Kicking Wolf would follow and catch up the next day.

Still, before he left, Buffalo Hump made sure Kicking Wolf knew he was expected in Mexico soon. Kicking Wolf was the best horse thief in the tribe, and also the best stealer of children. He moved without making any sound at all. Once or twice he had reached through a window and taken a child while its parents were right in the room, eating or quarreling. Buffalo Hump did not want Kicking Wolf lingering too long, just to torture one scalp hunter. The man was already too weak to respond strongly to torture, anyway. He only jerked a little, and made a weak sound behind his sewn lips when the flames touched his head.

Kicking Wolf paid little attention to Buffalo Hump and the other warriors, as they rode off to the south. He was glad the war chief was gone—Buffalo Hump was a great fighter, but he was too impatient for the slow business of torture. For the same reason, Buffalo Hump was not an especially good hunter—he often jumped too soon. Torture took patience, and Buffalo Hump didn’t have it. Before the warriors were even out of sight, Kicking Wolf took a stick or two off the fire and touched them to Kirker here and there, causing the man to jerk like a speared fish. The jerking made Kicking Wolf happy. It was good to be rid of the impatient war chief, good to be alone to hurt the man who had scalped his wives and his little son. In a little while, he cut the bloody threads that Buffalo Hump had used to sew Kirker’s lips together. Then he stoked the fire a little and grabbed Kirker by the hair, so he could hold the man’s face right over the flames. He wanted to hear the man scream.

After the first screams were over, Kicking Wolf scattered the fire a little and let Kirker’s head hang down again. He got up and walked a short distance to a pile of rocks, carrying one of the burning sticks, to give him a little light. He wanted to find some little scorpions and put them on the white man. The scorpions would hurt him but would not kill him, and the torture could go on.

CALL WAS SURPRISED BY Lady Carey’s riding. She rode sidesaddle, of course, but handled her black gelding as expertly as any man. She could even make the horse jump, putting him over little gullies and small bushes while at a gallop. Call thought that was foolish, but he had to admit it was skillful, and pretty to watch. Willy tried to get his pony to jump like his mother’s gelding, but of course the pony wouldn’t. Mrs. Chubb rode a donkey, and protested constantly about its behaviour, though Gus pointed out to her that her donkey behaved no worse than most donkeys.

“In England they behave better, sir,” Mrs. Chubb insisted. “This one tried to bite my toe.”

Emerald, the tall Negress, rode a large white mule; she astonished Gus when she told him that the mule had sailed over from Ireland, along with Willy’s pony and Lady Carey’s black gelding.

“I doubt I could get fond enough of a mule to bring one on a ship,” Gus said. He himself was riding a lively bay, procured in El Paso. In fact, thanks to Lady Carey’s largesse, they were all better mounted than they had been at any time during their journeying. Each man had two horses, and there were four pack mules. One carried Lady Carey’s canvas tent; the others carried provisions, including plenty of ammunition. They all had first-rate weapons, too —brand-new rifles and pistols, and a pretty shotgun for shooting fowl. Gus was eager to try the shotgun on prairie chickens—he had acquired a taste for the birds, but traveling east out of El Paso, they saw no prairie chickens, only desert. Gus did manage to bring down a lean jackrabbit with the shotgun, but upon inspecting the rabbit, Emerald declined to cook it.

“Lady Carey doesn’t care for hares, unless they’re jugged,” she said. Lady Carey had raced far ahead. She was still completely veiled, so veiled that Call didn’t know how she could see prairie-dog holes and other dangers of the trail. But she rode fast, her veils flying, and the black gelding rarely stumbled.

At four, to the Rangers’ astonishment, the party stopped so that tea could be served. A small table was set up, covered with a white damask cloth. A fire was made; while Emerald sliced a small ham and made little sandwiches, Mrs. Chubb brewed the tea. The sugar bowl was brought out and sugar tonged into the cups. All the Rangers liked the tea and drank several cups; they decided they approved of English customs. Call, though he enjoyed the tea, thought it was foolish to waste an hour of daylight sitting around a table in the desert. The boys could drink all the tea they wanted at night—why waste the daylight? But he had to admit that otherwise Lady Carey’s arrangements had been excellent. The saddles were the best that could be located in El Paso; also, mindful that winter was approaching, Lady Carey had insisted that they buy slickers, warm coats, and plenty of blankets. If Caleb Cobb’s expedition had been half so well equipped, it might have succeeded, at least in Call’s view. With proper equipment, it would have had a chance.

At night, with Long Bill’s help and Gus’s, Emerald set up Lady Carey’s tent. While the tent was being anchored, Lady Carey sat by the campfire and read Willy stories from one of the storybooks they had with them. Some of the Rangers, unused to having a lady handy who would read, listened to the stories and enjoyed them as much as Willy. Matilda Roberts, for her part, enjoyed them more than Willy—the young viscount, after all, had had the stories read to him many times. But Matilda had never heard of Little Red Riding Hood, or Jack and the Beanstalk. She sat entranced, letting her tea grow cold, as Lady Carey read.

Even more entrancing than the stories was Lady Carey’s singing. Mostly she sang light tunes, “A

“Why, he’s Italian and he knows his operas,” Lady Carey said. “Now that he’s found his voice again, I expect he’ll be singing arias in a day or two.”

That prediction proved wrong, for Quartermaster Brognoli died that night. Call looked at him in the morning, and saw at once that he was dead. His head was twisted far around on his back and neck.