Dead Man's Walk

He knew that if he freed the Texans, and they saw a chance, they would overpower his men, kill them, or else take their guns and leave them to their fate. To free them was to accept a large risk.Yet, at least if it came to battle, the Texans would shoot—they wouldn’t cut and run.

“No white man has ever seen Gomez,” he told Bigfoot. “No Mexican, either. We caught his wife and killed her. We have killed two of his sons. But Gomez we have never seen. He cut my rope, not a yard from my head. And yet I have never seen him.”

“I don’t want to see the fellow,” Bigfoot said. “If I can just avoid him, I’ll be better off.”

“Any Apache can be Gomez,” Salazar said. “He might be dead. His sons might be killing for him now—we only killed two, and he has many. It is hard to fight a man you never see.”

“I’ve seen him,” Bigfoot said.

Salazar was startled. “You’ve seen him?” he asked.

“I dreamed him,” Bigfoot said. “We was on the Rio Grande, trying to lay out the road to El Paso. I was with Major Chevallie— he’s dead now. In my dream I seen Gomez and Buffalo Hump riding together. They were going to attack Chihuahua City and make all your people slaves—the ones they didn’t kill.”

Salazar kept walking.

“I’m glad it was only in Chihuahua City,” he said.

“Why?” Bigfoot asked.

“Because I don’t live in Chihuahua City,” Salazar said. “If they had tried to take Santa Fe they would have done better than you Texans did.”

“I expect so,” Bigfoot said. “Will you untie us, Captain? We won’t fight you. We might help save you.”

“Why is this land without wood?” Salazar asked. “If we had wood and could make fires and be warm, we might survive.”

“Just untie us, Captain,” Bigfoot said. “We wouldn’t be killing these boys of yours. Most of them ain’t but half grown. We don’t kill pups.”

Salazar walked back through the Texans; he saw that they were suffering much, from their bound hands.

“Untie them,” he told his men. “But be watchful. I want the best marksmen to stand guard at night and to flank these men during the day. Shoot them if they try to flee.”

That night, again, there was no fire. All day they had looked for wood, without seeing even a stick. Six riflemen guarded the Texans,with their muskets ready. Late in the night, while Texans and Mexicans alike shivered in their sleep, two of the guards walked off a little ways, to piss.

In the morning their bodies, cut as Joh

This time there was no hiding the truth, from Gus McCrae or anyone.

“He’s stalking us,” Bigfoot said. “Ain’t that right, Captain?

“It is time to march,” Salazar said.

FOR THREE DAYS CALL could not put his right foot to the ground. Matilda and Gus took turns supporting him, alternating throughout the day. On the second day the whole company, Mexicans and Texans alike, were so weak they were barely able to stumble along. They made less than ten miles.

“If we can’t make no better time than this, we might as well sit down and die,” Bigfoot said. He himself could have made better time than that, but he did not want to desert his companions—not yet—not until he had to save himself.

In the afternoon of the second day, Jimmy Tweed, the gangly boy, gave up. He had turned his ankle the day before, crossing a shallow gully; now the ankle was so swollen that he could scarcely put his foot to the ground.

Salazar saw Jimmy Tweed sink down, and went over to him at once. He knew that the whole troop was ready to do what Jimmy Tweed had just done—sit down and wait to die. It was an option he could not allow his men, or the Texans, who, though no longer tied, were his captives. If the Texans began to give up, his own men might follow suit, and soon the whole party would be lost.

“Get up, Serior,” Salazar said. “We will make camp soon. You can rest your ankle then.”

“Nope, I’m staying, Captain,” Jimmy Tweed said. “I’d just as soon stop here as a mile or two from here.”

“Senor, I ca

Jimmy Tweed just smiled. His lips were blue from the cold. He stared through Salazar, as if the man were not there.

Salazar saw that all his soldiers were watching him. Jimmy Tweed made no effort to stand up and walk. Most of the Texans were some ways ahead; they were not paying attention; each man had his own problems—none had noticed that Jimmy Tweed had stopped. Wearily, Salazar drew his pistol and cocked it. “Senor, I will ask you courteously to get up and walk a little farther,” he said. “I would rather not shoot you—but I will shoot you if you do not obey me.”

Jimrny Tweed looked at him—for a moment, he seemed to consider obeying the order. He put his hands on the ground, as if he meant to push himself up. But after a moment, he ceased all effort. “Too tired, Captain,” he said. “I reckon I’m just too tired.” “I see,” Salazar said. He walked around behind Jimmy and shot him in the head.

At the shot, all the Texans turned. Jimmy Tweed had pitched forward on his face, dead.

Salazar walked quickly back to where the group waited, staring at the dead body of their comrade, Jimmy Tweed.

“His sufferings are over, Senores,” Salazar said, the pistol still in his hand. “Let’s march.”

The Mexican soldiers made a show of raising their guns, in case the Texans chose to revolt—but in fact, none revolted. Bigfoot coloured, as if he were about to be seized with one of his great fits of rage, but he held himself in check. Several of the other Texans looked back at the body, sprawled on the dull sand, but in the main they were too numb to care. Several, whose feet were frozen stumps, felt a moment of envy, mixed with sadness. It was hard to dispute Captain Salazar’s words. Jimmy’s sufferings were over; theirs were not.

“That’s two of us that ain’t been buried proper,” Blackie Slidell said. “I have always supposed I’d be buried proper, but maybe I won’t. There’s no time for funerals, out here on the baldies.”

“Proper—they weren’t buried at all,” Bigfoot said. “Joh

Gus had the conviction that they were all going to die. As far as he could see—ahead, behind, or to the side—there was nothing. Just sky and sand. The dead man’s walk was a hell of emptiness. His lips were blue from the cold, and his tongue swollen from thirst. Woodrow Call groaned whenever his broken foot touched the ground—even Matilda Roberts, the strongest spirit in the troop, except for Bigfoot, merely trudged along silently. She had not spoken all day.

Matilda had not looked back, when Jimmy Tweed was shot. She didn’t want to think about Jimmy Tweed, a boy who had been sweet to her on more than one occasion, bringing her coffee from the campfire, helping her saddle Tom, when she still had Tom. Once he had asked her for her favors, but she had bound herself to Shadrach by then, and had turned him down. He pouted like a little boy at being refused, but got over it in an hour and continued to do her little favors. Now she regretted rebuffing him—Shadrach had been asleep and would never have known. Sweet boys rarely knew how little time they had; now Jimmy’s had run out. Matilda put one foot in front of the other, helped Call as much as she could, and trudged on.

That night, Blackie Slidell and six of his chums disappeared. Blackie was of the opinion that there were villages to the west— often he pointed to columns of smoke that no one else could see.

“It’s chimney smoke,” Blackie said, several times; he was hoping to get the company to swing west.

“It ain’t chimney smoke—it ain’t smoke at all—it’s just you hoping,” Bigfoot said. “Gus McCrae has better eyesight than you, and he can’t see no smoke over in that direction.”