Dead Man's Walk

“That’s a lion,” Bigfoot said, standing up. “We’re in luck, boys. I doubt I could have got close enough to that buck to put a bullet in him. The cougar done my work for me.”

He started walking toward the spot where the cougar was finishing his kill. The rest of the troop didn’t move.

“He’s bold, ain’t he—that lion might get him next,” Gus said.

Before Bigfoot had gone more than a few yards, the cougar looked up and saw him. For a second the animal froze; then he bounded away. Bigfoot raised his rifle, as if to shoot, but then he lowered it. Soon they saw the spot of brown moving up the shoulder of the nearest mountain.

“Why didn’t you shoot it?” Call asked, when he came up to Bigfoot. He would have liked a closer look at the cougar.

“Because I might need the bullet for an Apache,” Bigfoot said. “We got a dead antelope—that’s better eating than a lion. When there’s food waiting to be et it’s foolish to be wasting bullets on cats you can’t hit anyway.”

They ski

“El Paso is not far,” Salazar said. “We are all about to end our journey.”

He said no more.

Bigfoot was allowed to leave and seek the best route through the mountains—in four hours he was back, having located an excellent low pass, not ten miles to the south. The troop marched all afternoon and camped in the deep shadow of the mountains, just at the lip of the pass.

That night, everybody felt restless. Long Bill Coleman, unable to abide the lack of tunes, cupped his hands and pretended he was playing the harmonica. Gus kept looking at the mountains—their looming presence made him a little apprehensive.

“Don’t bears live in mountains—I’ve heard they sleep in caves.”

“Why, bears live wherever they want to,” Bigfoot told him. “They go where they please.”

“I think most of them live in mountains,” Gus said. “I’d hate to be eaten by a damn bear when we’re so close to all them watermelons.”

No one slept much that night. Matilda rubbed Call’s sore foot with a little antelope fat she had saved. Call was walking better— his stride was almost normal again. He hadn’t abandoned the crutch, but mainly carried it in his hand, like a rifle.

A blue cloud, with a rainbow arched across it, was over them when the troop started through the pass. It snowed for an hour, when they were near the top, but the light flakes didn’t stick. Ahead, as they approached the crest, they could see brilliant sunlight, to the west beneath the clouds.

By noon the cloud was gone, and the bright sunlight shone on the mountains. The troop walked through a winding canyon for three hours and began to descend the west side of the mountains. Below them, they saw trees, on both sides of the river. To the south, Gus once again saw smoke, and this time he was not merely wishing. There was a village beside the river—they saw a little cornfield, and some goats.“Hurrah, boys—we’re safe,” Bigfoot said.

Everyone stopped, to survey the fertile valley below them. Some of the Mexican soldiers wept. There was even a little church in the village.

“Well, we made it, Matty,” Bigfoot said. “Maybe we’ll see a stagecoach, heading for California. Maybe you’ll get there yet.”

He had continued to carry Captain Salazar’s rifle, in case he encountered game. When they started down the hill, toward the Rio Grande, Captain Salazar quietly took it from him.

“Why, that’s right, Captain—it’s yours,” Bigfoot said.

The Captain didn’t speak. He looked back once, toward the Jornada del Muerto, and walked on down the hill.

WHEN THE TIRED TROOP made its way into the village of Las Palomas, the doves for which the village was named were whirling over the drying corn, its shuck now brittle from the frost. An old man milking a goat at the edge of the village jumped up when he saw the strangers coming. A priest came out of the little church, and immediately went back in. In a moment, a bell began to ring, not from the church, but from the center of the village, near the well. Some families came out of the little houses; men and women stopped what they were doing to watch the dirty, weary strangers walk into their village. To the village people they looked like ghosts —men so strange and haggard that at first no one dared approach them. The Mexicans’ uniforms were so dirty and torn that they scarcely seemed like uniforms.

Captain Salazar walked up to the old man who had been milking the goats, and bowed to him politely. “I am Captain Salazar,” he said. “Are you the jefe here?” The old man shook his head—he looked around the village, tosee if anyone would help him with the stranger. In all his years he had never left the village of Las Palomas, and he did not know how to speak properly to people who came from other places.

“We have no jefe,” he said, after awhile. “The Apaches came while he was in the cornfield.”

“Our jefe is dead,” one of the older women repeated.

The old man looked at her with mild reproach.

“We don’t know that he is dead,” he said. “We only know that the Apaches took him.”

“Well, if they took him, he’d be luckier to be dead,” Bigfoot said. “I wonder if it was Gomez?”

“It was Apaches,” the old man repeated. “We only found his hoe.”

“I see,” the Captain said. “You’re lucky they didn’t take the whole village.”

“They only take the young, Captain,” the bold old woman said. “They take the young to make them slaves and sell them.”

“That is why we are all old,” the old man with the goat said. “There are no young people in our village. When they are old enough to be slaves, the Apaches take them and sell them.”

“But there are soldiers in El Paso,” Salazar said. “You could go to the soldiers—they would fight the Apaches for you. That is their job.”

The old man shook his head.

“No soldiers ever come here,” he said. “Once when our jefe was alive he went to El Paso to see the soldiers and asked them to come, but they only laughed at him. They said they could not bother to come so far for such a poor village. They said we should learn to shoot guns so we could fight the Apache ourselves.”

“If the soldiers won’t help you, then I think you had better do what they suggested,” Captain Salazar said. “But we can talk of this later. We are tired and hungry. Have your women make us food.”

“We have many goats—we will make you food,” the old man said. “And you can stay in my house, if you like. It is small, but I have a warm fire.”

“Call the priest,” Salazar said. “These men are Texans—they are prisoners. I want the priest to lock them in the church tonight. They look tired, but they fight like savages when they fight.”

“Are we to give them food?” the old man asked.

“Yes, feed them,” Salazar said. “Do you have men who can shoot?”

“I can shoot,” the old man said. “Tomas can shoot. Who do you want us to shoot, Captain?”

“Anyone who tries to leave the village,” Salazar said.

Then he turned, and went into the little house the old man had offered him.

Despite Salazar’s warning, the people of Las Palomas had little fear of the Texans. They looked too tired and hungry to be the savage fighters the Captain claimed they were. Even as they were walking to the church, the women of the village began to press food on them—tortillas, mostly. The little church was cold, but not as cold as the great plain they had crossed. Several old men with muskets stood outside, as guards. When the night grew chill, they built a fire and stood around it, talking. Long Bill walked out to warm his hands, and the old men made way for him. Bigfoot joined him, and then a few others. Gus went out a few times, but Call did not. The women brought food—posole and goat meat, and a little corn. Call ate with the rest, but he didn’t mix with the crowd around the fire. He sat with Matilda, looking out of one of the small windows at the high stars.