Dead Man's Walk

The Texans were allowed blankets and a good fire, but they still had no clothes. Though Call despised Major Laroche, he could not help being impressed by the Major’s skill with the sabre. Sometimes he would have his men throw gourds in the air, for him to slash as he raced. His horsemanship was also a thing of skill—the Major could turn his mount in midstride, if one of the gourds was thrown too far to the right or the left. His saddle was polished to a high gleam—he seemed to enjoy this morning practice more than therest of his duties. All day he rode at the head of his column of cavalry, seldom looking back.

Once, as they were nearing Las Cruces, a jackrabbit sped beneath the Major’s horse—in a second the Major was after the rabbit. He overtook the jack within fifty yards, and with one stroke severed its head. Then he handed the sabre to his orderly to clean, and resumed his ride at the head of the column.

“I don’t like them dandified little saddles,” Gus remarked.

“Why not?” Call asked. “That Frenchie sits his like he was glued to it.”

“He won’t be glued to it if Buffalo Hump gets after him,” Gus said. He knew that they were close to El Paso—beyond it was the wilderness where Buffalo Hump had killed Josh Corn and Zeke Moody. Lately, the thought of the big Comanche had been often in his mind.

Call didn’t answer—he had not been listening very closely. He thought himself to be an adequate rider, but he knew he could not control a horse as well as the little French Major—nor as well as the humpbacked Comanche, who had raced across the desert holding a human body across his horse while he rode bareback. The Frenchman, ru

No Ranger that Call had yet seen could ride as well as either the Comanche or the Frenchman. Gus McCrae was a better rider than he was, but Gus would be no match for either the Major or Buffalo Hump, in a fight. Call resolved that if he survived, he would learn as much as he could about correct horsemanship.

“The Major’s better mounted,” Call said. The Major rode a bay thoroughbred, deep chested and fast.

“Buffalo Hump would get him with that lance,” Gus said. “He nearly got me with that lance, remember?”

“I didn’t say he couldn’t,” Call said.

But the next day, he watched the Major as he put his horse through his morning paces. Gus was a

“I don’t like the way he curls his damn mustache,” Gus said. “If I had a mustache I’d just let it grow wild.”

“Let it grow anyway you want,” Call said. “I got no opinion.“At the village of Mesilla, just south of Las Cruces, the surviving Texans—there were only ten, not counting Matilda_were finally given clothes: shirts that fell to their knees, and pants that were baggy and rough.

Then, as Major Laroche watched, an old blacksmith put the ten Texans in leg irons. The leg irons were heavier than the ones they had worn in Anton Chico, and the chains were too short for any of the men to take a full stride.

“Major, I could crawl to El Paso faster than I can walk in these dern ankle bracelets,” Bigfoot said.

“You won’t have to walk, Monsieur,” the Major said. “We have a fine wagon for you to ride in. We want you to be rested for our little ceremony.”

The fine wagon turned out to be an oxcart, drawn by an old black ox. The ten men fit in the wagon, but Matilda didn’t. Gus offered to give her his place, but Matilda shook her head.

“I’ve walked this far,” she said. “I reckon I can walk on into town.”

Ahead, northeast of the river, they could see a grey mountain looming. Although the men were chained, and the oxcart bumped along at a slow pace, the cavalrymen kept pace around it with their sabres drawn. After two hours of bumping along, Gus’s bladder began to trouble him—but when he started to slide out of the wagon to take a piss, the soldiers leveled their sabres at him.

“All right then, if that’s the rule, I’ll just piss over the side,” Gus said, standing up. “I don’t want to wet my new pants.”

He stood up and peed off the end of the oxcart, watched by the soldiers with the sabres. In time, several of the Texans did the same.

It was dusk when the cart bumped into the outskirts of El Paso. A strong wind was blowing, whirling dust into their faces. They could not see the mountain ahead or the river to the west. As night came, the wind rose higher and the dust obscured everything. Now and then, they passed little huts—dogs barked, and a few people came out to look at the soldiers. Matilda kept her hand on the side of the oxcart; the dust was blowing so thickly that she was afraid she might lose her way and be without her companions.

In the cart, the men hid their heads and waited for the journey to be over. Now and then, Call looked out for a minute. He saw a few more buildings.“I guess they call it the Pass of the North because all this dern wind out of New Mexico blows through it,” Bigfoot said. “If it gets much stronger, it’ll be blowing pigs at us.”

As he said it, they heard over the keening wind a faint sound that they could not identify.

“What’s that?” Bigfoot asked.

Call, whose hearing was as keen as Gus McCrae’s sight, was the first to identify the sound.

“It’s a bugle,” he said. “I guess they’re sending the army now.”

Ahead, through the dust, they saw what seemed to be moving lights; soon a line of infantrymen with lanterns, led by a captain and a bugler, met the cavalrymen. The bugler continued to blow his horn, although the wind snatched the sound away almost before the notes were sounded. The soldiers with the lanterns formed a line beside the oxcart as it bumped along toward the town. One soldier, startled by the sudden appearance of a large woman at his side, dropped his lantern, which smashed on a rock. The infantry captain yelled at the soldier; then he in turn was startled as Matilda Roberts appeared, almost at his elbow. Then they heard shouts and the sound of snarling dogs—there was a shot, and several of the cavalrymen galloped ahead. The snarling got louder, there were more shots, and then a squeal from one of the dogs. A minute later Major Laroche, his sabre drawn, rode close to the oxcart and peered in at the Texans.

“The dogs here are hungry,” he said. “Stay in your wagon, and you will be safe.”

Then Matilda yelled.

“There’s a dog got me—there’s dogs all in with these horses,” she cried.

Major Laroche turned, and disappeared. Bigfoot, Gus, and Long Bill Coleman managed to pull Matilda into the wagon.

“One of them dogs bit my leg,” Matilda said, gasping. “I’m bloody.”

Just as she said it the black ox turned, and the cart almost tipped. Three wild dogs jumped in it, snarling and biting.

“Why, this is dog town, I guess,” Bigfoot said—he managed to heave one of the dogs out of the cart. The other two, after snarling and snapping at the men, leaped out themselves.

Matilda Roberts sobbed and clung to Gus—the dogs had rushed out at her so quickly that it u

Through it all, the bugler continued to play, although the snatches of sound came from farther away.

“I think that bugler’s lost,” Gus said. “He’ll be lucky if them dogs don’t get him.”

The wind rose higher—lanterns only a few feet from the wagons were hard to see. Now and then, a horse neighed. So much sand had blown into the oxcart that the men were sitting in it. Sand had sifted down the men’s loose clothes—it coated their hair.

Then, abruptly, the wind stopped—the cart had turned a corner near a high wall. The sand still swirled above the wall, but for a moment the men were protected. When they lifted their heads, sand from their hair and their collars fell inside their shirts.