Dead Man's Walk

Call was skeptical.

“They don’t need a priest and a firing squad if it’s just a show,” he said. -

When the last Texan was barbered, they were lined up behind the tables where the basins sat. Then the stools were removed, and all but one of the tables.

Major Laroche stepped crisply toward them, carrying an earthen jar. He sat the jar on the table. It had a cloth over it, which he did not at first remove.

“At last we come to the moment of our ceremony,” he said. “You are all guilty of attempting to overthrow the lawful government of New Mexico. By the normal laws of war you would all be shot. But the authorities have decided to be merciful.”

“Merciful how?” Bigfoot asked.

“Some will live and some will die,” the Major said. “There are ten of you, not counting the woman. The woman we will spare. But the ten of you are soldiers and must take the consequences of your actions.”

“Most of us already have,” Call said. They were going to shoot them all—he was sure of that. He saw no reason to stand there and listen to a French soldier make fancy speeches at them, for the benefit of a fat Mexican.

The Major paused, and looked at him.

“We started from Texas with nearly two hundred men,” Call said. “Now we’re down to ten. I’d call that punishment—I don’t know what you’d call it.”

“That is but the fortunes of war, Monsieur,” Major Laroche said. “Here is how our ceremony will work. In the jar I have placed before you are ten beans. Five of them are white, and five are black. Each of you will be blindfolded. You will come to the bowl and draw a bean. The five who draw white beans will live. The five who draw black beans will die. We have a priest, as you can see. And we have a firing squad. So, gentlemen, who would like to be the first to draw a bean?”

There was a pause—Gus and Long Bill glanced at Bigfoot Wallace, but Bigfoot had his eyes fixed on the nearest soldier with a musket. He was not thinking about white beans or black—not yet.He was thinking that he might try to grab a musket, shoot the Major or the fat alcalde, and try to get over the wall with a few of the boys. The leg irons were the deuce to cope with, but if a few of them could get over the wall with a musket or two, at least they would have a chance to die fighting. He didn’t trust the Mexicans, in the matter of the beans. It might be that all the beans in the bowl were black—it was probably just a ruse to give them hope, when there was no hope.

Call didn’t trust the beans either, but he didn’t intend to stay like a coward and wait for someone to move—so he stepped forward, in front of the table that held the bowl. A soldier with a black bandana in his hand stood near the table.

“Ah, good—our first volunteer,” the Major said.

He looked for a moment at the soldier with the bandana.

“Be sure that you blindfold him well,” the Major said.

The bowl with the beans in it had a white cloth over it. The soldier came up behind Call and put the bandana over his eyes; he pulled it tight and knotted it quickly in place. The soldier knew his job—Call couldn’t see a thing. The bandana let through no light at all.

The blindfold alone did not satisfy Major Laroche. He picked up the jar of beans, took the cloth off it, and walked around behind Call.

“A blindfold can slip,” he said. “I am going to hold the jar behind you, just below your left hand. When you are ready, reach in and pick your bean.”

Call felt his hand bump the side of the jar. He didn’t know what to expect, but he put his hand in the bowl anyway. It occurred to him that it was just a trick of some kind. There could be spiders or scorpions in the bowl—even a small snake. Bigfoot had pointed out to him that the smallest rattlesnakes were often the deadliest. Perhaps the firing squad was just for show.

Immediately, though, he realized that his suspicions were foolish. In the bottom of the bowl were a few beans. There was no way to choose between them so he took one, and pulled his hand out of the bowl. The soldier immediately began to untie the blindfold.

“You were brave enough to start, Monsieur, and your courage has been rewarded,” Major Laroche said.

Call looked in his palm, and saw that the bean was white.

“You will live,” the Major said. “Step to the side, please. We need another volunteer.”

Bigfoot Wallace immediately stepped forward. Call’s luck had persuaded him that there really were beans in the brown jar. He abandoned his plan to try and steal a musket and leap the wall. Mostly, through the years, in situations that were life and death, his luck had held. Call had drawn a white bean; he might also. There was no point in flinching from the gamble.

Bigfoot had a head to match his more famous appendages. The blindfold, which had been easy to knot around Call’s head, would barely go around Bigfoot’s. By pulling hard, the soldier assigned to do the blindfolding could just get the ends of the bandana to meet, but he could not pull it tight enough to knot it.

“We should have cut your hair, Monsieur Wallace,” the Major said. “The blindfold won’t fit you.”

“I can just squinch up my eyes,” Bigfoot said. “The beans are behind me, anyway. I can’t see behind myself.”

“Maybe not, but rules are rules,” the Major said. “You must be blindfolded.”

He motioned to another soldier, who held the other end of the bandana—the two soldiers pressed the blindfold tightly against Bigfoot’s eyes.

“I couldn’t see a bolt of lightning if one was to strike right in front of me,” Bigfoot said.

“The bowl is below your left hand,” Major Laroche said. “Please draw your bean.”

Bigfoot took out a bean, and held it in his palm. Even before the soldier dropped his blindfold he heard a cry from one of the ladies who sat with the alcalde. When he looked in his palm, he saw that the bean was black.

“The count is one and one,” Major Laroche said.

One of the ladies sitting with the alcalde had fainted at the sight of the black bean. Two of the other women were fa

Bigfoot looked at the bean in his hand, and then put it in his pocket. Two soldiers moved him a short distance, in the direction of the wall where the firing squad waited. Bigfoot glanced back at his comrades, the Texans still waiting to draw.

“Good-bye, boys—I guess I’ll be the first to be shot,” he said.

As he waited, he pulled the black bean out of his pocket several times and looked at it. In his years on the frontier he had been in threat of his life many times, from bullets, tomahawks, arrows, lances, knives, horses, bears, Comanche, Apache, Kiowa, Sioux, Pawnee—yet his life had finally been lost to an unlucky choice of beans, in the courtyard of a leper colony in El Paso.

The Rangers still waiting were stu

“Bye, Matty,” Bigfoot said, waving to Matilda. Then he had a thought.

“Will you sing over me, Matty?” he asked. He remembered that his aunts had sung beautifully, back in old Kentucky, long ago.

“I’ll sing a song for you—I’ll try to remember one,” Matilda said. “I’ll do it—you were a true friend to my Shad.”

Don Shane stepped up next, and drew a black bean. Silent as usual, Don didn’t speak or change expression. Quartermaster Brognoli, who was still glassy eyed and whose head still jerked, stood at attention while being blindfolded; he drew a white bean. Joe Turner, a stocky fellow from Houston who spoke with a slow stutter, came next and drew a black bean. He and Don were marched over to stand with Bigfoot. Brognoli moved over and stood with Call.