Dead Man's Walk

Gus stood by Long Bill Coleman. Wesley Buttons stood with two cousins named Pete and Roy—no one could remember their last names. Neither Wesley, nor Pete, nor Roy, seemed inclined to advance to the table where the jar waited. Long Bill turned, and looked at Gus.

“Well, do you want to go and draw?” he asked. He himself was not anxious to step forward and be blindfolded, but the Texans’ ranks were thi

Gus knew he ought to take a bold approach to the gamble ahead —the sort of approach he had always taken at cards or dice. But this was not cards or dice—this was life or death, and he did not feel bold. He looked at Matty, who was crying. He looked at Major Laroche, and at the fat alcalde, who was still picking at his boil.

“Woodrow went first, maybe I’ll be the last,” Gus said.

“I expect you’re hoping somebody will use up all them black beans before you get there,.” Long Bill said. “The way I count it there’s two of them damn black ones left.”

Gus didn’t answer. He felt very frightened, and a good deal a

Wesley Buttons went next, while Long Bill was thinking about it; he drew a white bean—Gus and Long Bill were both chagrined that they had not stepped forward more quickly. Now Wesley was safe, but they weren’t.

Long Bill felt a terrible anxiety growing in him; he could not stand the worrying any longer. He bolted forward so quickly that he almost overturned the table where the jar with the beans sat.

“Calm, Monsieur, calm,” the Major said. “There is no need to bump our table.”

“Well, but I’m mighty ready now,” Long Bill said. “I want to take my turn.”

“Of course, you shall take your turn,” the Major said.

The blindfold was tied in place, and the bowl moved below Long Bill’s left hand. He quickly thrust his hand into the bowl and felt the beans. Before he could choose one, though, an anxiety seized him—it gripped him so suddenly and so strongly that he could not make his fingers pick out a bean. He froze for several seconds, his hand deep in the jar. He wondered if black beans felt rougher than white beans—or whether it might be the other way around.

Major Laroche waited a bit, then cleared his throat.

“Monsieur, “you must choose,” he said. “Come. Be brave, like your comrades. Choose a bean.”

Desperately, Long Bill did as he was told—he forced his trembling fingers to clutch a bean, but no sooner had he lifted it free of the pot than he dropped it. The soldier with the bandana bent to pick it up. Then he took the blindfold off, and handed the bean to Long Bill—the bean was white.

Pete went next; he turned his blindfolded face up to the sky as if seeking instruction, before he drew. He didn’t seem to be praying, but he held his face up for a moment, to the warm sun. Then he drew a black bean.

That left two men: Gus, and the ski

At the thought that he might be the last to draw, which would condemn him for sure if Roy was lucky enough to draw a white bean, Gus jumped forward almost as quickly as Long Bill had. When he put his hand in the jar he realized that the Mexicans had not been lying about the number of beans. There were only two beans left—one for him, and one for Roy. One had to be white, the other black. He pushed first one bean and then the other with his finger, remembering all the times he had thrown the dice. He always threw quickly—it didn’t help his luck to cling to the dice.

He took a bean and pulled his hand out, but when the soldier removed the blindfold, he could not immediately bring himself to open his eyes. He held out his hand, with the bean in his palm— everyone saw that it was white before he did.

Roy went pale, when he saw the white bean in Gus’s palm.

“I guess that does it for me,” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. But he went through the blindfolding calmly, and drew the last black bean; then he walked with a steady step over to join the men who were to die.

Gus stepped the other direction, and stood by Call.

“You shouldn’t have waited so long,” Call told him.

“Well, you went first, and nobody told you to,” Gus said, still a

“If I had had a weapon I wouldn’t have stood for it,” Call said— their five comrades were even then being marched toward the wall where the firing squad waited.

As he watched, the same soldier who had blindfolded them as they drew the beans went over with five bandanas and soon had the unlucky Texans blindfolded—all, that is, except Bigfoot Wallace, whose head, once again, was too large for the blindfold that had been provided.

Major Laroche, a

“Monsieur Wallace, I am sorry,” the Major said. “A man doesn’t like to wait, at such a time.”

“Why, Major, it’s not much of a thing to worry about,” Bigfoot said. “I’ve seen many a man die with his eyes wide open. I guess I could manage it too, if I had to.”

The men who were to live were marched over and offered the chance to exchange last words with those who were to die—but in fact, few words were exchanged. Bigfoot handed Brognoli a little tobacco, which he had accepted from one of the men in the oxcart. Joe Turner was shaky—he gripped Call’s hand hard, when Call reached out to exchange a last shake.

“Matty, have you picked a song?” Bigfoot asked. “I expect a hymn would be the thing—I don’t know none myself, but my ma and her sisters knew plenty.”

Matilda was too choked up—she couldn’t reply. Now five of the ten boys were to be shot—soon there would be no one left at all, of all the gallant boys she had set out from Austin with.

Gus, likewise, was tongue tied. He looked at Roy, at Joe, at Don Shane, at Pete, and couldn’t manage a word. He shook their hands —since they were in leg irons already, Major Laroche had decided that their hands did not need to be tied. The five who were to live waited a moment in front of the five who were condemned, thinking they might want to send messages to their loved ones, or exchange a few last words, but the five blindfolded men merely stood there, silent. Pete turned his face to the sky, as he had just before drawing the black bean.

“So long, boys,” Bigfoot said. “Don’t waste your water on the trip home—it’s dry country out there.”

The five who had drawn white beans were then moved back. The fat alcalde got out of his chair and made a speech. It was a long speech, in Spanish—none of the Texans could follow it. None even tried. Their friends stood with their backs against the wall, blindfolded. When the alcalde finished his speech, Major Laroche spoke to the firing squad—their muskets were raised.

Major Laroche nodded: the soldiers fired. The bodies of the Texans slid down the wall. Bigfoot Wallace stayed erect the longest, but he, too, soon slid down, tilting as he did. He lay with his head—the head that had been too big for the blindfold—across stuttering Joe Turner’s leg.

Call felt black hatred for the Mexicans, who had marched many of his friends to death, and now had shot five of them down right in front of them. Gus felt relieved—if he hadn’t marched forward and drawn the bean when he did, he was sure he would now be with the dead. Brognoli, his head still jerking, chewed a little of Bigfoot’s tobacco. When he saw the men fall he felt a jerking inside him, like the movement of his head. He had no voice; he could not comment on the death of men, which, after all, was an everyday thing.