Dead Man's Walk

The Mexicans brought the same oxcart, with the same black ox, into the courtyard and were about to begin loading the Texans’ bodies in it when, to everyone’s surprise, a voice was raised in song, from the balcony above the courtyard. It was a high voice, sweet and clear, yet not weak—it carried well beyond the courtyard, strong enough to be heard all the way to the Rio Grande, Gus thought.

Everyone in the courtyard was stilled by the singing. The alcalde had been about to get in his carriage, but he stopped. Major Laroche looked up, as did the other soldiers. There were no words with the sound, merely notes, high and vibrant. Matilda stopped crying—she had been trying to think of a song to sing for Bigfoot Wallace, but a woman was already singing, for Bigfoot and the others—a woman with a voice far richer than their own. The sound came from the balcony, where the woman in black stood. It was she who sang for the dead men; she sang and sang, with such authority and such passion that even the alcalde dared not move until she finished. The sound rose and swooped, like a flying bird; some of the tones brought a sadness to the listeners, a sadness so deep that Call cried freely and even Major Laroche had to wipe away tears.

Gus was transfixed; he liked singing, himself, and could bawl out a tune with the best of them when he was drunk; but what he heard that day, as the bodies of his comrades were waiting to be loaded into an oxcart, was like no singing he had ever heard, like none he would ever hear again. The lady in black gripped the railing of the balcony as she sang. As she was finishing her song, the notes dipped down low—they carried a sadness that was more than a sadness at the death of men; rather it was a sadness at the lives of men, and of women. It reminded those who heard the rising, dipping notes, of notes of hopes that had been born, and, yet, died; of promise, and the failure of promise. Gus began to cry; he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t stop, not while the song continued.

Then, after one long, low tone that seemed to hang soft as the daylight, the lady in black ended her requiem. She stood for a moment, gripping the railing of the balcony; then she turned, and disappeared.

The alcalde, as if released from a trance, got into his carriage with his ladies; the carriage slowly turned, and went out the gate.

“My Lord, did you hear that?” Gus asked Call.

“I heard it,” Call said.

The soldiers, too, had come to life. They had begun to load the bodies in the oxcart. Matilda came over to where the five survivors stood.

“We ought to go with them, boys,” she said. “They’re our people. I want to see that they’re laid out proper, in their graves.”

“Go ask the Major if we can help with the burying,” Call said, to Gus. “I expect if you ask him he’ll let us. He likes you.”

“Come with me, Matty,” Gus said. “We’ll both ask.”

The alcalde had stopped a moment, to have a word with Major Laroche, who stood by the gate. Through the gate Gus could see the long, dusty plain to the north. The Major saluted the alcalde and bowed to his women—the carriage passed out. The oxcart, with the bodies of the Texans in it, was creaking across the courtyard, toward the same gate.

“We’d like to help with the burying, Major,” Gus said. “They was our friends. We can’t do much for them now, but we’d like to be there.”

“If you like, Monsieur,” the Major said. “The graveyard is just outside the wall. Follow the cart and return when the work is finished.”

Gus was a little startled that the Major meant to send no guard.

“I suggest you hurry back,” the Major said, with a look of amusement. “The dogs here are very bad—I don’t think you can outrun them, with those chains. You saw a few of them last night, but there are many more. If you try to escape you will soon meet with the dogs.”

Matilda could not get the singing out of her mind. She wishedBigfoot could know what wonderful singing there had been, after his death and the deaths of the others. She had tried to get a good look at the woman in black, but the veils were too thick and the distance too great.

“I never heard singing like that, Major,” Matilda said. “Who is that woman?”

“That is Lady Carey,” the Major said. “She is English. You will meet her soon.”

“What’s an English lady doing in a place like this?” Gus asked. “She’s farther off from home than we are.”

Major Laroche turned, as if tired of the conversation, and motioned for one of the soldiers to bring his horse.

“Yes, and so am I,” Major Laroche said, as he prepared to mount. “But I am a soldier and this is where I was sent. Lady Carey is here because she is a prisoner of war, like yourselves. I will tell my men to let you help with the burial. I suggest you pile on many, many rocks. As I said, the dogs here are very bad, and they don’t have much to eat.”

Gus motioned to the others—they all filed out, behind the oxcart. As soon as they were out the gate, Major Laroche and his ten cavalrymen galloped out and were soon enveloped in the dust their horses’ hooves threw up.

“I asked about that woman who done the singing,” Gus told Call. “The Major says she’s a prisoner of war, like us.”

Call didn’t answer—he was looking at the bodies of his dead comrades. Blood leaked out the bottom of the crude oxcart, leaving a red line that was quickly covered by blowing sand.

“Lord, it’s windy here, ain’t it?” Wesley Buttons said.

THE MEXICAN SOLDIERS WERE glad to allow the Texans to bury their comrades. One of the soldiers had a bottle of white liquor, which he handed around among his friends. Soon the Mexicans were so drunk that all but one of them passed out in the oxcart. None of them had weapons, so it made little sense to think of overpowering them and attempting to escape, though Woodrow Call considered it.

Gus saw what direction his friend’s thoughts were taking, and quickly pointed out what the Major had said about the dogs.

“He said they’ll eat us, if we try to run with these chains on,” Gus said.

“I don’t expect to be eaten by no cur,” Call said—but he knew the Major was probably right. Packs of wild dogs could bring down any animal less fierce than a grizzly bear.

Matilda Roberts had saved a broken piece of tortoiseshell comb through the long journey—she was attempting to comb the dead men’s hair, while the Mexican soldiers finished the bottle of liquor.

The Texans were laid in one grave, by the walls of San Lazaro.

A dust storm had blown up. When they began the burial they could see the river, but the river was soon lost from view. Once the graves were covered the Texans stumbled around, gathering rocks. Several dogs had already gathered—Gus and Wesley threw rocks at them, but the dogs only retreated a few yards, snarling.

While they worked, another smaller cart, drawn by an old mule, made its way around the wall. It, too, was a vehicle of burial—on it were the bodies of two lepers, wrapped tightly in white shrouds. The cart passed close to where the Texans were working; the person driving the cart was also shrouded.

“Look, it’s that one without no meat on his fingers,” Gus said— all that was visible of the driver was the same two bony hands that had given Bigfoot his boots, only a few hours earlier. The leper did not look their way; nor did he make any pretenses. He merely tipped them out of the cart, and turned the cart back toward the gate. Soon the dogs were tearing at the shrouds. The sight saddened Matilda even more. She didn’t imagine that they could find enough rocks to make the bodies of Bigfoot and the others safe for very long.

Call led the ox back into San Lazaro. Most of the Mexican soldiers were sleeping in the oxcart; one would have thought them as dead as the Texans, but for the snores. The two soldiers who could still walk kept close to the Texans, for fear of the dogs.