Dead Man's Walk

“That river comes out of the mountains,” the woman said. “I expect it’s cold.”

“Ice cold,” Matilda confirmed.

“Then come along with me,” the Negress said. “Lady Carey has a tub, and the water is hot. These gentlemen can wait a few minutes —tea will be served in about half an hour.”

Matilda looked a little uncertain, but she followed the black woman across the courtyard and up the stairs.

“I wonder what kind of meal it will be,” Wesley Buttons said. “I hope it’s beefsteak. I ain’t had no beefsteak in a good long while.”

“For it to be beefsteak there’d have to be cattle,” Gus remarked. “I ain’t seen no cattle around here, and I don’t know how a cow would live if there was one. It would have to eat sand, or else cactus, and if it wasn’t quick the dern dogs would get it.”

A problem they considered as they waited for it to be time to go to Lady Carey’s was that Brognoli’s condition seemed to be getting worse. He turned his head more and more rapidly, back and forth, back and forth, and he had begun to drool; now and then he emitted a low, thin sound, a sound such as a rabbit might make as it was dying.

A little later, the black woman appeared on the balcony above them and motioned for them to come. Gus had doubts about taking Brognoli, but it seemed unfair to leave him, since food was being offered. It was true that the Mexicans who ran San Lazaro had been generous with soup and tortillas, but Wesley Buttons had put the notion of beefsteak in their minds. It seemed wrong to exclude Brognoli from what might be a feast.

“Come on, Brog,” Gus said. “That lady that did that singing over Bigfoot and the boys is up there waiting to give us grub.”

Brognoli got up and came with them, walking slowly and still swinging his head.

None of them knew what to expect, as they went up the stairs and along the narrow balcony that led to Lady Carey’s quarters. Gus kept brushing at his hair with his hands—he had meant to ask Matty for her broken comb, but forgot it. Of course, he had not expected Matilda to be led away by a tall black woman who spoke better english than any of them.

Suddenly, the little blond boy jumped out of the shadows, pointing a hammerless old horse pistol at them.

“Are you Texans? I am a Scot,” the boy said.

“Why, I’m part Scot myself,” Gus said. “That’s what my ma claimed. You’re as far away from home as I am.”

“But that’s why my mother wants to see you,” the boy said. “She wants you to take us home. She told me we could leave tomorrow, if you would like to take us.”

Call and Gus exchanged looks. The little boy was handsome and frank. Perhaps he was merely fibbing, as children will, but there was also the chance that his mother, Lady Carey, had told him some such thing. Call didn’t mean to stay a prisoner of the Mexicans long, but neither had he expected to leave in a day.

“If we were to take you home, what would we ride?” he asked. “Our horses got stolen a long time back.”

“Oh, my mother has horses,” the boy said. “There’s a stable in the back of the leprosarium.”

“In the back of the what?” Gus asked.

“The leprosarium—aren’t you lepers?” the little boy asked, “My mother’s a leper, that’s why I never get to see her face. But her hands are not affected yet—she can still play the violin quite well, and she’s teaching me.”

“When we get home I shall have the finest teacher in Europe,” he added. “Someday I may play before the Queen. My mother knows the Queen, but I haven’t met her yet. I’m still too young to be presented at court.”

“Well, I’m not as young as you—I’d like to meet a queen,” Gus said. “Especially if she was a pretty queen.”

“No, the Queen is fat,” the little boy said. “My mother was beautiful, though, until she became a leper. She was even painted by Mr. Gainsborough, and he’s a very famous painter.”

Just then a door opened, and the tall Negress stepped out.

“Now, Willy, I hope you haven’t been pointing that gun at these gentlemen,” the woman said. “It’s very impolite to point guns at people—particularly people who might become your friends.”

“Well, I did point it, but it was just in fun,” the boy said. “I couldn’t really shoot them because I have no bullets.”

“That doesn’t make it less impolite,” the woman said.

Then she looked at the group.“Of course I’ve been impolite, too,” she said. “I failed to introduce myself. I’m Emerald.”

“She’s from Africa and her father was a king,” the boy said. “She’s been with us ever so long, though. She’s been with us even longer than Mrs. Chubb.”

“Now, Willy, don’t bore the gentlemen,” Emerald said. “Tea is almost ready. You may want to come in and wash your hands.”

“We washed once, when they barbered us,” Gus pointed out. “It’s been quite a few months since we washed twice in one day.”

“Yes, but you are now under the protection of Lady Carey,” Emerald said. “You may wash as often as you want.”

“Ma’am, if there’s grub, I’m for eating first and washing later,” Wesley Buttons said. “I’ve not had a beefsteak for awhile—I feel like I could eat most of a cow.”

“Goodness, you don’t serve beefsteak at tea,” Emerald said. “Beefsteak belongs with di

The Texans were led into a room where there were five washbasins; the water in the basins was so hot that five columns of steam rose into the room. There were also five towels, and more extraordinary still, five hairbrushes and five combs. The brushes were edged in silver, and the combs seemed to be ivory. At a slight remove was another table, with another washbasin, a towel, and another silver-edged brush and ivory comb.

“That’s the hottest water I’ve seen since we left San Antonio,” Gus remarked. “We’ll all scald ourselves, if we ain’t careful.”

The sixth washbasin was for Willy, the young viscount. The Texans were left to scrub themselves after their own inclinations, but while they were watching the water steam in the washbasins, a short, fat woman in grey clothes burst through a door and grabbed Willy before he could elude her.

“No, no, Mrs. Chubb,” Willy said, trying to squirm out of her grip; but his squirming was in vain. In a second, Mrs. Chubb had Willy bent over his own washbasin; she gave his face a vigorous scrubbing, ignoring his protests about the scalding water.

“Now, Willy, try not to howl, you’ll upset our guests,” Mrs. Chubb said. She didn’t take her eye, or her hands, off her young charge until she considered him sufficiently washed; once her task was done to her satisfaction, the young boy’s face was red from scrubbing and his hair shining from a skillful application of comb and brush. Then the plump woman surveyed the Texans with a lively blue eye.

“Here, gentlemen, your water’s cooling—plunge in,” she said. “Lady Carey has a glorious appetite, and your Miss Roberts is eating as if she’s been starved for a month.”

“Two months,” Long Bill said. “Matty ain’t had a good meal since we crossed the Brazos.”

“Well, she’s having a splendid high tea, right now,” Mrs. Chubb said. “If you gentlemen want anything to eat between now and di

Willy rushed through the door Mrs. Chubb had just emerged from.

“Mamma, I must have a scone,” he said. “Do wait—I’m coming.”

The Texans, under the urging of Mrs. Chubb, hastily splashed themselves with the hot water and rubbed themselves with the towels. Though they had shaved and washed just that morning, the towels were brown with dust when they finished their rubbing. Gus took a swipe or two at his hair with the silver brush—the rest of the Texans felt awkward even picking up such unfamiliar instruments, and left themselves uncombed.

Mrs. Chubb, unfazed, shooed them toward the door, much as a hen might shoo her chickens.