“Oh God, look there!” Gus said, pointing across the canyon. “Look at them—where are they going?”
Not all of the men could afford to look—some of them clung to small bushes, or balanced on narrow ledges in terror. Over them the fire roared right to the edge of the canyon; the heat made all of them sweat, although they were cold with fear.
Call looked, though, and so did Caleb Cobb. At first Call thought it was goats, creeping along the face of the cliff across the canyon. Just as he looked, a ledge crumbled under Black Sam—Call saw a startled look on Sam’s face, as he fell. He did not cry out.
“My God, look at them!” Caleb said.
Across the canyon, on a trail so narrow that they had to proceed single file, a party of fifty Comanches were moving west. It seemed from across the great distance that the Comanches were walking on air.
In the lead was Buffalo Hump, with the lance Gus had imagined in his fear.
“Look at them!” Bigfoot said. “Are they flying?”
“No, it’s a trail,” Shadrach told him. He was on a tiny ledge of rock, with Matilda. He shushed her like a child, hoping to keep her from making a foolish movement.
“What if the fire don’t stop?” Matilda asked, looking upward. She had always been scared of fire; now she could not stop trembling. She expected flames to curl over the edge of the canyon and come down and burn her shirt. She had such a horror of her clothes being on fire that she began to take her shirt off.
“What . . . stop that!” Shadrach said, one eye on Matilda and the other eye on the Comanches.
“No, I have to get this shirt off, I don’t want to burn up in it,” Matilda said, and she half undressed on the small ledge.
Call could look up and see flames at the canyon’s edge, but he knew Matilda’s fear was unfounded. Ash from the burning prairie floated down on them, but the fire was not going to curl over. He kept watching the Indians across the Palo Duro. It did seem that their horses were walking delicately, on the air itself.
“Can you see a trail—you’ve got those keen eyes?” Call asked Gus.
Gus himself had to squint—smoke was floating over the canyon now, from the fire. But when he looked close he could see that the Indians weren’t flying. Buffalo Hump was picking his way slowly, a step at a time, along a small trail.
“He ain’t flying, there’s a trail,” he said. “But if any man could fly I expect it would be that rascal. It felt like he was flying that night he chased me.”
“I don’t care if they’re flying or walking,” Caleb said—he was clinging to a small bush. “I’d be happier if they were going in the other direction—it looks like they’re flanking us.”
Just then the dentist, Elihu Carson, lost his balance and began to roll downward.
“Grab his foot!” Call yelled to Long Bill, who was nearest the falling man. Long Bill grabbed but missed by an inch or less. His own situation was so precarious that he did not dare lean farther. The dentist bounced off a boulder and flew out of sight, screeching loudly as he vanished.
“We’ll have to take care, now, and not get no toothaches,” Bigfoot said, his eyes still on the file of Indians across the canyon, who seemed to be walking on air.
18.
WHEN THE RANGERS CRAWLED back out of the canyon, the prairie was black and smoldering, as far as anyone could see. Here and there a little bush, a cactus or a pack rat’s den still showed a trace of flame. Several dead horses were in sight; the gear the men had dumped smoldered like the rats’ dens. Young Tommy Spencer was sobbing loudly. Dakluskie had been his only relative. Black Sam was gone, and the dentist—Brognoli had been kicked in the neck by a falling horse, and sat glassy eyed. His head was set at an odd angle; from time to time his head seemed to jerk, backward and forward, quickly. He couldn’t speak, though whether from fear or injury no one yet knew.
Much of the extra ammunition had exploded. This surprised everyone, because no one could remember having heard an explosion. By hasty count more than twenty men were missing, fallen unobserved. In view of the fact that at least fifty Indians were to the west of them, not to mention the armies of Santa Fe, the loss of the ammunition was a grave problem. Various of the men commented apprehensively on this fact, but Bigfoot Wallace merely smiled.
“I ain’t worried about bullets, yet,” he said. “We’re afoot, and there ain’t many water holes. We’ll probably starve before we can find anybody to shoot.”
Caleb Cobb’s Irish dog, Jeb, had gone so far down the cliff that he could not get back up. He was crouched more than a hundred feet below on a small ledge, in danger of falling off down a sheer cliff at any moment.
“I’ve either got to shoot him or rescue him,” Caleb said. “Any volunteers for a dog rescue?”
The troop was silent—the thought of going over the edge again, just to rescue a dog that no one but Caleb liked, did not appeal.
“I’ll make the man a sergeant who’ll rescue my damn dog,” Caleb said.
“I’ll do it,” Gus said, at once. He was thinking of Clara Forsythe when he said it. The dog’s dilemma had presented him with a golden opportunity to get ahead of Call. Once ahead, in the race for rank, he meant to stay ahead. Clara would probably hurry to kiss him, if he came back from the trip a sergeant. Corporal Call wouldn’t loom so large—not then.
Call was startled by his friend’s foolish offer. There was no footing around the dog at all—just a tiny ledge. There was not a bush or a tree within twenty feet of the dog—there was nothing to hold on to. Besides that, the dog was big.
“Gus, don’t do it,” Call said. “You’ll go on over, like the dentist.”
But Gus was in a reckless mood, emboldened by the thought of how proud Clara would be of him, when he returned a sergeant. It was a steep stretch between him and the dog, but he had been over the edge of the canyon once and had survived. No doubt he could survive again.
“Somebody tie a rope to me,” he said. “That’ll be safe enough—unless all the ropes burnt up.”
Call and Long Bill quickly poked through the smoldering baggage, using their rifle barrels to turn the hot rags and smoking blankets. They found three horsehide ropes that, though charred, were not burnt through. Call inspected them carefully, inch by inch, to see if there were any weak spots in the rawhide. He found none.
“I still think it’s foolish,” he said, as he carefully tied the ropes together. Even with all three ropes knotted into one, it still looked short to him. Every time he looked over the edge of the canyon the dog seemed farther away. The dog had brayed himself out. He lay flat on the ledge now, his head on his paws. His tail stuck over the chasm.
Six Rangers, Call at the front, held the end of the rope and lowered Gus slowly over the canyon rim. In places there were bushes he could hold on to. Caleb Cobb stood at the edge of the canyon, supervising the operation.
“The point about heights is that you don’t want to look down, Corporal,” he said. “Just look at the dirt in front of you.”
Gus took the advice. He studiously kept his eyes on the cliff wall, reaching down carefully, a foot at a time. Though he didn’t look down, he did look up, and immediately felt a serious flutter in his stomach. The rim above him seemed halfway to the sky. He could not even see the men who were holding the rope. He knew they were trustworthy men, but it would have reassured him to see them.
Suddenly he remembered the Comanches, the ones who had seemed to walk on air. What if they crossed the canyon and attacked? The men would drop him for sure—they’d have to.
“Lower me faster,” he said. “I’m anxious to get back.”
When Gus was within fifteen yards of the dog, the dog began to whine and scratch. He knew Gus was coming to rescue him—but the rope didn’t quite reach, and the stretch between the dog and Gus was stony and steep. Gus began to feel fear rising. If the men lost their hold, or if he slipped trying to grab the dog, he would fall hundreds of feet and be dead. He wanted the promotion, and he wanted Clara’s love—yet h
is fear rose and swallowed the feelings that had caused him to volunteer.
A moment later, he came to the last foothold and saw that he was beaten: the rope was just too short.
“Colonel, can’t you call him?” Gus yelled—“I can’t go no lower—maybe he can come up a ways.”
Caleb Cobb gave a holler, and the dog began to scramble up.
“Ho, Jeb! Ho, Jeb!” Caleb yelled.
The dog made a frantic effort to scramble back up the cliff. He lunged upward just enough that Gus could grab its thick collar. But the weight of the dog was an immediate shock—the dog weighed as much as a small man. When Gus tried to lift the dog by its collar, Call was almost dragged over the edge—Bigfoot caught his belt, or he might have slipped off.
The weight of the dog cost Gus his narrow foothold. He swung free, into space, holding the dog’s collar with one hand. Then, to his horror, he began to swivel. The rope was tied to his belt—the weight of the dog caused him to turn in the air. In a moment his head was pointed down and his legs were waving above him.
“Pull, pull!” he yelled. When he opened his eyes, the world swirled. One moment he would be facing the cliff, the next he would be looking into space. Once, when he twisted, two buzzards flew right by him, so close he felt the beat of their wings in the air.
Then, in a moment, the dog dropped, gone so quickly that he didn’t even bark. Gus still had the collar in his hand—the dog’s skinny head had slipped out. Gus twisted and twisted, as the men pulled him up. He lost consciousness; when he came to he was flat on his back, looking up at the great sky. Call and Bigfoot and Long Bill stood over him—the dog’s collar was still tightly gripped in his hand. He reached up and handed it to Caleb Cobb, who took it, scowling.
“No promotion, Corporal,” Caleb said. “I wanted the dog, not the collar.”
Then he walked away.
“Just be glad you’re back on solid earth,” Bigfoot said.
“I’m glad, all right—real glad,” Gus said.
19.
THE BURNED PRAIRIE RINGED the canyon for five miles—the Rangers had to huddle where they were all day, lest the burnt grass damage their boots.
“Some of our horses might have made it out,” Gus said. “I doubt they all burnt.”
“Buffalo Hump will have taken the ones that lived,” Bigfoot said. “We’ve got to depend on our own feet now. I’m lucky I got big ones.”
“I ain’t got big ones,” Johnny Carthage said, apprehensively. “I ain’t even got but one leg that’s like it ought to be. How far is it we got to walk before we find the Mexicans?”
No one answered his question, because no one knew.
“I expect it’s a far piece yet,” Long Bill said. “Long enough that we’ll get dern thirsty unless we find a creek.”
Most of the men squatted or sat, looking at the blackened plain. In the space of a morning they had been put in serious peril. The thought of water was on every man’s mind. Even with horses it had sometimes been hard to find water holes. On foot they might stumble for days, or until they dropped, looking for water. Caleb Cobb was still very angry over the loss of his dog. He sat on the edge of the canyon, his legs dangling, saying nothing to nobody. The men were afraid to approach him, and yet they all knew that a decision had to be made soon. They couldn’t just sit where they were, with no food and almost no water—some of the men had canteens, but many didn’t. Many had relied on leather pouches, which had burnt or burst in the fire.
Finally, after three hours, Caleb stood up.
“Well, we’re no worse off than old Coronado,” he said, and started walking west. The men followed slowly, afraid of scorching themselves. The plain was dotted with wands of smoke, drifting upward from smoldering plants. Call was not far behind Caleb—he saw Caleb reach down and pick up a charred jackrabbit that had been crisped coming out of its hole. Caleb pulled a patch of burned skin off the rabbit and ate a few bites of rabbit meat, as he walked.
Looking back, he noticed that Call was startled.
“We’re going to have to eat anything we can scratch up now, Corporal,” he said. “You better be looking for a rabbit yourself.”
Not ten minutes later, Call saw another dead rabbit. He picked it up by its leg and carried it with him—he did not feel hungry enough to eat a scorched rabbit; not yet. Gus, still weak from his scare, saw him pick it up.
“What’s the jackrabbit for?” he asked.
“It’s to eat,” Call said. “The Colonel ate one. He says we have to eat anything we can find, now. It’s a long way to where we can get grub.”
“I mean to find something better than a damn rabbit,” Gus said. “I might find a deer or an antelope, if I look hard.”
“You better take what you can get!” Bigfoot advised. “I’m looking for a burnt polecat, myself. Polecat meat is tastier than rabbit.”
A little later he came upon five dead horses; evidently they had run into a wall of fire and died together. Call’s little bay was one of them—remembering how the horse had towed him across the Brazos made him sad; even sadder was the fact that the charred ground ended only a hundred yards from where the horses lay. A little more speed, or a shift in the wind, and they might have made it through.
“Why are we walking off from this meat?” Shadrach asked. He wore moccasins—the passage through the hot plains had been an ordeal for him. Matilda Roberts half carried him, as it was. But Shadrach had kept his head—most of the men were so shocked by the loss of the horses and the terrible peril of the fire that they merely trudged along, heads down, unable to think ahead.
Caleb Cobb wheeled, and pulled out his big knife.
“You’re right,” he said. “We got horse meat, and it’s already cooked. That’s good, since we lost our cook.”
He looked at the weary troop and smiled.
“It’s every man for himself now, boys,” he said. “Carve off what you can carry, and let’s proceed.”
Call carved off a sizable chunk of haunch—not from his bay, but from another horse. Gus whittled a little on a gelding’s rump, but it was clear his heart was not in the enterprise.
“You better do what the Colonel said,” Call said. “You’ll be begging for mine, in a day or two.”
“I don’t expect I will,” Gus said. “I’ve still got my mind on a deer.”
“What makes you think you could hit a deer, if you saw one?” Call asked. “It’s open out here. A deer could see you before you got anywhere near gunshot range.”
“You worry too much,” Gus said. At the moment, meat was not what was on his mind. Caleb Cobb’s treachery in denying him the promotion was what was on his mind. He had gone over the edge of the canyon and taken the risk. Suppose his belt had slipped off, like the dog’s collar? He would be dead, and all for a dog’s sake. It was poor commanding, in Gus’s view. He had been the only man who volunteered—he ought to have been promoted on that score alone. He had been proud to be a corporal, for awhile, but now it seemed a petty title, considering the hardship that was involved.
While he was thinking of the hardship, an awful thought occurred to him. They were now on the open plain, walking through waist-high grass. The canyon was already several miles behind them.
But where the Comanches were, no one knew. The Indians could be drawing a circle around them, even as they walked. If they fired the grass again, there would be no canyon to hide them. They had no horses, and even horses had not been able to outrun the fire.
“What if they set another fire, Woodrow?” Gus asked. “We’d be fried like that jackrabbit you’re carrying.”
Call walked on. What Gus had just said was obviously true. If the Indians fired the grass again they would all be killed. That was such a plain fact that he didn’t see any need to talk about it. Gus would do better to be thinking about grub, or water holes, it seemed to him.
“Don’t it even worry you?” Gus asked.
“You think too much,” Call said. “You think about the wrong things, too.
I thought you wanted to be a Ranger, until you met that girl. Now I guess you’d rather be in the dry goods business.”
Gus was irritated by his friend’s curious way of thinking.
“I wasn’t thinking about no girl,” he informed Call. “I was thinking about being burned up.”
“Rangering means you can die any day,” Call pointed out. “If you don’t want to risk it, you ought to quit.”
Just as he said it an antelope bounded up out of the tall grass, right in front of them. Gus had been carrying his rifle over one shoulder, barrel forward, stock back. By the time he got his gun to his shoulder, the antelope was an astonishing distance away. Gus shot, but the antelope kept running. Call raised his gun, only to find that Gus was right between him and the fleeing animal. By the time he stepped to the side and took aim the antelope was so far away that he didn’t shoot. Shadrach, who had seen the whole thing, was annoyed.
“You didn’t need to shoot it, you could have hit it over the head with your gun,” he said.
“Well, it moved quick,” Gus said, lamely. Who would expect an antelope to move slow? The whole troop was looking at him, as if it was entirely his fault that a tasty beast had escaped.
The incident brought Bigfoot to life, though—and Shadrach, too. The old man had entrusted his rifle to Matilda, but he got it back.
“That little buck was just half grown,” Bigfoot said. “I doubt it will run more than a mile. Maybe if we ease along we can kill it yet.”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 24
