Larry McMurtry - Dead Man's Walk

by Dead Man's Walk

  What that meant was that the Texans would slightly outnumber his own force; and the Texans, man for man, were stronger than his troops.

  "Se@nores, you will have to be tied," he informed the Texans, when they were led out into the cold air.

  "I regret it, but it is necessary. I can afford no risks on this journey--crossing the dead man's walk is risk enough." Bigfoot swelled up at this news--Gus thought he was going to make a fight. But he held on to his temper and let his wrists be bound with rawhide thongs, when his turn came. The other men did the same. Even Call was tied, though Matilda lodged a strong protest.

  "This boy's hurt--he can't do nothing--why tie him?" she asked.

  "Because he has fury in him," Captain Salazar said. "I saw it myself. He almost killed Colonel Cobb while he was riding in our General's buggy. If I had to choose only one of you to tie, I would tie Corporal Call." "I suppose that's a compliment, ain't it?" Gus said.

  "I don't care what it is," Call said.

  Since the old woman had treated him with her ointment he could at least stretch his muscles without groaning in pain. He glared at the young Mexican who tied him, although he knew the boy was simply doing his job.

  Many of the women of San Saba broke into tears when they saw the Texans being tied. Some of them had formed motherly attachments to one prisoner or another. Some pressed additional food, tortillas or pieces of jerky into the men's hands as they were marched through the street, out of the village.

  The fertile country lasted only three miles. By the fourth mile, only the smallest scrub grew. Soon even that disappeared--before them, as far ahead as they could see, was a land where nothing grew.

  "This is the dead man's walk," Captain Salazar said. "Now we will see who wants to live and who wants to die." "I intend to live," Gus said, at once.

  Call said nothing.

  "Even the Apaches won't cross it," Salazar said.

  One-eyed Johnny Carthage looked at the emptiness before them, and was filled with dread.

  "What's the matter, Johnny?" Long Bill said, noting his friend's haggard look.

  "It's warmer now, and we got food. We'll get across this like we got across the plains." Johnny Carthage heard what Long Bill said, but didn't believe him. He looked at the great space before them and shivered--not from cold, but from fear.

  He felt that he was looking at his death.

  part III

  On the fourth night out from San Saba, a warm night that left the men encouraged, Captain Salazar's horse and both donkeys disappeared.

  Some of their provisions were still on the donkeys--they had traveled late and had only unpacked what they needed for the evening meal, corn mostly, with a little dried mutton.

  Captain Salazar had tethered his horse so close to his pallet that the lead rope was in reach of his hand as he slept. He had only to turn over to reassure himself that his horse was there. But when he did turn over, in the grey dawn, all he had left was the end of the lead rope, which had been cut. The horse was gone.

  "I thought you said Indians didn't come here," Bigfoot said, annoyed. He had wondered at the laxness of the Mexicans, in setting no guard.

  The foot soldiers had simply lain down and slept where they stopped, with no thought of anything but rest. The Texans did the same, but the Texans were tied--guard duty was not their responsibility.

  Captain Salazar was silent, shocked by what had happened and what it meant. He stared for a long time across the dry plain, as if hoping to see his horse and the donkeys, grazing peacefully. But all he saw was the barren earth, with an edge of sun poking above it to the east.

  Bigfoot had to repeat his statement.

  "I guess those Indians that don't come here took your horse," he said.

  "Gomez took my horse," Salazar said.

  "Gomez is not like the rest. He has no fear of this country. No one else would be so bold." "That rope he cut was about three feet from your throat," Bigfoot remarked. "He could have cut your throat if he'd wanted to." Captain Salazar was looking at the cut end of the lead rope. A scalpel could not have cut it more cleanly. Bigfoot was right: Gomez could easily have cut his throat.

  "He could have, but there would have been little sport," he said. "We must walk." By midmorning all the men felt the air, which had been warm, turn chill. The north wind picked up.

  "Oh God, I don't want it to get cold," Johnny Carthage said. "I wouldn't mind to die if I could just do it warm." The great dread had not left him.

  "Shut up your complaining, it's just a breeze so far," Long Bill said. "I carried you once and I'll carry you again, if it comes to that." "No you won't, Bill--you can't carry me no hundred miles," Johnny said, but the wind was already howling at their backs, and no one heard him.

  Call walked between Matilda and Gus--he was still unsteady on his feet and was swept, at times, by waves of fever that made his vision swirl.

  Matilda was the only one of the Texans who had not been tied. Captain Salazar had come to like her --from time to time, she consented to play cards with him.

  He would not fraternize to that extent with the prisoners, and his own men were mostly too young to be good cardplayers. An old bear hunter had taught him rummy--it was mostly rummy that he played with Matilda Jane.

  As they were stumbling along, pushed by the cold north wind, Gus happened to look back, a habit he got into after his encounter with the grizzly bear. He could not get Bigfoot's story about the man who had been stalked while fishing out of his mind. It was worrisome that bears could be so stealthy.

  When he glanced over his shoulder he got a bad start, for something large and brown was hurtling down toward them. Whatever it was was still far away-- he could only see a shape, but it was a brown shape, the very color of a bear.

  "Captain, get the rifles!" he yelled, in consternation. "There's a bear after us." For a moment, the whole troop believed him--no one could clearly determine what was moving toward them, but something was, and fast. Salazar lined his men up and had them ready, their guns primed.

  "I wish you'd let me shoot, Captain," Bigfoot said. "Your boys are so scared I expect half of them will miss." "I expect it, too," Salazar said. He walked over to the nearest soldier and took his musket. He walked over to Bigfoot, untied his hands, and handed him the musket.

  "The last time I handed a Texan a gun, he shot me," Salazar reminded him. "Please be honorable, Mr. Wallace. Shoot the bear.

  If we kill it we will have meat enough to make it across the dead man's walk." Just then, Gus saw something that was even more unnerving: the bear leapt high in the air. It seemed to fly for several yards, before coming back to earth.

  "Good Lord, it's flying," he said.

  As he said it, the shape flew again--the whole troop was transfixed, even Bigfoot. He had heard many bear stories, but no one had ever told him that grizzly bears could fly. He squatted and leveled his musket, though the bear-- if it was a bear--was still far away.

  Some of the young Mexican soldiers became so nervous that they began firing when the hurtling brown object was still two hundred yards away.

  Salazar was irritated. The wind whirled dust from the plain high, so that it was hard to see anything clearly.

  "Don't fire until I say fire," he said. "If you all fire now you will be out of bullets when the bear gets here, and he will eat us all." "I'm saving my bullet," Bigfoot said.

  "I intend to shoot him right between the eyes--that's the only sure way to stop a bear." Just then, the hurtling brown object collided with a hump of rocks and flew high in the air, above the dust. For the first time Bigfoot saw it clearly and he immediately lowered his rifle.

  "Boys, old Gomez has got us rattled," he said. "That ain't a bear--that's a tumbleweed." Salazar looked disgusted.

  "Seven of you shot, and the tumbleweed is still coming," he said.

  "Why, it's the size of a house," Gus said.

  He had never imagined a weed could grow so big.

  It hurtled by the company, rolling ov
er and over, as fast as a man could run. From time to time it hit a bump or a small rock and sailed into the air.

  Soon it was a hundred yards to the south, and then it vanished, obscured by the blowing dust.

  "Let us have no more talk of bears," Salazar said, looking at Gus.

  They marched late into the night, with only a few bites of food. In San Saba the men had been given gourds, to use as water carriers--some of them had already drunk the last of their water, while others still had a little. The temperature had dropped and all the men longed for a fire, but there was nothing to burn, except the branches of a few thin bushes. The Texans gathered enough sticks to make a small blaze and were about to light it when Salazar stopped them.

  "No fires tonight," he said.

  "Why not?" Gus asked. "I'd like to warm my toes." "Gomez will see it if he is still following us," Salazar said.

  "Why would he follow us--he's done got our donkeys and most of our food," Bigfoot asked.

  "He might follow us to kill us," Salazar replied.

  "He could have killed you last night and he didn't," Bigfoot said. "Why would he walk another day just to do what he could already have done?" "Because he is an Apache, Se@nor," Salazar said. "He is not like us. He may have gone home--I don't know. But I want no fires tonight." By midnight, the cold had become so intense that the men were forced to huddle together for warmth. Even huddled, they were so cold that several of them ceased to be able to feel their feet. Johnny Carthage could not overcome his dread. He tried to think of the sunlight of south Texas, but all he could think of was the terrible white sleet that had nearly taken his life a few days before. He was squeezed up against Long Bill--he could feel his friend shivering.

  Long Bill shivered violently, but slept, his mouth open, his breath a cloud of white in the cold night. Johnny began to wish that Bill would wake up. Bill had been his pard--his compa@nero. Bill had risked his life to locate him and bring him out of the terrible sleet storm. Now the dread of the cold was overwhelming him --he wanted Long Bill to sense it and wake up, to talk him out of what he meant to do with the small knife he had just taken out of his pocket.

  He wanted his oldest and best friend to help him through the night. Johnny Carthage began to tremble even more violently than the man he was huddled against. He trembled so that he could scarcely hold the knife, or raise the blade. He didn't want to drop the knife.

  If he did, he might not have the strength to find it in the freezing night. He didn't want to wake his friend, so tired from the long day's march; yet, he needed his help and began to cry quietly, in despair. He didn't want to live, his hope was broken; no more did he want to die, without his friend to help him. There was no sound on all the plain except the breathing of the exhausted men around him. The darkness was spotted with little clouds--the white breath of his compa@neros. Johnny's gimpy leg was aching terribly from the cold; his foot twitched, twitched, twitched; though he could not feel his foot he felt the twitching, regular as the ticking of a clock.

  "Dern this leg," he whispered. "Dern this leg." Then he opened the knife, and put the blade against his throat--but the blade was so cold that he withdrew it. He began to sob, at the knowledge that he hadn't the strength to push the cold knife blade into his throat and cut. It meant he would freeze, but he could not do it amid the Rangers, because they would insist on making him go on. They would not accept the fact that he didn't want to live anymore.

  Johnny put the knife to his throat again, but again he withdrew it. The tip made a tiny cut in his neck and the cold seared the cut, like a brand.

  Johnny quietly moved an inch away from Long Bill, and then another. Slowly, waking no one, he eased out from the midst of the Rangers, a foot at a time. Even when he had slipped beyond the sound of their breathing, he merely scooted over the cold ground, a foot at a time.

  Of all the Texans, only Matilda Roberts was awake. At night she had taken to sleeping between the two boys, making Call turn his torn back to her so she could warm it. Gus slept on the other side, squeezed up against her as close as he could get. Both boys slept, but Matilda didn't. She saw Johnny Carthage--he crawled right by her. As he was about to go into the night he felt her gaze, and turned to look at her for a moment. He could only see her outline, not her face; nor could she see him clearly, yet she knew who he was and where he was going. Johnny paused in his crawl. The two of them looked at one another, through the darkness. Matilda opened her mouth, but closed it again, without speaking. Johnny Carthage was beyond her words--but she did reach out and squeeze his arm.

  She heard him sob; he touched her arm for a moment, before he crawled away. "Oh, Johnny," she whispered, but she didn't try to stop him. Since Shadrach's death she had used her strength for the boys, Gus and Call--one was hurt, and the other was foolish. It would take all her strength, and perhaps more than her strength, to get them across the desert. She could not save them and Johnny Carthage, too--nor could Long Bill save his friend without losing his own chance to live. If the cold didn't take Johnny, the stony ground would grind at him until it broke him. If he wanted to make his own end, she felt it was wrong to stop him. His chances were slight at best; there was no point in his suffering beyond his strength.

  Even so, it was hard to listen to the scraping of his poor leg, as he dragged himself over the hard ground, into the icy night. But the scraping grew faint, and then very faint. Soon she could hear nothing but the breathing of the two boys who slept beside her. Since the day when Caleb Cobb had struck his foot with the rifle barrel, Call had limped almost as badly as Johnny. Probably there were broken bones, somewhere in his foot--but he was young. The broken bones would heal.

  Johnny Carthage crawled on until he figured he was almost two hundred yards from camp. He had worn one of his pants legs through and scraped one of his knees on the icy ground.

  Bigfoot had once told him that freezing men felt a warmth come over them, near the end; when he judged that he was far enough from camp not to be found, even if Long Bill should wake and miss him and come looking, he stopped and sat, shivering violently. He waited for the warmth in which he could sleep and die--he had been cold long enough; he was ready for the warmth, but the warmth didn't come --only a deeper cold, a cold that seeped inside him and chilled his lungs, his liver, even his heart.

  Desperate for the warmth, he opened his little knife again and clutched it tightly, meaning to plunge it into his neck, where the great vein was. But before he could grasp the knife tightly enough in his shivering hands, he looked up and saw a shadow between himself and the starlight. Someone was there, a presence he felt but could not see. Before he could think more about it, Gomez struck.

  Johnny Carthage finally felt the longed-for warmth--a warm flood, flowing down his chest and onto his freezing hands. For a moment, he was grateful: whoever was there, between him and the cold stars, had taken a hard task off his hands. Then he slipped down and the shadow was astride him, opening his pants. Before Gomez struck again, one-eyed Johnny Carthage had ceased to mind the cold, or to feel the pain of the knife that had severed his privates. Oh, Bill, he thought--then all thoughts ceased.

  Gomez wiped his knife on Johnny Carthage's pants leg, and moved quietly toward the Mexican camp. Long before he got there, he heard the snores of several sleeping men. He had planned to kill the shivering Mexican sentries and take their guns, but when he realized that the large woman was awake, he changed his mind. He did not want the large woman to know he was there. The night before, in the little cave where he rested, he had seen a snake, though it was much too cold for snakes to be moving about; worse, late in the night, he had heard the call of an owl, though he was far out on the malpais, where no owls flew. He knew it must be the large woman who summoned the snake and the old owl to places where they should never be. He knew the large woman must be a witch, for only a witch would be traveling through the malpais with so many men.

  Gomez knew that the large woman had been the woman of Tail-Of-The-Bear, and Tail-Of-The-Bear
had been a great man, perhaps a shaman. Gomez turned away from the camp at once; he did not want the witch to find out that he was near. If she knew, she might summon the owl again--the buu--and to hear the call of the buu twice meant death.

  Gomez skirted the camp and walked several miles, to where he had left his two sons. One of them had found a wolf den that day--they had made a little fire and were cooking the wolf pups they had caught. Gomez wanted to eat one of the young wolves--it would give him cunning, and protect him from the buu and the witch, the large woman who had traveled with Tail-Of-The-Bear.

  Long Bill Coleman was frantic, when he discovered that Johnny Carthage had left him in the night. He felt guilty for not having watched his friend more closely.