"I expect he just went for a walk, to keep warm," he said. "I ought to have kept him warmer, but it was hard, without no fire." Bigfoot did not suppose that Johnny Carthage had merely walked into the night to keep his feet warm; nor did Captain Salazar believe it. A few hundred yards to the east, they saw four buzzards circling.
"Bill, he went off to die--got tired of this shivering," Matilda said, before Gus or anyone could comment on the buzzards. It was colder that day than it had been the day before. The whole troop was shivering.
Salazar allowed the Texans to burn their few pitiful sticks, but the blaze was not even sufficient to boil coffee. It died, and the only warmth they had was the warmth of their own breath--they all stood around blowing on their hands. When Long Bill saw the buzzards and realized what they meant, he had to be restrained from running to bury his friend.
"Bill, the buzzards have been at him," Bigfoot said. "Anyway, we got nothing to bury him with. Gus and me will go and take a look, just to be sure it wasn't some varmint that froze to death." "Yes, go look," Salazar said. "But hurry. We can't wait." When Gus saw the torn, white body of Johnny Carthage he immediately turned his back.
Bigfoot, though, shooed the buzzards away and took a closer look. What he saw didn't please him. Johnny's throat had been slashed, and his privates cut off. The buzzards hadn't cut his throat, nor had they castrated him. Bigfoot circled the body, hoping to see a man track--something that would allow him to gauge the strength of their opponents. If several Apaches had been there, that would be one thing. It would mean that none of them could sleep safe until they moved beyond the Apache country. But if Gomez was so confident that he would come to the camp alone, take a horse, kill a man--or several men--then they were up against someone as formidable as Buffalo Hump--someone they probably could not beat.
As Gus stood with his back turned, trying to keep his heaving stomach under control, Bigfoot remembered the dream he had had back on the Pecos, the dream in which Buffalo Hump and Gomez were riding together, to make war on anyone in their path, Mexican or white. Now, in a way, that dream had come true, even though the two Indians might be hundreds of miles apart, and might have never met. Buffalo Hump had almost killed them on the prairie, and now Gomez was cutting them down in the New Mexican desert.
If the two men, Comanche and Apache, ever did join forces, the little troop standing around in the cold would have no chance. Texans and Mexicans alike would be drained of blood like poor one-eyed Johnny Carthage, their throats cut, and their balls thrown to the varmints.
He looked across the long, barren plain, hoping to see some sign--a wolf, a bird, a fleeing antelope, anything at all that would tell him where the Apaches were. But the plain was completely empty--only the grey clouds moved at all.
Gus McCrae had dropped to his knees-- despite himself, his stomach turned over; he retched and retched and retched. Bigfoot waited for him to finish, and then led him back to camp. He didn't tell Gus what he knew, or what he feared. The troop was close to panic anyway--panic and despair, from the cold and hunger and the knowledge that they were on a journey that many of them would not live to finish.
"Did he freeze?" Long Bill asked, grief stricken, when Bigfoot came back.
"Well, he's froze now, yes," Bigfoot said. "We should get to walking." Call's hurt feet were paining him even more than they had been. He had wobbled the day before, coming over a ridge; he hit his foot on a rock, and since then, had had a sharp pain in his right foot, as if a bone thin as a needle was poking him every time he put his foot down.
All that day he struggled to keep up, helped by Matilda and Gus. He noticed that Bigfoot kept looking back, turning every few minutes to survey the desert behind them. It became so noticeable that Call finally asked Gus about it.
"Did Johnny just freeze?" he asked.
"I don't know," Gus said. "All I seen was his body," Gus said. "The buzzards had been at him." "I know the buzzards had been at him, but were the buzzards all that had been at him?" Call asked.
"He means did an Indian kill him," Matilda asked. She too had noticed Bigfoot's nervousness.
Gus had not even thought about Indians--he supposed that Johnny had just gone off to walk himself warm, but had failed at it and frozen. He had only glimpsed the body from a distance--it was blood splotched, like the body of Josh Corn had been, but he had supposed the buzzards had accounted for the blood. Now, though, once he tried to recall what he had seen, he wasn't sure.
The thought that an Indian had found Johnny and killed him was too disturbing to consider.
"I expect he just died," Gus said.
The answer didn't satisfy Call-- Johnny Carthage had survived several bitter nights. Why would he suddenly die, on a night that was no colder than the others? But Call saw that Gus was going to be of no help. Gus didn't like to look at dead bodies. He could not be relied on to report accurately.
Bigfoot was tempted to tell Captain Salazar what had happened to Johnny Carthage. He had a hard time keeping secrets. The day was bitter cold. The Texans were still bound at the wrists, and their hands began to freeze, from lack of circulation. As dusk came, Bigfoot felt his anger rising.
Very likely, they were going to die on the dead man's walk--he reflected ruefully that the sandy stretch of country was accurately named. Why tie the hands of men who were all but dead anyway?
His anger rose, and he strode up to Salazar and fell in beside him.
"Captain, Johnny Carthage didn't freeze to death," he said. "He was kilt." Salazar was almost at the end of his strength--the pace he set was not a military pace, but the pace of a man unused to walking. His family had a small hacienda--all his life he had ridden. Without his horse, he felt weak. Also, he liked to eat--the cold, the wound on his neck, and the lack of food had weakened him. Now, just as they faced another day with little food and another night without fire, the big Texan came to him with unwelcome news.
"How was he killed?" he asked.
"Throat cut," Bigfoot said. "He was castrated, too, but I expect he was past feeling, when that happened." "Why did you wait so long to tell me this, Se@nor Wallace?" Salazar asked. He kept walking, slowly; he had not looked at Bigfoot.
"Because this whole bunch is about to give up," Bigfoot said. "They'll panic and start deserting. Whoever killed Johnny will pick them off, one by one." "Gomez," Captain Salazar said. "He's toying with us." "Untie us, Captain," Bigfoot said.
"Our hands will freeze this way. We'll fight with you, against the Apache--but we can't fight if our hands are frozen off. I couldn't hold a rifle steady now. My hands are too cold." Salazar looked back at the stumbling Texans. They were weak and cold, but they still looked stronger than his own men. He knew that Bigfoot Wallace was right. His men wouldn't go much farther, unless they found food. They would flee toward the mountains, or else simply sit down and die. Gomez was the wolf who would finish them, in his own way.
He knew that if he freed the Texans, and they saw a chance, they would overpower his men, kill them, or else take their guns and leave them to their fate. To free them was to accept a large risk.
Yet, at least if it came to battle, the Texans would shoot--they wouldn't cut and run.
"No white man has ever seen Gomez," he told Bigfoot. "No Mexican, either. We caught his wife and killed her. We have killed two of his sons. But Gomez we have never seen.
He cut my rope, not a yard from my head. And yet I have never seen him." "I don't want to see the fellow," Bigfoot said. "If I can just avoid him, I'll be better off." "Any Apache can be Gomez," Salazar said. "He might be dead. His sons might be killing for him now--we only killed two, and he has many. It is hard to fight a man you never see." "I've seen him," Bigfoot said.
Salazar was startled. "You've seen him?" he asked.
"I dreamed him," Bigfoot said. "We was on the Rio Grande, trying to lay out the road to El Paso. I was with Major Chevallie-- he's dead now. In my dream I seen Gomez and Buffalo Hump riding together. They were going to attack Chihuahua Cit
y and make all your people slaves--the ones they didn't kill." Salazar kept walking.
"I'm glad it was only in Chihuahua City," he said.
"Why?" Bigfoot asked.
"Because I don't live in Chihuahua City," Salazar said. "If they had tried to take Santa Fe they would have done better than you Texans did." "I expect so," Bigfoot said. "Will you untie us, Captain? We won't fight you.
We might help save you." "Why is this land without wood?" Salazar asked. "If we had wood and could make fires and be warm, we might survive." "Just untie us, Captain," Bigfoot said.
"We wouldn't be killing these boys of yours. Most of them ain't but half grown. We don't kill pups." Salazar walked back through the Texans; he saw that they were suffering much, from their bound hands.
"Untie them," he told his men. "But be watchful. I want the best marksmen to stand guard at night and to flank these men during the day.
Shoot them if they try to flee." That night, again, there was no fire. All day they had looked for wood, without seeing even a stick. Six riflemen guarded the Texans, with their muskets ready. Late in the night, while Texans and Mexicans alike shivered in their sleep, two of the guards walked off a little ways, to piss.
In the morning their bodies, cut as Johnny Carthage's had been cut, were found less than fifty yards from camp.
This time there was no hiding the truth, from Gus McCrae or anyone.
"He's stalking us," Bigfoot said. "Ain't that right, Captain?" "It is time to march," Salazar said.
For three days Call could not put his right foot to the ground. Matilda and Gus took turns supporting him, alternating throughout the day. On the second day the whole company, Mexicans and Texans alike, were so weak they were barely able to stumble along. They made less than ten miles.
"If we can't make no better time than this, we might as well sit down and die," Bigfoot said. He himself could have made better time than that, but he did not want to desert his companions--not yet--not until he had to save himself.
In the afternoon of the second day, Jimmy Tweed, the gangly boy, gave up. He had turned his ankle the day before, crossing a shallow gully; now the ankle was so swollen that he could scarcely put his foot to the ground.
Salazar saw Jimmy Tweed sink down, and went over to him at once. He knew that the whole troop was ready to do what Jimmy Tweed had just done--sit down and wait to die. It was an option he could not allow his men, or the Texans, who, though no longer tied, were his captives. If the Texans began to give up, his own men might follow suit, and soon the whole party would be lost.
"Get up, Se@nor," Salazar said. "We will make camp soon. You can rest your ankle then." "Nope, I'm staying, Captain," Jimmy Tweed said. "I'd just as soon stop here as a mile or two from here." "Se@nor, I cannot permit it," Salazar said. "We would all like to stop--but you are a prisoner under guard, and I make the decisions about where we stop." Jimmy Tweed just smiled. His lips were blue from the cold. He stared through Salazar, as if the man were not there.
Salazar saw that all his soldiers were watching him. Jimmy Tweed made no effort to stand up and walk. Most of the Texans were some ways ahead; they were not paying attention; each man had his own problems--none had noticed that Jimmy Tweed had stopped.
Wearily, Salazar drew his pistol and cocked it.
"Se@nor, I will ask you courteously to get up and walk a little farther," he said. "I would rather not shoot you--but I will shoot you if you do not obey me." Jimmy Tweed looked at him--for a moment, he seemed to consider obeying the order. He put his hands on the ground, as if he meant to push himself up. But after a moment, he ceased all effort.
"Too tired, Captain," he said. "I reckon I'm just too tired." "I see," Salazar said. He walked around behind Jimmy and shot him in the head.
At the shot, all the Texans turned.
Jimmy Tweed had pitched forward on his face, dead.
Salazar walked quickly back to where the group waited, staring at the dead body of their comrade, Jimmy Tweed.
"His sufferings are over, Se@nores," Salazar said, the pistol still in his hand. "Let's march." The Mexican soldiers made a show of raising their guns, in case the Texans chose to revolt--but in fact, none revolted.
Bigfoot coloured, as if he were about to be seized with one of his great fits of rage, but he held himself in check. Several of the other Texans looked back at the body, sprawled on the dull sand, but in the main they were too numb to care.
Several, whose feet were frozen stumps, felt a moment of envy, mixed with sadness. It was hard to dispute Captain Salazar's words. Jimmy's sufferings were over; theirs were not.
"That's two of us that ain't been buried proper," Blackie Slidell said. "I have always supposed I'd be buried proper, but maybe I won't. There's no time for funerals, out here on the baldies." "Proper--they weren't buried at all," Bigfoot said. "Johnny and Jimmy both got left to the varmints." Gus had the conviction that they were all going to die. As far as he could see--ahead, behind, or to the side--there was nothing. Just sky and sand. The dead man's walk was a hell of emptiness. His lips were blue from the cold, and his tongue swollen from thirst. Woodrow Call groaned whenever his broken foot touched the ground--even Matilda Roberts, the strongest spirit in the troop, except for Bigfoot, merely trudged along silently. She had not spoken all day.
Matilda had not looked back, when Jimmy Tweed was shot. She didn't want to think about Jimmy Tweed, a boy who had been sweet to her on more than one occasion, bringing her coffee from the campfire, helping her saddle Tom, when she still had Tom. Once he had asked her for her favors, but she had bound herself to Shadrach by then, and had turned him down. He pouted like a little boy at being refused, but got over it in an hour and continued to do her little favors. Now she regretted rebuffing him--Shadrach had been asleep and would never have known. Sweet boys rarely knew how little time they had; now Jimmy's had run out.
Matilda put one foot in front of the other, helped Call as much as she could, and trudged on.
That night, Blackie Slidell and six of his chums disappeared. Blackie was of the opinion that there were villages to the west--often he pointed to columns of smoke that no one else could see.
"It's chimney smoke," Blackie said, several times; he was hoping to get the company to swing west.
"It ain't chimney smoke--it ain't smoke at all--it's just you hoping," Bigfoot said.
"Gus McCrae has better eyesight than you, and he can't see no smoke over in that direction." "It might be a piece of a cloud," Gus said. He liked Blackie and didn't want to flatly contradict him, if he could help it.
Blackie saw that he wasn't going to be able to convince Bigfoot or Salazar that there were villages to the west. But he had become friendly with six boys from Arkansas, and he had better luck with them.
"Hell, I'd like to live to eat one more catfish from the old Arkansas River," one of them, a thin youth named Cotton Lovett, said.
"Or maybe one more possum," Blackie said. He had been down the Arkansas on occasion and remembered that the possums there were fat and easy to catch. The meat of the Arkansas possums was a trifle greasy--several of the Arkansas boys agreed to that--but they were all so hungry that the prospect of grease only made the venture more attractive.
That night, worried about Gomez, Salazar put all his men in a tight circle, facing out, their guns ready. They had crossed a flat lake that afternoon, mainly dry but with just enough smelly puddles to allow the men enough water to boil coffee.
Several of the men were already cramping from the effects of the bad water. The Texans had drunk too, and were suffering. Blackie Slidell tried to interest several other men in escaping. He was sure the villages were there. But he found no takers and slipped off about midnight, with the six boys. Call and Gus watched them go--for a moment, Gus felt inclined to go with them, but Call talked him out of it.
"We don't know much about this country, but we do know the Apaches are that way," Call reminded him. "That's one good reason to stay with the troop." "I would stri
ke out with the boys, but I'm too cold," Gus said. "Anyway, I have to get you home. Clara will think poorly of me, if I don't." Call didn't answer, but he was surprised --not by his friend's loyalty, but that cold, hungry, lost, and a prisoner, he was still hoping to gain the good opinion of a girl in a general store in Austin. He started to point out what seemed obvious: that the girl had probably forgotten them both, by this time. For all they knew, she could have married. Gus's hopes of winning her were as far-fetched as Blackie Slidell's hopes of finding a friendly village somewhere to the west.
He didn't say that, though; recent experience had shown him that men had to use what hope they could muster, to stay alive.
They sat together through the night, one on either side of Matilda Roberts. For several days the weather had been overcast, but when the dawn came, it was clear. Just seeing the bright sunlight made them feel better, although it was still cold and the prospects still bleak.