Dead Man's Walk (52 page)

"So long, boys," Bigfoot said. "Don't waste your water on the trip home--it's dry country out there." The five who had drawn white beans were then moved back. The fat alcalde got out of his chair and made a speech. It was a long speech, in Spanish--none of the Texans could follow it.
None even tried. Their friends stood with their backs against the wall, blindfolded. When the alcalde finished his speech, Major Laroche spoke to the firing squad--their muskets were raised.
Major Laroche nodded: the soldiers fired.
The bodies of the Texans slid down the wall.
Bigfoot Wallace stayed erect the longest, but he, too, soon slid down, tilting as he did. He lay with his head--the head that had been too big for the blindfold--across stuttering Joe Turner's leg.
Call felt black hatred for the Mexicans, who had marched many of his friends to death, and now had shot five of them down right in front of them.
Gus felt relieved--if he hadn't marched forward and drawn the bean when he did, he was sure he would now be with the dead. Brognoli, his head still jerking, chewed a little of Bigfoot's tobacco. When he saw the men fall he felt a jerking inside him, like the movement of his head. He had no voice; he could not comment on the death of men, which, after all, was an everyday thing.
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 wished Bigfoot 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 tortoise-shell 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.
Once inside the gates the Texans, though still chained, were allowed the freedom of the courtyard. They were served a simple meal of beans and posole, on the table where the jar they had drawn from had been set.
An old man and an old woman served them-- both were lepers, yet neither was shrouded, and the dark spots on their cheeks and arms looked no worse to the Texans than bad bruises. Both seemed to be kindly people; they smiled at the Texans, and brought them more food when they emptied their dishes.
The only soldiers left in San Lazaro were the drunks in the oxcart. In midafternoon, they began to awake. When they did, they picked up their weapons and drove the oxcart out of the walls.
All of them looked frightened.
"They're scared of them dogs," Gus said.
"Why don't the Major get up a dog hunt and kill the damn curs?" "There'd just be more," Call said. "You can't kill all the dogs." He watched the lepers, as they came and went at their tasks. All of them kept themselves covered, but now and then a wind would riffle a cloak, or blow a shawl, so that he could glimpse the people under the wraps. Some were bad: no chins, cheeks that were black, noses half eaten away. Some limped, from deformities of their feet. One old man used a crutch--he had only one foot. There were a few children playing in the courtyard; all of them seemed normal to Call.
There was even a little blond boy, about ten, who showed no sign of the disease. Some of the adults appeared to be not much worse than the old man and the old woman who served them. Some had dark spots on their cheeks and foreheads, or on their hands.
Once the soldiers were gone, San Lazaro did not seem a bad place. Many of the lepers looked at the Texans in a friendly way. Some smiled. Others, whose mouths were affected, covered themselves, but nodded when they passed.
Overhead, the dust swirled so high they could barely see the mountain that loomed over the convent.
Gus felt such relief at being alive, that his appetite for gambling began to return. He had ceased to mind the lepers much--at night they might be scary, but in the daylight the place they were in looked not much worse than any hospital. He began to wish he had a pack of cards, or at least some dice, though of course he had not one cent to gamble with.
"I wonder how long the Mexicans mean to leave us here?" he asked.
Brognoli's head was going back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock, as it had ever since his fright in the canyon. He watched the lepers with dispassion, and the little blond boy with curiosity.
Once, he looked up at the balcony where the lady in black had been and saw a short stout woman standing there. She spoke, and the little blond boy reluctantly left his play and ran upstairs.
Call was thinking about a way to rid them of the leg irons. If he had a hammer and a chisel of some sort, he felt certain he could break the chains himself. The Major had said nothing about coming back, and the last of the soldiers had gone. They were alone with the lepers--the only impediments to their escape were the chains and the dog packs. If he could get the chains off, there would be a way to brave the dogs.
Wesley Buttons, though he had held up bravely during the long march and the drawing of the beans, was feeling keenly the loss of his two brothers, and of the rest of the troop.
"I remember when we left--I got to drive the wagon with old General Lloyd in it," he said. "We had an army. There was enough of us to hold off the Indians and whip the Mexicans.
Now look--there's just us, and we're way out here in the desert, locked in with these sick 'uns." "It's a long way home, I reckon," he added. "Ma's going to be sad, when she hears about the boys." Brognoli's head swung back and forth, back and forth.
"I barely know which way is home," Long Bill said. "It's so dusty it's all I can do to keep my directions. I guess I could go downriver, but it would be a pretty long walk." Gus remembered that it was the same river they had camped on when Matilda caught the big green snapping turtle.
"Why, if it's the Rio Grande, we could just stroll along it easy," he said. "Matty could catch us turtles, when we get hungry." Matilda shook her head--she didn't welcome the prospect of another long walk.
"It's just the six of us got across New Mexico," she pointed out. "If we have to walk the rest of the way, I doubt any of us will make it. That big Indian knows that river--he might get us yet." "We'd have to have weapons," Call said. "None of us would make it, without weapons." "I don't see what the hurry is," Gus said. "We've had a long hike, as it is.
I'd like to laze around here and rest up, myself. These lepers ain't bothering us. All you got to do is not look at them too close." He had been inclined to try escape, until Matilda had mentioned Buffalo Hump.
Memory of the fierce Comanche put a different slant on such a trip. Better to stay inside the walls of San Lazaro and rest with the lepers, than to expose themselves to Buffalo Hump again-- especially since they only had five men.
"I want to leave, if we can get these chains off," Call said. "What if the Major comes back and has us draw some more beans?" He was tired, though, and didn't urge escape immediately. When the wind was high, his back still sometimes throbbed, and his sore foot pained him.
A day or two's rest wouldn't hurt--at least it wouldn't if the Mexicans didn't decide to eliminate them all.
As the evening wore on, the Texans rested and napped--they had been assigned the little room where they had spent the night before, but no one really wanted to go into such a dark hole. The courtyard was sunny; those who didn't want sun could rest under the long barricades.