Several of the men were so hungry they ate the scorched gourds without hesitation.
“Tastes bitter as sin,” Gus observed, after chewing a bite.
“I wouldn’t know what you mean,” Bigfoot said. “I’m a stranger to sin.”
Matilda stuck a knife into her gourd, and a puff of hot air came out. She sniffed at the gourd, and immediately started sneezing. Annoyed, she flipped the gourd away.
“If it makes me sneeze, it’s bad,” she said.
Later, though, she found the gourd and ate it.
One of the Mexican soldiers had gathered up the gourd vines, as well as the gourds. He scorched a vine and ate it; others soon followed suit. Even Salazar nibbled at a vine.
“When will we hit the mountains, Captain?” Bigfoot asked. “There might be game, up there where it’s high.”
Salazar sighed—his mood had darkened as the day wore on. He had scarcely any of his company left, and only a few of his prisoners. It would not sit well with his superiors.
“The Apaches may not let us cross,” he said. “There are many Apaches here. If there are too many, none of us will get through.”
“Now, Captain, don’t be worrying,” Bigfoot said. “We’ve walked too far to be stopped now.”
“You’ll be stopped if enough arrows hit you,” Salazar said.
The night was clear, with very bright stars. Salazar could not see the distant mountains, but he knew they were there, the last barrier they would have to cross before they reached the Rio Grande and safety. He knew he had done a hard thing—he had crossed the Jornada del Muerto with his prisoners. He had lost many soldiers and many prisoners, but he was across. In two days they could be eating goat, and corn, and perhaps the sweet melons that grew along the Rio Grande. None of his superiors could have done what he did, and yet he knew he would not be greeted as a hero, or even as a professional. He would be greeted as a failure. For that reason, he thought of Gomez—it would be worth dying, with what men he had left, if he could only kill the great Apache. Then, at least, he would die heroically, as befitted a soldier.
“I think the Captain’s lost his spunk,” Gus said, observing how silent and melancholy the man had been around the campfire. Even the amusing sight of his whole company attempting to eat the bitter gourds had not caused him to smile.
“It ain’t that,” Bigfoot said—then he fell silent. He had been around defeated officers before, in his years of scouting for the military. Some had met defeat unfairly, through caprice or bad luck; others had been beaten by such overwhelming numbers that survival itself would have brought them glory. And yet to military men, circumstances didn’t seem to matter—if they didn’t win, they lost, and no amount of reflection could take away the sting.
“It ain’t that,” he said, again. The young Rangers waited for him to explain, but Bigfoot didn’t explain. He drew circles in the ashes of the campfire with a stick.
The next morning the mountains looked closer, though not by much. The men were weak—some of them looked at the mountains and quailed. The thought that there was food on the other side of the mountains brought them no energy. They didn’t think they could cross such hills, even if the whole plain on the other side was covered with food. They marched on, dully and slowly, not thinking, just walking.
When the mountains were closer, no more than a few miles away, Call saw something white on the prairie ahead. At first he thought it was just another patch of sand—but then he looked closer, and saw that it was an antelope. He grabbed Gus’s arm and pointed.
“Tell the Captain,” he said. “Maybe Bigfoot can shoot it.”
When the antelope was pointed out to Captain Salazar, he immediately gave Bigfoot his rifle. Bigfoot was watching the antelope closely. He cautioned the troop to be quiet and still.
“That buck’s nervous,” he said. “We better just sit real still, for awhile. Maybe he’ll mistake us for a sage bush.”
All the men could see that the antelope was nervous, and a minute later they saw why: a brown form came streaking out of a patch of sage bush and leapt on the antelope’s neck, knocking it down.
“What’s that?” Gus said, startled. He had never seen an animal run so fast. All he could see was a ball of brown fur, curled over the antelope’s neck.
“That’s a lion,” Bigfoot said, standing up. “We’re in luck, boys. I doubt I could have got close enough to that buck to put a bullet in him. The cougar done my work for me.”
He started walking toward the spot where the cougar was finishing his kill. The rest of the troop didn’t move.
“He’s bold, ain’t he—that lion might get him next,” Gus said.
Before Bigfoot had gone more than a few yards, the cougar looked up and saw him. For a second the animal froze; then he bounded away. Bigfoot raised his rifle, as if to shoot, but then he lowered it. Soon they saw the spot of brown moving up the shoulder of the nearest mountain.
“Why didn’t you shoot it?” Call asked, when he came up to Bigfoot. He would have liked a closer look at the cougar.
“Because I might need the bullet for an Apache,” Bigfoot said. “We got a dead antelope—that’s better eating than a lion. When there’s food waiting to be et it’s foolish to be wasting bullets on cats you can’t hit anyway.”
They skinned the antelope, and soon had a fire going and meat cooking. The smell of the meat soon revived the men who had been ready to die. Next day, they jerkied the meat they hadn’t eaten, lingering in camp between the mountain and the plain. The more they ate the better their spirits rose; only Captain Salazar remained despondent. He ate only a little of the antelope meat, silent. Bigfoot, confident that what remained of the troop would now survive, tried to draw Salazar out about the future, but the Captain answered him only briefly.
“El Paso is not far,” Salazar said. “We are all about to end our journey.”
He said no more.
Bigfoot was allowed to leave and seek the best route through the mountains—in four hours he was back, having located an excellent low pass, not ten miles to the south. The troop marched all afternoon and camped in the deep shadow of the mountains, just at the lip of the pass.
That night, everybody felt restless. Long Bill Coleman, unable to abide the lack of tunes, cupped his hands and pretended he was playing the harmonica. Gus kept looking at the mountains—their looming presence made him a little apprehensive.
“Don’t bears live in mountains—I’ve heard they sleep in caves.”
“Why, bears live wherever they want to,” Bigfoot told him. “They go where they please.”
“I think most of them live in mountains,” Gus said. “I’d hate to be eaten by a damn bear when we’re so close to all them watermelons.”
No one slept much that night. Matilda rubbed Call’s sore foot with a little antelope fat she had saved. Call was walking better—his stride was almost normal again. He hadn’t abandoned the crutch, but mainly carried it in his hand, like a rifle.
A blue cloud, with a rainbow arched across it, was over them when the troop started through the pass. It snowed for an hour, when they were near the top, but the light flakes didn’t stick. Ahead, as they approached the crest, they could see brilliant sunlight, to the west beneath the clouds.
By noon the cloud was gone, and the bright sunlight shone on the mountains. The troop walked through a winding canyon for three hours and began to descend the west side of the mountains. Below them, they saw trees, on both sides of the river. To the south, Gus once again saw smoke, and this time he was not merely wishing. There was a village beside the river—they saw a little cornfield, and some goats.
“Hurrah, boys—we’re safe,” Bigfoot said.
Everyone stopped, to survey the fertile valley below them. Some of the Mexican soldiers wept. There was even a little church in the village.
“Well, we made it, Matty,” Bigfoot said. “Maybe we’ll see a stagecoach, heading for California. Maybe you’ll get there yet.”
He had c
ontinued to carry Captain Salazar’s rifle, in case he encountered game. When they started down the hill, toward the Rio Grande, Captain Salazar quietly took it from him.
“Why, that’s right, Captain—it’s yours,” Bigfoot said.
The Captain didn’t speak. He looked back once, toward the Jornada del Muerto, and walked on down the hill.
6.
WHEN THE TIRED TROOP made its way into the village of Las Palomas, the doves for which the village was named were whirling over the drying corn, its shuck now brittle from the frost. An old man milking a goat at the edge of the village jumped up when he saw the strangers coming. A priest came out of the little church, and immediately went back in. In a moment, a bell began to ring, not from the church, but from the center of the village, near the well. Some families came out of the little houses; men and women stopped what they were doing to watch the dirty, weary strangers walk into their village. To the village people they looked like ghosts—men so strange and haggard that at first no one dared approach them. The Mexicans’ uniforms were so dirty and torn that they scarcely seemed like uniforms.
Captain Salazar walked up to the old man who had been milking the goats, and bowed to him politely.
“I am Captain Salazar,” he said. “Are you the jefe here?”
The old man shook his head—he looked around the village, to see if anyone would help him with the stranger. In all his years he had never left the village of Las Palomas, and he did not know how to speak properly to people who came from other places.
“We have no jefe,” he said, after awhile. “The Apaches came while he was in the cornfield.”
“Our jefe is dead,” one of the older women repeated.
The old man looked at her with mild reproach.
“We don’t know that he is dead,” he said. “We only know that the Apaches took him.”
“Well, if they took him, he’d be luckier to be dead,” Bigfoot said. “I wonder if it was Gomez?”
“It was Apaches,” the old man repeated. “We only found his hoe.”
“I see,” the Captain said. “You’re lucky they didn’t take the whole village.”
“They only take the young, Captain,” the bold old woman said. “They take the young to make them slaves and sell them.”
“That is why we are all old,” the old man with the goat said. “There are no young people in our village. When they are old enough to be slaves, the Apaches take them and sell them.”
“But there are soldiers in El Paso,” Salazar said. “You could go to the soldiers—they would fight the Apaches for you. That is their job.”
The old man shook his head.
“No soldiers ever come here,” he said. “Once when our jefe was alive he went to El Paso to see the soldiers and asked them to come, but they only laughed at him. They said they could not bother to come so far for such a poor village. They said we should learn to shoot guns so we could fight the Apache ourselves.”
“If the soldiers won’t help you, then I think you had better do what they suggested,” Captain Salazar said. “But we can talk of this later. We are tired and hungry. Have your women make us food.”
“We have many goats—we will make you food,” the old man said. “And you can stay in my house, if you like. It is small, but I have a warm fire.”
“Call the priest,” Salazar said. “These men are Texans—they are prisoners. I want the priest to lock them in the church tonight. They look tired, but they fight like savages when they fight.”
“Are we to give them food?” the old man asked.
“Yes, feed them,” Salazar said. “Do you have men who can shoot?”
“I can shoot,” the old man said. “Thomas can shoot. Who do you want us to shoot, Captain?”
“Anyone who tries to leave the village,” Salazar said.
Then he turned, and went into the little house the old man had offered him.
Despite Salazar’s warning, the people of Las Palomas had little fear of the Texans. They looked too tired and hungry to be the savage fighters the Captain claimed they were. Even as they were walking to the church, the women of the village began to press food on them—tortillas, mostly. The little church was cold, but not as cold as the great plain they had crossed. Several old men with muskets stood outside, as guards. When the night grew chill, they built a fire and stood around it, talking. Long Bill walked out to warm his hands, and the old men made way for him. Bigfoot joined him, and then a few others. Gus went out a few times, but Call did not. The women brought food—posole and goat meat, and a little corn. Call ate with the rest, but he didn’t mix with the crowd around the fire. He sat with Matilda, looking out of one of the small windows at the high stars.
“Why won’t you go get warm?” Matilda asked. He was a tense boy, Woodrow Call. All that was easy for Gus McCrae was hard for him. He didn’t mix well with people—any people. Though he had come to depend on her help, he was wary, even with her.
“I’m warm enough,” Call said.
“You ain’t, Woodrow—you’re shivering,” Matilda said. “What’s the harm in sitting by a fire on a cold night?”
“You ain’t sitting by it,” Call pointed out.
“Well, but I’m fleshy,” Matilda said. “I can warm myself. You’re just a skinny stick. Answer my question.”
“I don’t like being a prisoner,” Call said, finally. “I might have to fight those old men. I might have to kill some of them. I’d just as soon not get friendly.”
“Woodrow, those men ain’t bad,” Matilda said. “They sent their women to feed us—we ain’t been fed as well since we left the last village. Why would you want to kill them?”
“I might have to escape,” Call said. “I ain’t going to be a prisoner much longer. If I can’t be free I don’t mind being dead.”
“What about Salazar?” Matilda said. “He’s the one keeping you prisoner. We walked all this way with him. He ain’t so bad, if you ask me. I’ve met plenty of worse Mexicans—and worse whites, too.”
Call didn’t answer. He didn’t welcome the kind of questions Matilda asked. Thinking about such things was foolish. He could think about them all through the night, and be no less a prisoner when the sun came up. It was true that the old men of Las Palomas had been kindly, and that the women were generous with food. He didn’t wish them ill—but he didn’t intend to remain a prisoner much longer, either. If he saw a chance to escape, he meant to take it, and he didn’t mean to fail. Anyone who stood in his way would have to take the consequences; he didn’t want to feel friendly toward people he might have to fight.
Later, when the chill deepened, the women brought blankets to the church. Call wrapped up in his as tightly as he could. But he didn’t sleep. Out the church door he could see Gus McCrae, yarning with Long Bill Coleman and Bigfoot Wallace. No doubt, now that he was warm and full, Gus had gone back to telling lies about his adventures on the riverboat; or else he was telling them how he was going to marry the Forsythe girl, as soon as he got back to Austin. Matilda had gone to sleep, with her head bent forward on her chest. Call felt that he had been rude, a little, in not being able to answer her questions any better than he had. He didn’t understand why women had such a need to question. He himself preferred just to let life happen, and act when opportunity arose.
Finally, though, as Matilda slept, he did get up and go out of the church, not so much to warm himself—the old men kept the fire blazing—as to hear what lies Gus McCrae was telling. Long Bill was pretending his hands were a harmonica again; he was whistling through them. Bigfoot Wallace had gone to sleep, his back against the wall of the church. Several of the old men were watching Gus, as if he were a new kind of human, a kind their experience had not prepared them for. A few of the village women, wrapped in heavy shawls, stood back a little from the fire.
“Hello, Woodrow—did you freeze out, or did you want to listen to Long Bill whistle on his fingers?” Gus asked.
“I came out to whip you, if you don’t s
hut up,” Call said. “You’re talking so loud it’s keeping this whole town awake.”
“Why, stop your ears, if you think I’m loud,” Gus said. But he made way for his friend, and Call sat down. The blaze felt good on his sore feet. Soon he bent forward, and napped a little. Gus McCrae was still talking, and the yarn had something to do with a riverboat.
7.
IN THE MORNING, WITH frost on the cornfields and on the needles of the chaparral, Salazar provisioned his few troops for the march south. There were no horses in the village, but there were two mules, one of which Salazar requisitioned to carry their provisions. The Texans emerged from the church blinking in the strong sunlight. They had been given coffee, and a little cheese made from goat’s milk, and were ready to march.
“I’m in a hurry to see El Paso,” Bigfoot said. “We couldn’t get to it coming the other way, but maybe we’ll make it coming from the north.”
“Yes, you will make it,” Salazar said. “Then, I expect, they will send you on to the City of Mexico. There is a lake with many islands, and all the fruit is sweet—that is what I have been told.”
The people of Las Palomas were anxious to see that none of the troop—Texans or Mexicans—went hungry on the march south to El Paso. Though they knew that the party would be following the river, where there were several villages that could supply them, they piled so many provisions on the mule that the animal was scarcely visible, under the many sacks and bags. Several of the Texans even had blankets pressed on them, as protection against the chill nights.
Captain Salazar was just turning to lead the party out of the village, when they heard the sound of horses—the sound came from the south.
“Reckon it’s Indians?” Gus asked. Even though he was feeling more confident of his survival, thanks to a good meal and a night beside a warm fire, he knew that they were not yet beyond the Apache country. What the villagers had had to say about their stolen children was fresh in his mind.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 39