The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 43

  “You will live,” the Major said. “Step to the side, please. We need another volunteer.”

  Bigfoot Wallace immediately stepped forward. Call’s luck had persuaded him that there really were beans in the brown jar. He abandoned his plan to try and steal a musket and leap the wall. Mostly, through the years, in situations that were life and death, his luck had held. Call had drawn a white bean; he might also. There was no point in flinching from the gamble.

  Bigfoot had a head to match his more famous appendages. The blindfold, which had been easy to knot around Call’s head, would barely go around Bigfoot’s. By pulling hard, the soldier assigned to do the blindfolding could just get the ends of the bandana to meet, but he could not pull it tight enough to knot it.

  “We should have cut your hair, Monsieur Wallace,” the Major said. “The blindfold won’t fit you.”

  “I can just squinch up my eyes,” Bigfoot said. “The beans are behind me, anyway. I can’t see behind myself.”

  “Maybe not, but rules are rules,” the Major said. “You must be blindfolded.”

  He motioned to another soldier, who held the other end of the bandana—the two soldiers pressed the blindfold tightly against Bigfoot’s eyes.

  “I couldn’t see a bolt of lightning if one was to strike right in front of me,” Bigfoot said.

  “The bowl is below your left hand,” Major Laroche said. “Please draw your bean.”

  Bigfoot took out a bean, and held it in his palm. Even before the soldier dropped his blindfold he heard a cry from one of the ladies who sat with the alcalde. When he looked in his palm, he saw that the bean was black.

  “The count is one and one,” Major Laroche said.

  One of the ladies sitting with the alcalde had fainted at the sight of the black bean. Two of the other women were fanning her. The alcalde paid no attention to the women. He did not seem very interested in the Texans, or in the drama of life and death that was unfolding in front of him. A boil on his hand seemed to interest him more. He picked at it with a tiny knife, and then wiped it with a fine white handkerchief.

  Bigfoot looked at the bean in his hand, and then put it in his pocket. Two soldiers moved him a short distance, in the direction of the wall where the firing squad waited. Bigfoot glanced back at his comrades, the Texans still waiting to draw.

  “Goodbye, boys—I guess I’ll be the first to be shot,” he said.

  As he waited, he pulled the black bean out of his pocket several times and looked at it. In his years on the frontier he had been in threat of his life many times, from bullets, tomahawks, arrows, lances, knives, horses, bears, Comanche, Apache, Kiowa, Sioux, Pawnee—yet his life had finally been lost to an unlucky choice of beans, in the courtyard of a leper colony in El Paso.

  The Rangers still waiting were stunned. Bigfoot, more than any other man, had led them to safety across the prairies. He had outlasted their commanders, and taught them the tricks of survival. He had helped them find food, and had located rivers and water holes for them. Yet now he was doomed.

  “Bye, Matty,” Bigfoot said, waving to Matilda. Then he had a thought.

  “Will you sing over me, Matty?” he asked. He remembered that his aunts had sung beautifully, back in old Kentucky, long ago.

  “I’ll sing a song for you—I’ll try to remember one,” Matilda said. “I’ll do it—you were a true friend to my Shad.”

  Don Shane stepped up next, and drew a black bean. Silent as usual, Don didn’t speak or change expression. Quartermaster Brognoli, who was still glassy eyed and whose head still jerked, stood at attention while being blindfolded; he drew a white bean. Joe Turner, a stocky fellow from Houston who spoke with a slow stutter, came next and drew a black bean. He and Don were marched over to stand with Bigfoot. Brognoli moved over and stood with Call.

  Gus stood by Long Bill Coleman. Wesley Buttons stood with two cousins named Pete and Roy—no one could remember their last names. Neither Wesley, nor Pete, nor Roy, seemed inclined to advance to the table where the jar waited. Long Bill turned, and looked at Gus.

  “Well, do you want to go and draw?” he asked. He himself was not anxious to step forward and be blindfolded, but the Texans’ ranks were thinning. A turn could not be avoided much longer.

  Gus knew he ought to take a bold approach to the gamble ahead—the sort of approach he had always taken at cards or dice. But this was not cards or dice—this was life or death, and he did not feel bold. He looked at Matty, who was crying. He looked at Major Laroche, and at the fat alcalde, who was still picking at his boil.

  “Woodrow went first, maybe I’ll be the last,” Gus said.

  “I expect you’re hoping somebody will use up all them black beans before you get there,” Long Bill said. “The way I count it there’s two of them damn black ones left.”

  Gus didn’t answer. He felt very frightened, and a good deal annoyed with Woodrow Call, for being so quick to volunteer. If he himself had been given a moment to steady his nerves, he might have gone first and drawn the same white bean that Woodrow drew. Woodrow Call was too impatient—everyone agreed with that.

  Wesley Buttons went next, while Long Bill was thinking about it; he drew a white bean—Gus and Long Bill were both chagrined that they had not stepped forward more quickly. Now Wesley was safe, but they weren’t.

  Long Bill felt a terrible anxiety growing in him; he could not stand the worrying any longer. He bolted forward so quickly that he almost overturned the table where the jar with the beans sat.

  “Calm, Monsieur, calm,” the Major said. “There is no need to bump our table.”

  “Well, but I’m mighty ready now,” Long Bill said. “I want to take my turn.”

  “Of course, you shall take your turn,” the Major said.

  The blindfold was tied in place, and the bowl moved below Long Bill’s left hand. He quickly thrust his hand into the bowl and felt the beans. Before he could choose one, though, an anxiety seized him—it gripped him so suddenly and so strongly that he could not make his fingers pick out a bean. He froze for several seconds, his hand deep in the jar. He wondered if black beans felt rougher than white beans—or whether it might be the other way around.

  Major Laroche waited a bit, then cleared his throat.

  “Monsieur, you must choose,” he said. “Come. Be brave, like your comrades. Choose a bean.”

  Desperately, Long Bill did as he was told—he forced his trembling fingers to clutch a bean, but no sooner had he lifted it free of the pot than he dropped it. The soldier with the bandana bent to pick it up. Then he took the blindfold off, and handed the bean to Long Bill—the bean was white.

  Pete went next; he turned his blindfolded face up to the sky as if seeking instruction, before he drew. He didn’t seem to be praying, but he held his face up for a moment, to the warm sun. Then he drew a black bean.

  That left two men: Gus, and the skinny fellow named Roy.

  At the thought that he might be the last to draw, which would condemn him for sure if Roy was lucky enough to draw a white bean, Gus jumped forward almost as quickly as Long Bill had. When he put his hand in the jar he realized that the Mexicans had not been lying about the number of beans. There were only two beans left—one for him, and one for Roy. One had to be white, the other black. He pushed first one bean and then the other with his finger, remembering all the times he had thrown the dice. He always threw quickly—it didn’t help his luck to cling to the dice.

  He took a bean and pulled his hand out, but when the soldier removed the blindfold, he could not immediately bring himself to open his eyes. He held out his hand, with the bean in his palm—everyone saw that it was white before he did.

  Roy went pale, when he saw the white bean in Gus’s palm.

  “I guess that does it for me,” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. But he went through the blindfolding calmly, and drew the last black bean; then he walked with a steady step over to join the men who were to die.

  Gus stepped the other direction, a
nd stood by Call.

  “You shouldn’t have waited so long,” Call told him.

  “Well, you went first, and nobody told you to,” Gus said, still annoyed. “There were five black beans in there, when you went, and there wasn’t but one when I went. I figure I helped my chances.”

  “If I had had a weapon I wouldn’t have stood for it,” Call said—their five comrades were even then being marched toward the wall where the firing squad waited.

  As he watched, the same soldier who had blindfolded them as they drew the beans went over with five bandanas and soon had the unlucky Texans blindfolded—all, that is, except Bigfoot Wallace, whose head, once again, was too large for the blindfold that had been provided.

  Major Laroche, annoyed by the irregularity, yelled at one of the soldiers behind the alcalde, who hurried into the building, followed by one of the shrouded figures. A moment later the soldier came back with part of a sheet, which had been cut up to make a blindfold.

  “Monsieur Wallace, I am sorry,” the Major said. “A man doesn’t like to wait, at such a time.”

  “Why, Major, it’s not much of a thing to worry about,” Bigfoot said. “I’ve seen many a man die with his eyes wide open. I guess I could manage it too, if I had to.”

  The men who were to live were marched over and offered the chance to exchange last words with those who were to die—but in fact, few words were exchanged. Bigfoot handed Brognoli a little tobacco, which he had accepted from one of the men in the oxcart. Joe Turner was shaky—he gripped Call’s hand hard, when Call reached out to exchange a last shake.

  “Matty, have you picked a song?” Bigfoot asked. “I expect a hymn would be the thing—I don’t know none myself, but my ma and her sisters knew plenty.”

  Matilda was too choked up—she couldn’t reply. Now five of the ten boys were to be shot—soon there would be no one left at all, of all the gallant boys she had set out from Austin with.

  Gus, likewise, was tongue-tied. He looked at Roy, at Joe, at Don Shane, at Pete, and couldn’t manage a word. He shook their hands—since they were in leg irons already, Major Laroche had decided that their hands did not need to be tied. The five who were to live waited a moment in front of the five who were condemned, thinking they might want to send messages to their loved ones, or exchange a few last words, but the five blindfolded men merely stood there, silent. Pete turned his face to the sky, as he had just before drawing the black bean.

  “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 her 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.

  11.

  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 tortoiseshell comb through the long journey—she was attempting to comb the dead men’s hair, while the Mexican soldiers finished the bottle of liquor.