Texas Angel, 2-in-1 (77 page)

“That’s it for me,” he mumbled thickly.

Micah shuffled to a stop beside him. “What you talking about?” he said a bit gruffly, but who could tell with his throat parched and raw and his tongue so thick he could not keep his mouth shut.

“I tell ya, I ain’t moving. I’ve had it!”

Micah sank down beside him. “All right, you said we’re sticking together, so guess I’ve had it, too.”

“Get out of here! I don’t know how ya do it, but you got miles left in you.”

Micah shook his head. “What difference does it make if I die here or in a couple of miles?”

They had already spent days in this desert. They had abandoned the road, hoping to elude pursuit, but had become hopelessly lost instead. No one had any idea, not even Big Foot, how far it was to the Rio Grande. They had no food and had long since tossed aside their weapons to spare the weight, so they couldn’t hunt, not that they’d have the strength to do so anyway. They had tried eating insects and snakes when they could be caught with their knives. But there had been no way to cook anything. Micah had become violently ill trying to choke down a grasshopper.

There hadn’t been a watering hole in two days, and the last one, if the moist hole in the ground could be called that, had provided enough only for the men to dampen their tongues. Some had tried drinking their own urine, but the results had been disastrous. Several men had been lost thus far on the desperate trek. There were now fewer than two hundred prisoners left. A look at the ragged line of stumbling men stretching out over the desert said there would be fewer than that by tomorrow.

“You gotta keep going, Micah,” Jed was saying. “You got your gal waiting for you back home.”

“I ain’t got no gal,” Micah insisted with as much force as he could muster. “Lucie and I . . . well, she ain’t my gal, that’s all. But don’t you have no reason to live, Jed?”

Jed shrugged. “Sometimes . . . I don’t know . . . I get tired of it all.”

Suddenly he looked old and even wise, not at all like the boy Micah knew.

“Sometimes I get a strong hankering to see my ma and pa again.”

Some of the other men had come up and dropped to the ground as well, this seeming as good a time as any to take a rest.

“There you go,” Bill McBroome said. “You got your folks to go home to.” McBroome was faring better than many of the men. He’d lived on insects and wet dirt before, years ago when he’d been a captive of the Comanches. He’d survived once before and knew he could again.

“Jed’s parents are dead,” Micah said.

“Oh, didn’t know that,” McBroome said.

“Guess I’d have to go to heaven to be with them.”

“That what you want, Jed?” Micah asked.

“No, but I don’t want to get up neither!” Jed took off his hat and wiped a hand across his face. He was so dehydrated he was no longer even sweating. “I might if I had a pretty gal like Miss Lucie to get to.”

“Who is this Lucie?” Big Foot asked.

“Micah’s gal.”

“No, she ain’t,” Micah said.

“Tell us about her, Micah,” Big Foot said.

Micah would have refused because the last thing he wanted to think of then was Lucie Maccallum and all he’d never have with her. Even if he made it back to Texas, she would never be his. Why, he wouldn’t be surprised if by now she was married off to that Grant Carlton. But as he looked around at his companions, he realized they needed to be reminded of home. They needed to be reminded about why they were suffering so to get back.

“She’s the prettiest gal there ever was,” Micah began. He closed his eyes, and it wasn’t hard at all to conjure an image of the sweet and beautiful Lucie Maccallum. He almost thought he caught a whiff of rosewater instead of the stink of filthy men. “She’s got hair like black silk caught on fire—”

“Silk caught on fire?” questioned McBroome. “That don’t sound pleasant at all.”

Jed amended, “That’s his way of saying her hair is dark, nearly black, but with lots of red in it.”

Micah rolled his eyes. “You want me to tell y’all about her? Or maybe you could do a better job of telling me.”

“You’re doing a fine job,” encouraged Big Foot. “Go on.”

“Well, there ain’t much more to tell. She’s just pretty, that’s all. And sweet. And when she laughs . . .” Micah’s chest clenched as the memories were released. He should never have gotten started. “Hey, Charlie,” he said to one of the other men, “you got a sweetheart, don’t ya? Tell about her.”

Dreamily, Charlie complied. “She’s pretty, too, of course. ’Cept her hair’s yella’, like gold. No fire, just shining gold. . . .”

Soon everyone was telling about someone special back home, and in a half hour they all found the strength to rise to their feet and trod on.

Into the heat, into the blinding sun, into the stinging wind. They ate sand and grit when they longed for an apple pie baked by a sweet woman of their dreams. They swallowed thick saliva when their mouths ached for a cup of springwater from a slim, smooth hand.

Time slipped away until even the rising and setting of the sun meant little to them. When the Mexican army finally caught up with them, they could not have fought them even if they’d had weapons. As it was, some considered it more rescue than capture.

Santa Anna had enough of his own problems just trying to stay in power, without dealing with those pesky Texans. He was fed up with them and prepared to execute the lot of the prisoners. But when the ministers from both America and Britain learned of his decree, they raised such a protest that Santa Anna had to back down. He could never win a war against both Britain and America.

Instead, the Mexican president decided to deal with the prisoners in the Latino way. Every tenth one would be shot, to be decided by a simple lottery. The commander of the prison would place one hundred fifty-nine white beans and seventeen black beans, representing the number of the remaining prisoners, into a jar. Each prisoner would then draw a bean. Those drawing a black bean would die.

Word of the decision reached the prisoners, causing varying degrees of dismay, disbelief, and anger. But practical men that they were, they realized seventeen dead was far better than nearly two hundred. So they awaited their fate with stoicism mixed with enough fear to prove they were only human.

Micah was certain he would draw a black bean. He’d cheated death too many times lately to have any confidence he’d do so again. He was scared of the prospect, to be sure, but there was also a kind of comfort in his certainty about his fate.

A few sheets of paper were passed among the men along with a pen and ink. Those who could write were permitted to leave notes. Micah took some paper, and when he had a turn at the pen, he chewed on the tip and wondered what he would write. But what perplexed him more was who he would write to. He thought of Lucie, but there seemed no sense in that. They’d made a break. It was over. Best for her if it stayed that way.

He thought of writing to his father or, if not him, perhaps his step-mother or his sisters and brother. Oddly enough, the thought of writing, even to his father, did not bother him as much as it should. Perhaps the desert had burned some of the hatred from him. Perhaps the nearness of death was making him more pragmatic. Or maybe, just maybe, his problems with his father had been to some extent his own fault. At the very least, it might well be that Benjamin Sinclair was as much a victim of circumstance as anyone. The man had made some mistakes, some very serious ones, but then, hadn’t everyone made mistakes? In the last months, Micah had seen more clearly than ever how easy it was to blunder even with the best intentions.

This revelation came as an enormous surprise to Micah. Until just a few moments before he would have been certain his hatred for the man was fully entrenched in his heart. Now he didn’t know what to think. He dipped the pen in the ink jar, then set the tip to the paper.

Dear Pa
, he wrote.
I guess I’m finally gonna die. Don’t figure it
would do any good to go to my grave filled with hate. . . .
The pen paused. He tried to write the words “I forgive you,” but simply could not make his hand do it. It was one thing not to hate but some thing else entirely to put it all behind you by forgiveness. He knew about forgiveness, and he knew what his father’s perception was of forgiveness. It was an act of sublime acceptance, and Micah could not do it.

Perturbed with himself, he drew an
X
through the words. He thought a moment, then decided upon another, far easier and more comfortable, path.

To Whom It May Concern,
      
I have some land coming to me from my service at San Jacinto and
from an inheritance left to me by my Uncle Haden Sinclair. I hereby will
all that land to one Jed Wilkes. He’s a mite slow in the brain, but I know
he will do right by the land. Anyhow, since I have served the Republic
of Texas honorably and am now about to give my life for Texas, I figure
you are bound to follow my last wish.

He signed the letter and got two men who could write to witness it, then he turned to Jed, who was curled up on the ground in their crowded cell trying to sleep.

“Hey, Jed.” He gave his friend’s arm a push.

Jed grunted and rolled over. “Micah? I was dreaming. I saw my ma.

I was powerful happy to see her.” He gave his body a stretch. “What’d you want?”

“I want to give you my last will and testament.”

“Huh? You want to give me a test? Aw, Micah, you know I ain’t good with schooling. Can’t read or write. You know that.”

“No, Jed.” Micah thrust the paper at his friend. “This is my will.

It says what to do with my possessions after I die—”

“What you talking ’bout?” Jed sat up and became fully alert. “You ain’t gonna die.”

“How can you say that? Seventeen of us are going to die tomorrow.

I am certain I’ll be one of them. I got a premonition.”

“A prema—what?”

“Never mind,” Micah said impatiently. “This paper says you are to get my land allotments. Put it in your pocket and keep it safe. I won’t be around to take care of you no more, Jed. It will be important for you to have this land so’s you can make a living. You can’t go back to stealing and such, or even rangering.”

“I can’t be no farmer. I don’t know nothing about it.”

“You can, Jed. I know you can. I know lots of men without learning who make good farmers. You gotta take this land and make a life for yourself.” Micah stuffed the paper into Jed’s pocket. “Maybe Tom will help you. I had the feeling when we last saw him that he was ready to settle down.”

“Maybe you should give the land to him.”

“I want you to have it.”

Tom had land, and if not, he had the wits to fend for himself. Jed would need all the help he could get. Even with the land, Micah was afraid of what would become of Jed when he was left all alone. He couldn’t do anything about it now. He hoped the land would be enough. It would sure do more good than some lame letter to his father with foolish words of forgiveness.

The next morning the prisoners were gathered in the courtyard of the prison. Each man stepped forward and dipped into the jar. Bill McBroome drew the first black bean. A grim smirk twisted his lips as he defiantly flicked the damning bean in the direction of the commander.

As Big Foot’s turn came he commented to Micah and Jed, who would draw after him, “Them black beans are on top, so dig deep.” He drew a white bean.

Micah’s turn came and he hardly gave it a thought as he thrust his hand into the jar. He didn’t even look at the bean he drew but simply headed to where the unlucky black bean holders had gathered.

“Look at what you got!” Big Foot yelled.

Micah glanced at his hand and was shocked to see he held a white bean. He wanted to whoop but didn’t because there were still men who were going to die that day.

Jed came next. He dipped into the jar. Micah watched casually. Then he felt as if the hard earth of the prison yard had been suddenly yanked out from under him. His knees trembled, but he remained on his feet. He rubbed his eyes, but that did not change what he saw. Jed drew a black bean. Jed was no less shocked as he glanced at his death warrant. He looked at Micah beseeching, as if asking his friend to get him out of this mess. Micah wanted to run forward and exchange beans with his friend. He would have, too. He made the move, but Big Foot’s big hand stopped him.

“Micah, they won’t allow it,” the ranger said, as if reading Micah’s thoughts.

“They can’t! He—”

“He took his chances with the rest of us. He’s smarter than we give him credit for.”

“But . . . but . . .” How could Micah make them understand? It was supposed to be him. He was supposed to die that day, not Jed. What had gone wrong?

“You let him die like a man,” Big Foot said. “That’s all you can do for him now.”

Micah thought of the worthless paper in Jed’s pocket, his lame attempt to help his friend. But Micah had been so preoccupied with himself, his stupid fears, he had not even thought to give Jed a chance to talk about his own fears. What had Jed been going through last night? What was he going through now? Micah would never know. He opened his hand and looked disdainfully at the white bean still clutched in his fist. He dropped it to the ground and smashed it with the heel of his boot.

“Jed . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . . can’t help you,” he intoned miserably.

“It’s all right, Micah,” Jed said, the shock beginning to clear from his face. “You done good by me, Micah. I wouldn’t have made it this long without you.” His lip trembled a little, but he bit down on it firmly.

Bill McBroome stepped from the growing group of doomed men. He put an arm around Jed and nudged him into the group. “Jed, you are gonna see your ma and pa soon.”

Jed visibly brightened. “That’s right! Ya hear that, Micah? It’s what I been wanting. Remember? I dreamed it. Don’t worry ’bout me no more. My ma will look after me now.”

If Micah had not been forced to watch the executions, he probably would have hid in his cell, burrowing into the deepest, darkest corner he could find. That is exactly what he did afterward—figuratively, since it was not always possible to do so literally. For weeks he retreated within himself, becoming dark and glum. And the nightmares he thought he had finally escaped returned in full force. There was not a night that passed undisturbed by visions of death and violence.