Call knew that what Bigfoot said was true. The Indians were men; bullets could kill them. He himself had fired a bullet into Buffalo Hump's son and the son had died, just as dead as the three Mexican boys who had fallen to Apache arrows.

"It's hitting them that's hard," he said. "They're too smart about the country."

So far the Indians had won every encounter, and not because bullets couldn't hurt them: they won because they were too quick, and too skilled. They moved fast, and silently. Both Kicking Wolf and Gomez had taken horses, night after night-horses that were within feet of the best guards they could post.

"The Corporal is right," Salazar said. "We are strangers in this country, compared to them. We know a little about the animals, that's all. The Apaches know which weeds to eat-they can smell out roots and dig them up and eat them. They can survive in this country, because they know it. When we learn how to smell out roots, and which weeds to eat, maybe we can fight them on even terms."

"I doubt I'll ever be in the mood to study up on weeds," Gus said.

"This is gloomy talk, I guess I'll walk by myself awhile, unless Matty wants to walk with me," Bigfoot said. He didn't like to hear Indians overpraised, just because the Rangers found them hard to kill. There were exceptional Indians, of course, but there were also plenty who were unexceptional, and no harder to kill than anyone else. He himself would have welcomed an encounter with Gomez, whom Call described as short and bowlegged.

"I expect I can outfight most bowlegged men," he remarked to Long Bill Coleman, who found the remark eccentric.

"I wish I still had my harmonica," Long Bill said. "It's dreary at night, without no tunes."

THE NEXT DAY THEY saw a distant outline to the west-the outline of mountains. Captain Salazar's spirits improved at once.

"Those are the Caballo Mountains," he said. "Once we cross them we will soon arrive at a place where there is food. Las Cruces is not far."

"Not far?" Gus said. Even with his eyesight the distant mountains made only the faintest outline, and his stomach was growling from hunger.

"What does he think far is?" he asked Call. "We might walk another week before we come to them hills."

Call's shoulder had become so sensitive from the rough crutch that he had to grit his teeth every time he put his weight on it. His foot was better-he could put a little weight on it, if he moved cautiously-but he was afraid to discard the crutch entirely. The mountains might be another seventy-five miles away, and even then, they would have to be crossed.

That day, despite Captain Salazar's optimism, the Mexican troops began to desert. They were hungry and weak. At noon the Captain called a rest, and when it was time to resume the march, six of the Mexican soldiers simply didn't get up. Their eyes were dull, from too much suffering.

"You fools, you are in sight of safety," Salazar said. "If you don't keep walking, Gomez will come. He will kill you all, and you may not be so lucky as the three he killed with arrows. He may make sport of you-and Apache sport is not nice."

None of the men changed expression, as he talked. After a glance, they did not look up.

"They're finished," Bigfoot said. "We've all got a finishing point. These boys have just come to theirs. The Captain can rant and rave all he wants to-they're done."

Captain Salazar quickly came to the same conclusion. He looked at the six men sternly, but gave up his efforts at persuasion. He took three of their muskets and turned away.

"I am leaving you your ammunition," he said. "Three of you have rifles. Shoot at the Apaches with the rifles. If you do not win, drive them back, then use the pistols on yourselves. Adios."

Leaving the six men was hard-harder than any of the Texans had expected it to be. In the time of their captivity, they had come to know most of the Mexicans by their first names-they had exchanged bits of language, sitting around the fires. Bigfoot learned to say his own name, in Spanish. Several of the Mexican boys had started calling him "Beegfeet," in English. Gus had taught two of the boys to play mumblety-peg. Matilda and Long Bill had taught them simple card games. On some of the coldest nights they had all huddled together, moving cards around with their cold hands. As the weary miles passed, they had stopped feeling hostile to one another-they were all in the same desperate position. One of the Mexicans, who had some skill with woodwork had, the very night before, smoothed the crack in Woodrow Call's crutch, so that it would not rub his underarm quite so badly.

Now they were leaving them-Salazar and the other Mexicans were already a hundred yards away, plodding on toward the far distant mountains.

"I'm much obliged," Call said, to the boy who had smoothed his crutch.

Several of the Texans mumbled brief good-byes, but Matilda didn't-she felt she couldn't stand it: boys dying, day after day, one by one. She turned her back and walked away, crying.

"Oh Lord, I wish we'd get somewhere," Long Bill said. "All this walking on an empty belly's wore me just about out."

That afternoon the company-what was left of it-stumbled on a patch of gourds. There were dozens of gourds, their vines curling over the sand.

"Can we eat these, Captain?" Bigfoot asked.

"They're gourds," Salazar said. "You can eat them if you want to eat gourds."

"Captain, there's nothing else," Bigfoot pointed out. "Them mountains don't look no closer. We better gather up a few and try them."

"Do as you like," Salazar said. "I will have to be hungrier than this before I eat gourds."

That night, though, he was hungrier than he had been in the afternoon, and he ate a gourd. They made a little fire and put the gourds in it, as if they were potatoes. The gourds shriveled up, and the men nibbled at their ashy skins.

"Mine just tastes like ashes," Gus said, in disappointment.

"It might taste better if it were served on a plate," Long Bill said, a remark that amused Bigfoot considerably. Though he had strongly recommended gathering the gourds-after all, there was nothing else to gather-he had not yet got around to tasting one.

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.