“I guess I won’t be going to Germany, if they’re that fond of whips,” Long Bill said. “I wouldn’t want to be Woodrow. A hundred times is a lot of times to be hit with a whip like that.”

Matilda Roberts stood with the men, a look of baleful hatred in her eyes.

“If Call don’t live I’ll kill that snaggle-toothed bastard that’s doing the whipping,” she said.

Bigfoot Wallace was silent. He had seen men whipped before— black men, mostly—and it was a spectacle he didn’t enjoy. He didn’t like to see helpless men hurt—of course, young Call had knocked over the General’s buggy. Dignity required that he be punished, to some extent, but a hundred lashes with a metal-thonged whip was a considerable punishment. Men had died of less, as Captain Salazar was fond of reminding them.

“If you’d like to say a word to your friend Corporal McCrae, I’ll permit it,” Salazar said.

“No, I’ll talk to him later,” Call said. He didn’t like the tone of familiarity Salazar adopted with him. He did not intend to be friends with the man, and didn’t want to enter into conversation with him.

“Corporal, there may be no later,” Salazar said. “You may not survive this whipping. As I told you earlier, fifty lashes kills most men.”

“I expect to live,” Call said.

Mainly what he remembered of the whipping was the warmth of blood on his back, and the fact that the camp became very silent. The grunt of the muleteer who was whipping him was the only sound. After the first ten blows, he didn’t hear the whip strike.

Gus heard it, though. He watched his friend’s back become a red sheet. Soon Call’s pants, too, were blood soaked. The muleteer wore out on the sixtieth stroke and had to yield the bloody whip to a smaller man. Call was unconscious by then. All the Rangers assumed he was dead. Matilda was restrained, with difficulty, from attacking the whipper. Call hung by his bound wrists, presenting a low target. The second whipper had to bend low in order to hit his back.

When they untied Call and let him slide down beside the wagon wheel they thought they were untying a corpse, but Call turned over, groaning.“By God, he’s alive,” Bigfoot said.

“For now,” Salazar said. “It is remarkable. Few men survive a hundred lashes.”

“He’ll live to bury you,” Matilda said, giving Salazar a look of hatred.

“If I thought that were true, I would bury him right here and right now, alive or dead,” Salazar said.

“Now be fair, Captain,” Bigfoot said. “He’s had his punishment. Don’t go burying him yet.”

No one could stand to look at Call’s back except Matilda, who sat beside him that first night and kept the flies away. She had nothing to cover the wounds with—if too many of them festered, she knew the boy would die.

Gus McCrae had not been able to watch the whipping, beyond the first few strokes He sat with his back to the whipping ground, his head between his hands, grinding his teeth in agony. None of the Texans were tied, but a brigade of riflemen were stationed just beside them, with muskets ready. Their orders were to shoot any man who tried to interfere with the punishment. None did, but Gus fought with himself all through the whipping; he wanted to dash at the whipper. His friend was being whipped to death, and he could do nothing about it. He had not even been able to exchange a word with Call, before the whipping began. It was a terrible hour, during which he vowed over and over again to kill every Mexican soldier he could, to avenge his friend.

Now, though, with Call alive but still in mortal peril, he came and went. Every ten minutes he would walk over to Matilda and ask if Call was still breathing. Once Matilda told him Call was alive, he would go back to where the Texans sat, plop down for a minute, and then get up and walk around restlessly, until it was time to go check on Call again.

There was a small creek near the encampment. Matilda persuaded an old Mexican who tended the fires and helped with the cooking to loan her a bucket, so she could walk over to the creek and get water with which to wash Call’s wounds. He was already delirious with fever—the cold water was the only thing she had to treat him with, or clean his wounds. When she went to the creek, three soldiers went with her, a fact that annoyed her considerably.

She didn’t complain, though. They were captives—Call’s life, as well as others, depended on caution now.

Shadrach had spread his blanket near where Matilda sat with Call. He and Bigfoot were the only Rangers who had watched the whipping through. Before it was over most of the men, like Gus, had turned their backs. “Oh, Lord … oh, Lord,” Long Bill said many times, as he heard the blows strike.

“Was it me, I’d rather be put up against the wall,” Blackie Slidell said. “That way’s quick.”

Captain Salazar had been right in his assessment of the damage the whip could cause. In several places, the flesh had been torn off Call’s ribs. None of the Texans could stand to look at his back, except Bigfoot, who considered himself something of a student of wounds. He came over once or twice, to squat by Call and examine his injuries. Shadrach took no interest. He thought the boy might live—Call was a tough one. What vexed him most was that the Mexicans had taken his long rifle. He had carried the gun for twenty years—rare had been the night when his hand wasn’t on it. For most of that time, the gun had not been out of his sight. He felt incomplete without it. The Texans’ guns had all been piled in a wagon, a vehicle Shadrach kept his eye on. He meant to have his gun again. If that meant dying, then at least he would die with his gun in his hand.

Shadrach slept cold that night—Matilda stayed with Call, warming him with her body. He went from fever to chill, chill to fever. The old Mexican helped Matilda build a little fire. The old man seemed not to sleep. From time to time in the night, he came to tend the fire. Gus didn’t sleep. He was back and forth all night— Matilda got tired of his restless visits.

“You just as well sleep,” she said. “You can’t do nothing for him.”

“Can’t sleep,” Gus said. He couldn’t get the whipping out of his mind. Call’s pants legs were stiff with blood.

When dawn came Call was still alive, though in great pain. Captain Salazar came walking over, and examined the prisoner.

“Remarkable,” he said. “We’ll put him in the wagon. If he lives three days, I think he will survive and walk to the City of Mexico with us.”

“You don’t listen,” Matilda said, the hatred still in her eyes. “I told you yesterday that he’d bury you.“Salazar walked off without replying. Call was lifted into one of the supply wagons—Matilda was allowed to ride with him. The Texans all walked behind the wagon, under heavy guard. Johnny Carthage gave up his blanket, so that Call could be covered from the chill.

At midmorning the troop divided. Most of the cavalry went north, and most of the infantry, too. Twenty-five horsemen and about one hundred infantrymen stayed with the prisoners. Bigfoot watched this development with interest. The odds had dropped, and in their favor—though not enough. Captain Salazar stayed with the prisoners.

“I am to deliver you to El Paso,” he said. “Now we have to cross these mountains.”

All the Texans were suffering from hunger. The food had been scanty—just the same tortillas and weak coffee they had had for supper.

“I thought we were supposed to get fed, if we surrendered,” Bigfoot said, to Salazar.

All day the troop climbed upward, toward a pass in the thin range of mountains. The Texans had been used to walking on a level plain. Walking uphill didn’t suit them. There was much complaining, and much of it directed at Caleb Cobb, who had led them on a hard trip only to deliver them to the enemy in the end. There were Mexicans on every side, though—all they could do was walk uphill, upward, into the cloud that covered the tops of the mountains.