Texas Drive by Bill Dugan Page B

to do anything but lie there and feel the cold steel again and again slice through their bodies.
    And the men wielding the bayonets were men he slept and ate with, men he sang with at nights. They were his friends. They were just like him.
    And it made him sick.
    It was then he started to wonder. He didn’t sleep much for the next three years. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the kid holding his gut, then the eyes closing, as the kid died. One officer, his arm blown off by a Federal battery, stared at the bloody stump every night in his dreams, the uninjured hand waving in the air where the other arm had been, as if he couldn’t believe his arm was no longer there.
    So damn long ago, he thought, so damn long ago that it must have been someone else asleep on that earlier hill. That was where it had all started. And this is where it had led.
    And the pictures flashed through his mind one after another. Things he could not forget, and things he did not want to remember. Whenever it happened he tried to force himself to look somewhere else. There were so many things he remembered barely at all. Memories flitting just below the surface, like trout darting under sunny water, hiding in the glare, slipping into the shadows, teasing him with a curve here, a faint flick of a tail there. And as soon as he would cast for them, they were gone.
    It would be better to remember nothing at all, than to remember only those things he could remember. Once in a while something would tease him. Some smell would carry him back to Alabama for a moment. His mother would be in thekitchen, flour up to her elbows, a checkered apron knotted around her waist. But as soon as he tried to focus on it, it would be gone. It was like he were a criminal, teased by the things he couldn’t have. Pounding on the bars got him nowhere. He could look, but not touch.
    And tomorrow would begin one more of those strings of memories he was condemned not to forget. Where it would lead was anybody’s guess. That it would end violently was certain. That someone would die was probable. That it might be Ted Cotton seemed like a blessing.
    As he finally drifted to sleep, he felt like he were flying. His body seemed to lift off the ground. He felt the wind carry him along like the hawk he had been watching at sundown. He could see all the way to Mexico, and the tips of mountains he’d only heard about flashed in the sun.
    Then everything went black, and he was falling. He fell forever, but he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t tense up, waiting for the impact of his body on the ground. He knew, without having to think about it, that it might never happen, and if it did, he knew it wouldn’t hurt.
    He woke up just as the sun came up. Rubbing his eyes, he watched the red light in the east fade away. It grew white, and he could no longer bear to look at it. Even the water of the Arkansas turned white as milk.
    As soon as he felt the sun’s warmth on his skin,he walked downhill and rebuilt his fire. The last of his coffee went into the pot, barely enough to make a cup, but it would have to do. Gnawing on a hunk of dried beef, he waited for the coffee to brew, then washed the salty taste of the meat down with the scalding liquid.
    Kicking the fire out, he saddled his pony and secured his relief horse to the saddle horn, using a longer rope than usual for the crossing. Swinging up into the saddle, he felt light, almost cheerful. Whatever lay ahead of him was something he had to confront. The sooner the better, he thought.
    As his pony eased into the river, he braced himself for the first burst of current. The pony started to swim, straining to keep its head above the swirling waters. He could feel the animal reaching for the river bottom, its legs churning like windmills.
    And when he got close to the opposite bank, the pony exploded out of the water, as if frightened of something beneath the surface. Ted looked back, wondering if he would live to cross it again. Then, as if