The Outlaw Josey Wales (7 page)

Around the fireplace they ate a silent meal as both stared into the flames, and then Lone quietly spoke. “There is much talk of ye. Some say ye have killed thirty-five men, some say forty. Ye’ll not live long, the soldiers say, for they’ve raised the price fer yer head. It’s five thousand in gold. Many are searching fer ye, and I myself saw five different patrols. I was stopped two times as I returned. I hid the ammunition in the grain.”

There was a touch of bitterness in Lone’s laugh.

“They would’ve stolen the grain, but I told them I had gathered it from the leavings of the post… thrown out by the white man because it made the white man sick… and I was takin’ it to my woman. They laughed… and said a damn Indian could eat anything. They thought it was poisoned.”

Lone fell silent, watching the flames dance along the logs. Josey splattered one of the logs with a long stream of tobacco juice, and after a long time Lone continued. “The trails are patrolled… heavy… when the weather breaks, they’ll begin beatin’ the brush. They know ye are in the Nations… and they’ll find ye.”

Josey cut a plug of tobacco. “I reckin,” he said easily, with the casual manner of one who had lived for years in the bosom of enemy patrols. He watched the firelight play across the Indian’s face. He looked ancient, a haughty and forlorn expression that harked backward toward some wronged god who sat in grieved dignity and disappointment.

“I’m sixty years old,” Lone said. “I was a young man with a fine woman and two sons. They died on the Trail of Tears when we left Alabama. Before we were forced to leave, the white man talked of the bad Indian … he beat his breast and told why the Indian must leave. Now he’s doin’ it again. Already the talk is everywhere. The thumpin’ of the breast to justify the wrong that will come to the Indian. I have no woman… I have no sons. I would not sign the pardon paper. I will not stay and see it again. I would go with ye… if ye’ll have me.”

He had said it all simply, without rancor and with no emotion. But Josey knew what the Indian was saying. He knew of the heartache of lost woman and child… of a home that was no more. And he knew that Lone Watie, the Cherokee, in saying simply that he would go with him… meant much more… that he had chosen Josey as his people… a like warrior with a common cause, a common suffrage… a respect for courage. And as it was with such men as Josey Wales, he could not show these things he felt. Instead, he said, “They’re payin’ to see me dead. Ye could do a lot better by driftin’ south on yer own.”

Now he knew why Lone had refused to sign the pardon paper… why he had deliberately made an outcast of himself, hoping that the blame would be placed on such men as himself… rather than his people. On this trip he had become convinced that nothing would save the Nation of the Cherokee.

Lone took his gaze from the fire and looked across the hearth into the eyes of Josey. He spoke slowly. “It is good that a man’s enemies want him dead, for it proves he has lived a life of worth. I am old but I will ride free as long as I live. I would ride with such a man.”

Josey reached into a paper sack Lone had brought back with the supplies and drew forth a round ball of red, hard rock candy. He held it up to the light. “Jest like a damn Indian,” he said, “always buying somethin’ red, meant fer foolishness.”

Lone’s smile broadened into a deep-throated chuckle of relief. He knew he would ride with Josey Wales.

The bitterness of February slipped toward March as they made preparation for the trail. Grass would be greening farther south, and the longhorn herds, moving up from Texas on the Shawnee Trail for Sedalia, would hide their own movements south.

Mexico! The thought had lingered in Josey’s mind. Once, wintering at Mineral Creek, an old Confederate cavalryman of General McCulloch’s had visited their campfires, regaling the guerrillas with stories of his soldiering with General Zachary Taylor at Monterrey in 1847. He told tales of fiestas and balmy fragrant nights, of dancing and Spanish senoritas. There had been the thrilling recital of when the emissary of General Santa Anna had come down to inform Taylor that he was surrounded by twenty thousand troops and must surrender. How the Mexican military band, in the early morning light, had played the “Dequela,” the no-quarter song, as the thousands of pennants fluttered in the breeze from the hills surrounding Taylor’s men. And Old Zack had ridden down the line, mounted on “Whitey,” bellering, “Double-shot yer guns and give ’em hell, damn ’em.”

The stories had enthralled the Missouri pistol fighters, farm boys who had found nothing of the romantic in their dirty Border War. Josey had remembered the interlude around that Texas campfire. If a feller had nowheres in pa’ticlar to ride… well, why not Mexico!

They saddled up on a raw March morning. An icy wind sent showers of frost from the tree branches, and the ground was still frozen before dawn. The horses, grain-slick and eager, fought the bits in their mouths and crow-hopped against the saddles. Josey left the heading to Lone, and the Indian led away from the cabin, following the bank of the Neosho. Neither of them looked back.

Lone had discarded the blanket. The gray cavalry hat shaded his eyes. Around his waist he wore the

Colts’ pistol, belted low. If he would ride with Josey Wales… then he would ride as boldly… for what he was… a companion Rebel. Only the hawk-bronze face, the plaited hair that dangled to his shoulders… the boot moccasins… marked him as Indian.

Their progress was slow. Traveling dim trails, often where no trail showed at all, they stayed with the crooks and turns of the river as it threaded south through the Cherokee Nation. The third day of riding found them just north of Fort Gibson, and they were forced to leave the river to circle that Army post. They did so at night, striking the Shawnee Trail and fording the Arkansas. At dawn they were out on rolling prairie and in the Creek Indian Nation.

It was nearing noon when the gelding pulled up lame. Lone dismounted and ran his hands around the leg, down to the hoof. The horse jumped as he pressed a tendon. “Pulled,” he said, “too much damn stable time.”

Josey scanned the horizon about them… there were no riders in sight, but they were exposed, with only one horse, and the humps in the prairie had a way of suddenly disclosing what had not been there a moment before. Josey swung a leg around the saddle horn and looked thoughtfully at the gelding. “Thet hoss won’t ride fer a week.”

Lone nodded gloomily. His face was a mask, but his heart sank. It was only right that he stay behind… he could not endanger Josey Wales.

Josey cut a wad of tobacco. “How fer to thet tradin’ post on the Canadian?”

Lone straightened. “Four… maybe six mile. That would be Zukie Limmer’s post… but patrols are comin’ and goin’ around there, Creek Indian police too.”

Josey swung his foot into the stirrup. “They all ride hosses, and a hoss is what we need. Wait here.” He jumped the roan into a run. As he topped a rise he looked back. Lone was on foot, running behind him, leading the limping gelding.

Chapter 9

The trading post was set back a mile from the Canadian on a barren flat of shale rock and brush. It was a one-story log structure that showed no sign of human life except the thin column of smoke that rose from a chimney. Behind the post was a half-rotted barn, obviously past use. Back of the barn a pole corral held horses.

From his position on the rise Josey counted the horses… thirty of them… but there were no saddles in sight… no harness. That meant trade horses… somebody had made a trade. For several minutes he watched. The hitch rack before the post was empty, and he could see no sign of movement anywhere in his range of vision. He eased the roan down the hill and circled the corral. Before he was halfway around, he saw the horse he wanted, a big black with deep chest and rounded barrel… nearly as big as his roan. He rode to the front of the post, and looping the reins of the roan on the hitch rack, strode to the heavy front door.

Zukie Limmer was nervous and frightened. He had reason. He held his trading post contract under auspices of the U.S. Army, which specifically forbade the sale of liquor. Zukie made more profit from his bootlegging than he did from all his trade goods cheating of the Creeks. Now he was frightened. The two men had brought the horses in yesterday and were waiting, they said, for the Army detachment from Fort Gibson to come and inspect them for buying. They had turned their own horses into the corral, and dragging their saddles and gear into the post, had slept on the dirt floor without so much as asking a leave to do so. He knew them only as Yoke and AI, but he knew they were dangerous, for they had about them the leering smiles of thinly disguised threat as they took whatever pleased them with the remark, “Put that on our bill,” at which they both invariably burst into roars of laughter at a seemingly obvious joke. They claimed to have papers on the horses, but Zukie suspected the horse herd to be Comanche… the fruits of a Comanche raiding party on Texas ranches of the Southwest.

The evening before, the larger of the two, Yoke, had thrown a huge arm around the narrow shoulders of Zukie, drawing him close in an overbearing, confidential manner. He had blown the breath of his rotten teeth into Zukie’s face while he assured him, “We got papers on them horses… good papers. Ain’t we, Al?”

He had winked broadly at Al, and both had laughed uproariously. Zukie had scuttled back behind the heavy plank set on barrels that served as his bar. During the night he had moved his gold box back into the sloping lean-to shed where he slept. All day he had stayed behind the plank, first hoping for the Army patrol… now dreading it; for the men had broken into his whiskey barrel and had been liquoring up since midmorning.

Once, Zukie had almost forgotten his fear. When the Indian woman had brought out the noon meal and placed the beef platters before them on the rough table, they had grabbed her. She had stood passively while they ran rough hands over her thighs and buttocks and made obscene suggestions to each other.

“How much you take fer this squaw?” Al, the ferret-looking one, had asked as he stroked the woman’s stomach.

“She ain’t fer sale,” Zukie had snapped… then, alarmed at his own brevity, a whine entered his tone… “That is… she ain’t mine… I mean, she works here.”

Yoke had winked knowingly at Al, “He could put ’er on the bill, Al.” They had laughed at the remark until Yoke fell off the stool. The woman had escaped back into the kitchen.

Zukie was not outraged at their treatment of the woman; it was that he had anticipated her for himself. She had been there at the post just four days, and as was his way, Zukie Limmer never entered upon anything in a straight manner… he sidled his way, crablike, forward. Cunning was his nature; it made the prize better.

She had walked into the post from the west and had offered an old dirty blanket for sale. Zukie had sized her up immediately. She was an outcast. The heavy scar running the length of her right nostril was the punishment of some of the Plains tribes for unfaithfulness. “One too many bucks,” Zukie had snickered and repeated it. It was clever, and Zukie savored his humor. She was not unpretty. Maybe twenty-five or thirty, still slender, with pointed breasts and rounded thighs that pushed against the fringed doeskin. Her moccasins had been worn through and hung in tatters on swollen feet. Her bronze face, framed by plaited black hair, was stoical, but her eyes reflected the haunted look of a hurt animal.

Zukie had felt the saliva juices entering his mouth as he looked at her. He had run his hands over the firm roundness of her breasts and she had not moved. She was hungry… and helpless. He had put her to work… and he knew how to train Indians… especially Indian women. He had watched for the opportunity, and when she had fallen and overturned a nearly empty barrel of brine he had pushed her face into the floor with one hand while he had beaten her with a barrel stave until his arm was weary. She had stayed motionless under the beating, but he had felt the animal strength in her. Sinewy, flat stomach, firm buttocks and thighs… properly mastered; Zukie relished the thought. When he ate at his table he opened the back door of the lean-to and made the woman squat outside, with the half-starved hound, and he had tossed scraps to her to eat. She was about ready to be moved into his bed, and she wouldn’t be uppity.

Now Yoke demanded more food, and the Indian woman came, bringing more beef and potatoes. As she reached the table Yoke encircled her waist with a big arm, lifted her from the floor, and slammed her lengthwise on the tabletop. He pressed his huge body down on her breasts, and grabbing her hair, tried to hold her upturned face steady while he slobbered over her mouth. His voice was thick with lust and liquor. “We’re gonna have us a little squaw… ain’t we, Al?”

Al was caressing the thighs of the woman, his hands moved under her doeskin skirt. She kicked and twisted her face, not crying out… but she was helpless. The heavy door opened suddenly, and Josey Wales stepped through. Everybody froze in motion.

Zukie Limmer knew it was Josey Wales. The talk of the reward was everywhere. The description of the man was exact; the twin tied-down .44’s, the buckskin jacket, the gray cavalry hat… the heavy white scar that jagged the cheeks. The man must be crazy! No, he must not care whether he lives or dies, to go about making no attempt to disguise himself.

Zukie had heard the stories of the outlaw. No man could feel safe in his presence, and Zukie felt the recklessness… the ruthlessness that emanated from the man. The threat of Yoke and Al faded as of naughty schoolboys. Zukie Limmer placed his hands on the plank… in plain sight… and a cold, dread fear convinced him his life hung balanced on the whim of this killer.

Josey Wales moved with a practiced quickness out of the door’s silhouette and with the same fluid motion moved to the end of the bar so that he faced the door. He appeared not to notice the Indian woman and her tormentors. They still held her but watched, fascinated, as he leaned easily on the bar. Zukie burned to face him… keeping his hands tightly on the plank … and looked into black eyes that were cold and flat… and he physically shivered. Josey smiled. Perhaps it was meant to be friendly, but the smile only served to deepen and whiten the big scar so that his face took on an inexpressible cruelty. Zukie felt like a mouse before a big purring cat and so was impelled to make some offer.