The Outlaw Josey Wales

by Forrest Carter

  “It’s right bad, ain’t it, Josey?” he asked with surprising calm.

  Josey’s answer was a quick nod as he pulled two shirts from Jamie’s saddlebags and tore them into strips. He worked quickly making heavy pads and placed them on the open wounds, front and back, and then wound the stripping tightly around the boy. As Josey finished his work Jamie looked down at him from beneath the old slouch hat.

  “I ain’t gittin’ off this hoss, Josey. I kin make it. Me and you seen fellers in lot worse shape make it, ain’t we, Josey?”

  Josey rested his hand over the tightly gripped hands of the boy. He made the gesture in a rough, careless way... but Jamie felt the meaning. “Thet we have, Jamie,” Josey looked steadily up at him, “and we’ll make it by a long-tailed mile.”

  The sounds of horses breaking willows made Josey swing up on his horse. He turned in his saddle and said quietly to Jamie, “Jest hold on and let thet little mare follow me.”

  “Where to?” Jamie whispered.

  A rare smile crossed the scarred face of the outlaw.

  “Why, we’re goin’ where all good brush fighters go... where we ain’t expected,” he drawled. “We’re doubling back to Lexington, nat’uly.”

  The dusk of evening was bringing on a quick darkness as they came out of the brakes. Josey set their course a few hundred yards north of the trail they had taken out of town, but angling so that it appeared they were headed for Lexington, though their direction would take them slightly north of the settlement. He never broke the horses into a trot but kept them walking steadily. The sounds of the shouting men on the river bank grew fainter and were finally lost behind them.

  Josey knew the posse of militia and cavalry were searching for their crossing of the Missouri River. He pulled his horse back alongside the mare. Jamie’s mouth was set in a grim line of pain, but he appeared steady in the saddle.

  “Thet posse figures us fer Clay County,” Josey said, “where little Dingus and Frank is stompin’ around at.”

  Jamie tried to speak, but a quick jolt of pain cut his breath into a half shriek. He nodded his head that he understood.

  As they rode, Josey reloaded the Colts and checked the loads of the two pistols in his saddle holsters. With quick glances over his shoulder, he betrayed his anxiety for Jamie. Once, with the icy calm of the seasoned guerrilla, he held the horses on a wooded knoll while a score of possemen galloped past on their way to the river. Even as the horses thundered close, not fifty yards from their concealment, Josey was down off his mount and checking the bandages under Jamie’s shirt.

  “Look down at me, boy,” he said. “Iff’n you look at ’em they might git a feelin’.”

  There was dried blood on the tight bandages, and Josey grunted with satisfaction. “We’re in good shape, Jamie. The bleeding has stopped.”

  Josey swung aboard the roan and clucked the horses forward. He turned in the saddle to Jamie, “We’ll jest keep walkin’ ’til we walk slap out of Missouri.”

  The lights of Lexington showed on their right and then slowly receded behind them. West of Lexington there were Kansas City and Fort Leavenworth with a large contingent of soldiers; Richmond was north with a cavalry detachment of Missouri Militia; to the east were Fayette and Glasgow with more cavalry. Josey turned the horses south. All the way to the Blackwater River there was nothing except scattered farms. True, Warrensburg was just across the river, but first they had to put miles between themselves and Lexington.

  Boldly, Josey turned onto the Warrensburg road. He pulled the mare up beside him, for he knew that Jamie was weakening and he feared the boy would fall from his horse. The hours and miles fell behind them. The road, though dangerous to travel, presented no obstacles to the horses, and the tough animals were accustomed to long forced marches.

  As the first gray light streaked the clouds to the east, Josey jerked the horses to a standstill. For a moment he sat, listening. “Riders,” he said tersely, “coming from behind us.” Quickly he pulled the horses off the road and had barely made the heavy brush when a large group of blue-clad riders swept past them. Jamie sat erect in the saddle and watched with burning eyes. The drawn, tight lines of his face showed that only the pain had kept him conscious.

  “Josey, them fellers ride like the Second Colorado.” “Well,” Josey drawled, “yore eyes is fine Them boys is right pert fighters, but they couldn’t track a litter of pigs ’crost a kitchen floor.” He searched the boy’s face as he spoke and was rewarded with a tight grin. “But,” he added, “jest in case they can, we’re leavin’ the road. That line of woods means the Blackwater, and we’re goin’ to take a rest.”

  As he spoke, Josey turned the horses toward the river. With a casual joke he had hidden from the boy their alarming position. One look at Jamie in the light showed his weakness. He had to have rest, if nothing more. The horses were too tired to run if they were jumped, and the appearance of soldiers from the north meant the alarm was to be spread south. They figured him for heading to the Nations. This time they figured him right.

  Chapter 4

  The heavy timbered approaches to the Blackwater afforded a welcome refuge from the open rolling prairie over which they had come. Josey found a shallow stream that ran toward the river and guided the horses down it, knee-deep in water. Fifty yards back from the sluggish Blackwater he brought the horses up the bank of the stream and pushed through heavy sumac vines until he found a small glade sunken between banks lined with elm and gum trees. He helped Jamie from the saddle, but the boy’s legs buckled under him. Josey carried him in his arms to a place where the bank overhung the glade. There he lay blankets and stretched Jamie out on his back. He pulled the saddles from the horses and picketed them with lariats on the lush grass of the marshy ravine. When he returned, Jamie was sleeping, his face flushed with the beginning of fever.

  It was high noon when Jamie wakened. The pain washed over him in heavy throbs that tore at his chest. He saw Josey hunched over a tiny fire, feeding the fire with one hand as he maneuvered a heavy tin cup over the flame with the other. Seeing Jamie awake, he came to him with the cup, and cradling the boy’s head in his arms, he pressed the cup to his lips. “A little Tennessee rifle-ball tonic, Jamie,” he said.

  Jamie swallowed and coughed, “Tastes like you made it with rifle balls,” and he managed a weak grin.

  Josey tilted more of the hot liquid down his throat. “Sass’fras and iron root, with a dab of side meat... we ain’t got no beef,” he said and eased the boy’s head back on the blanket. “Yonder, in Tennessee, every time there was a shootin’ scrape, Granma commenced to boil up tonic. She’d send me to the hollers to dig sass’fras and iron root. Reckin I dug enough roots to loosen all the ground in Carter County. Re’clect that oncet Pa been coughin’ fit to kill fer a month of Sundays. Everybody said as how he had lung fever. Gran’ma commenced to feedin’ him tonic ever’ mornin’. Then one night Pa had a fit of coughin’ and spit up a rifle ball on the pillarcase ... next mornin’ he felt goodern’ a boar hawg chasin’ a sow. Gran’ma said was the tonic done it.”

  Jamie’s eyes closed, and he breathed with heavy, broken rhythm. Josey eased the tangled blond head down on the blanket. For the first time he noticed the long, almost girlish eyelashes, the smooth face.

  “Grit an’ sand, by God,” he muttered. There was tenderness in the gesture as he smoothed the tousled hair with a rough hand. Josey sat back on his heels and looked thoughtfully into the cup. He frowned. The liquid was pink ... blood, lung blood.

  Josey watched the horses cropping grass without seeing them. He was thinking of Jamie. Too many times, in a hundred fights, he had seen men choke on their blood from pierced lungs. The nearest help was the Nations. He had been through the Cherokee’s land several times on the trail to Texas and back. Once he had met General Stand Watie, the Cherokee General of the Confederacy. He knew many of the warriors well and once had joined with them as outriders to General Jo Shelby’s Cavalry when Shelby raided north along the Kansas Bor
der. The bone-handled knife that protruded from the top of his left boot had been given him by the Cherokee. On its handle was inscribed the Wanton mark that only proven braves could wear. He trusted the Cherokee, and he trusted his medicine.

  Although he had heard that the Federals were moving in on the Cherokee’s land because of their siding with the Confederates, he knew the Indian would not be easily moved and that he still controlled most of the territory. Jamie had to be gotten to the Cherokee. There was no other help. In his mind Josey sketched the map of the country he knew so well. There were sixty miles of broken, rolling prairie between him and the Grand River. Beyond the Grand was the haven of the Ozarks that could be skirted but was always near at hand for safety ... all the way to the border of the Nations.

  Gathering clouds had moved over the sun. Where it had been warm, a brisk wind picked up from the north and brought a chill. Josey was reluctant to wake the boy, who was still sleeping. He decided to wait another hour, bringing them closer to the dusk of evening. It was pleasant in the glade. The light wash of the river was constant in the distance. A redheaded woodpecker set to hammering on an elm, and brush wrens chattered, gathering grass seeds in the ravine.

  Josey rose and stretched his arms. He knelt to pull the blanket higher around Jamie, and in that split instant the chill warning of silence ran cold over him. The brush wrens flew up in a brown cloud. The woodpecker disappeared around the tree. He moved his hand toward the holstered right pistol as he turned his head upward to the opposite bank and looked into the barrels of rifles held by two bearded men.

  “Now you jest do that, cousin,” the taller one spoke. He had the rifle to shoulder and was sighting down the barrel. “You bring that ol’ pistol right out.”

  Josey looked at them steadily but didn’t move. They weren’t soldiers. Both wore dirty overalls and nondescript jackets. The tall one had mean eyes that burned down the rifle barrel at Josey. The shorter of the two held his rifle more loosely.

  “This here is him, Abe,” the short one spoke. “That’s Josey Wales. I seen him at Lone Jack with Bloody Bill. He’s meaner’n a rattler and twicet as fast with them pistols.”

  “Yore a real tush hawg, ain’t ye, Wales?” Abe said sarcastically. “What’s the matter with that’n laying down?”

  Josey didn’t answer but gazed steadily back at the two. He watched the wind flutter a red bandanna around the throat of Abe.

  “Tell you what, Mr. Wales,” Abe said, “you put yore hands top of yore head and stand up facin’ me.”

  Josey clasped his hands on top of his hat, stood slowly, and squared about to face the men. His right knee trembled slightly.

  “Watch him, Abe,” the short man half yelled, “I seen him....”

  “Shut up, Lige,” Abe said roughly. “Now, Mr. Wales, I’d as soon shoot ye now, ’ceptin’ it’ll be harder to drag ye through the brush to where’s we can git our pound price fer ye. Move yore left hand down and unbuckle that pistol belt. Make it slow ’nough I kin count the hairs on yer hand.”

  As Josey slowly lowered his hand to the belt buckle, his left shoulder moved imperceptibly beneath the buckskin jacket. The movement tilted forward the .36 Navy Colt beneath his arm. The gun belt fell. From the corner of his eye Josey saw Jamie, still sleeping beneath the blanket.

  Abe sighed in relief. “There, ye see, Lige, when ye pull his teeth he’s tame as a heel hound. I always wanted to face out one of these big pistol fighters, they raise all the fuss about. It’s all in the way ye handle ’em. Now ye call up Benny back there on the horse.”

  Lige half turned, his eyes still darting back at Josey. With his free hand he cupped his mouth, “Bennnnny! Come up ... we got ’em.” In the distance a horse crashed through the undergrowth, moving toward them.

  Josey felt the looseness come over him that marks the fighter, natural born. He coolly measured the distance while his brain toted up the chances for a pistolman. He was past the first tense moment. His adversaries had relaxed; there was a third coming up. This caused a slight distraction, but he needed another before the third man arrived. For the first time he spoke... so suddenly that Abe jumped. “Listen, Mister,” he said in a half-whining, placating tone, “there’s gold in them saddlebags... he brought his right hand easily from his head to point at the saddles, “and you can...”

  In mid sentence he rolled his body with the quickness of a cat. His right hand was already snaking out the Navy as his body flipped over down the bank. The rifle shot dug the ground where he had been. It was the only shot Abe made. The Navy was spitting flame from a rolling, dodging target. Once, twice, three times... faster than a man could count, Josey fanned the hammer. The glade was filled with a solid roar of sound. Abe pitched forward, down the bank. Lige staggered backward into a tree and sat down. Blood spurted like a fountain from his chest. He never got off a shot.

  Out of the roll, Josey came to his feet, running up the bank and into the undergrowth; but the frightened horseman had wheeled his mount and fled. Returning, Josey rolled the facedown Abe over on his back. He noted with satisfaction the two neat holes made by the Navy, less than an inch apart in the center of Abe’s chest. Lige sat against the tree, his face frozen in startled surprise. His left eye stared blankly at the treetops, and where his right eye had been, there was a round, bloody cavern.

  “Caught ’em a mite high,” Josey grunted and then noticed the gaping hole in Lige’s chest. He turned. Halfway down the opposite bank, Jamie lay prone on his stomach, a .44 Colt in his right hand. He grinned weakly back at Josey.

  “I knowed ye’d go fer the big ’un first, Josey. I shaded ye by a hair on that ’un.”

  Josey came across the glade and looked down at the boy. “If ye’ve started them holes in ye to leakin’ agin, I’m goin’ to whup ye with a knotted plow line.”

  “They ain’t, Josey, honest. I feel pert as a ruttin’ buck.” Jamie tried to rise, and his knees buckled under him. He sat down. Josey walked to the saddlebags and brought back a small bag. He handed the bag to Jamie.

  “Jaw on this side meat and ’pone while I saddle the horses,” he commanded. “We got to ride, boy. Thet feller rode out’n here won’t let his shirttail hit his back ’til he’s got mobs after us all over hell and Sunday.” Josey was moving as he talked, cinching saddles, checking the horses, retrieving his holstered pistols, and finally reloading the .36 Navy.

  “We got near fifty mile to the South Grand. Most of it is open with no more’n a gully ever’ ten mile to hide a hoss. Them Colorado boys rode south... spreadin’ word and roustin’ out all the jaspers after reeward money. Now,” he said grimly, “they’ll know fer sure, we’re headed south.”

  A fit of coughing seized Jamie as Josey lifted him into the saddle, and Josey watched with alarm as blood tinted his lips. He swung on his horse beside the boy.

  “Ye know, Jamie,” he said, “I know a feller lives in a cabin at the fork of the Grand and Osage. Ye’d be safe there and ye could lay out awhile. I could show m’self back upcountry and ...”

  “I reckin not,” Jamie interrupted. His voice was weak, but there was no mistaking the dogged stubbornness.

  “Ye damn little fool,” Josey exploded, “I ain’t totin’ ye all over hell’s creation and ye dribblin’ blood over half Missouri. I got better things to do.....” Josey’s voice trailed off. Anxiety in his tone had crept past his seeming outrage.

  Jamie knew. “I tote my end of the log,” he said weakly, “an’ I’m stickin’, slap to Texas.”

  Josey snatched the reins of the mare and started the horses toward the river. As they passed the sprawled figure of Abe, Jamie said, “Wisht we had time to bury them fellers.”

  “To hell with them fellers,” Josey snarled. He spat a stream of tobacco juice into Abe’s upturned face, “Buzzards got to eat, same as worms.”

  Chapter 5

  They followed the river bank downstream, away from Warrensburg, and crossed at a shallows belly-deep to the horses. Coming out of the river, they pushed
at a walk through a half mile of thick bottom growth before they came up to thinning timber. It was two hours until sundown, and before them lay the open prairie broken only by rolling mounds. To their right was Warrensburg with the Clinton road running south; a road they couldn’t use now.

  Josey pulled the horses up in the last shelter of trees. He scanned the sky. Rain would help. It always helped to drive undisciplined mobs and posses back indoors. Although the clouds were thickening, there was no immediate promise of rain. The wind was brisking stronger out of the north, cold and sharp, bending the waist-high bushes across the prairie.

  Still they sat their horses. Josey watched a dust cloud in the distance and followed it until it petered out... it was the wind. He studied the rolls of mounds and came back to study them again ... giving time for any horsemen to come into view who might have been hidden. All the way to the horizon ... there were no riders. Josey untied a blanket from behind his saddle and brought it around the hunched shoulders of Jamie. He tugged the cavalry hat lower to his eyes.

  “Let's ride,” he said tersely and moved the roan out. The little mare fell in behind. The horses were rested and strong. Josey had to hold the roan down to a walk to prevent the shorter-legged mare from breaking into a trot.

  Jamie urged the mare up alongside Josey. “Don’t hold back ’count of me, Josey,” he yelled weakly against the wind, “I kin ride.”

  Josey pulled the horses up. “I ain’t holdin’ back ’count of you, ye thickheaded grasshopper,” he said evenly. “Fust place, if we run these hosses, we’ll kick up dust, second place they’s enough posses in south Missouri after us to start another war, and in the third place, ye try runnin’ ’stead of thinkin’ and they’ll swing us on a rope by dark. We got to wolf our way through.” A half hour of steady pace brought them to a deep wash that split their path and ran westward. Choked with thick brush and stunted cedar, it afforded good cover, but Josey guided the horses directly across and up onto the prairie again. “They’ll curry-comb them washes... anyways, that’n ain’t goin’ in our direction,” he remarked dryly.