“What if they don’t run?” he asked casually.
“Them kind,” Josey sneered, “always run... the ones thet can. They’ll run... straight back’ards... they’ll be trapped agin the walls of that there ditch.”
Lone lifted his hand in half salute, and bent low, moved silently on moccasined feet out of sight around the rocks. Josey checked the caps and loads of his .44’s and the .36 Navy under his arm. Twelve loads in the 44's... there were eight horsemen... three cart drivers... that made eleven; his mind clicked. He had counted only nine; the leader and the eight men. He whirled to stop Lone, but the Indian was gone.
Where were the other two men? The “edge” could be on the other side. Josey cursed his carelessness; the upsetting sight of the women... but there were no excuses... Josey bitterly condemned himself. Little Moonlight sat down, still holding the reins of the horses, with the rifle cradled in her arms. Josey slipped back to the rimrock and counted off the minutes. The sun slid below the mountain to the west, and a dusky red glow illumined the sky.
Mounted horsemen dashed up and down the line of carts and wagons. The canvas on one of the carts was being lashed down by a half-naked breed, and Josey looked for the women. They were standing behind the last wagon, close together, their hands tied in front of them. Josey slid back from the rim. It was time.
A shout, louder than the others, caused him to scramble up for a look. He saw two Comancheros dragging a limp figure between them. Other men on horses and foot were running toward the men and their burden, and for a moment obstructed his view. They pointed excitedly toward the rocks, and some of the mounted men rode in that direction, while others pulled their burden toward the rear of the last wagon where the two women stood.
They dropped their burden to the ground. The long, plaited hair... buckskin-garbed. It was Lone Watie. Josey cursed beneath his breath. The two missing Comancheros he should have figured. As he watched, Lone sat up and shook his head. He looked around him as the leader of the Comancheros approached. The big Mexican jerked the Indian to his feet and talked rapidly, then struck him in the face. Lone staggered back against the wagon and stood, staring stoically straight ahead. Josey watched them down the barrels of both .44’s. Had a Comanchero raised a gun or knife ... he would not have used it.
The big Mexican was obviously in a hurry. He shouted orders, and two men leaped forward, lashed Lone’s hands together, and secured the rawhide to the tailgate of the wagon with the women. As they did... Lone raised his arms and wigwagged his hands back and forth. He did not look upward toward the rocks where he knew Josey watched. The hand signal was the well-known message of the Confederate Cavalry, “All well here, reconnoiter your flanks!” Josey read the message, and the shock hit him; his flanks!... the Comanchero horsemen who had raced for cover behind the wagons!
Josey scrambled down the rocks and ran toward the horses. He motioned Little Moonlight to mount, and leading the black, they raced toward the only immediate cover, two huge boulders that stood fifty yards from the arroyo. They had barely rounded the boulders when four horsemen appeared over the top. They paused and scanned the prairie but did not approach far enough to see the tracks. Turning, they ran their horses in the direction from which the wagons had come and then disappeared back into the arroyo.
A horrendous squealing rent the air, and the horses jumped. It was the carts moving... their heavy wooden wheels screeching against ungreased axles. Little Moonlight moved her horse next to Josey.
“Lone,” she said. Josey crossed his wrists in the sign of the captive and then sought to reassure the fear that flashed in her eyes. His scarred face creased in a half grin. He tapped his chest and the big pistol butts in their holsters and moved his hands forward, palm down, in the sign that all would be well. Little Moonlight still wore the big hat of Lone’s, and now she nodded, flopping it comically on her head. Her eyes lost the fear; the warrior with the magic guns would free Lone. He would kill the enemies. He would make things as they were.
Josey listened to the squealing carts growing fainter in the distance. It was dark now, but a three-quarter yellow Texas moon was just lifting behind broken crags to the east. A soft golden haze made shadows of the boulders, and a cooling breeze stirred the sagebrush. Somewhere, far off, a coyote yipped in quick barks and ended it with a long tenor howl.
Little Moonlight brought a thin handful of jerky beef from her bundle and held it out to Josey. He shook his head and motioned for her to eat. Instead, he cut a fresh cud of tobacco from the twist, hooked a leg over his saddle horn, and slowly chewed.
“Iff’n I don’t git but half of ’em, they’ll kill Lone and them women,” he said half aloud. “Iff’n they make it to thet camp, they’re shore gonna sport thet Cherokee with a knife and fire coals.”
Josey was startled from his musing. The hound had lifted his voice in a deep, lonesome howl that ended forlornly in a breaking series of sobs. The red-bone jumped sideways, barely escaping the stream of tobacco juice.
“Ye damn Tennessee red-bone... we ain’t huntin’ possum ’er ’coon. Shet up!” The hound retreated behind Little Moonlight’s paint, and she laughed. It was a soft and melodious laughter that made Josey look at her. She pointed to the moon... and at the dog.
“Let’s go,” Josey said gruffly, and he spurred the roan toward the arroyo.
Chapter 15
Laura Lee Turner stumbled behind the wagon in the half-light of the moon. The high-button shoes were unsuitable for hiking, and she had already turned her ankles several times. The rough blanket tied around her shoulders irritated the burning skin where fingernails had ripped away flesh on her back and stomach. Her breasts throbbed with excruciating pain, and her breath came short and hard. She had not spoken through her swollen lips since the attack... but that was not unusual for Laura Lee.
“Too quiet,” Grandma Sarah had said when she came to live with her and Grandpa Samuel after her father and mother died of lung fever.
“Look, look, and whatta ye see, ain’t right bright, Laura Lee,” the children had sung around the log cabin schoolhouse, there in the Ozark Mountains ... when she was nine. She didn’t go back to school. Kindly Grandma Sarah had shushed her when she’d say such things as, “Springtime’s a’comin’ in this here thunderstorm,” or “Clouds is like fluffy dreams 'floatin’ crost a blue-sky mind.”
Grandpa Samuel would look puzzled and remark, rut of her hearing, “A leetle quare... but a good girl.”
At fifteen, after taking her second box supper to a gathering in the settlement, she didn’t go again. Grandpa Samuel had to buy hers ... both times ... in the embarrassment of the folks seeing one lone box left, and no boy would buy it.
“Ye’d ort to talk to ’em,” Grandma Sarah would scold her. But she couldn’t; while the other girls had chattered and giggled with the groups of boys, she had stood aside, dumb and stiff as a blackjack oak. She had large breasts, and her shoulders were square.
“Bones ain’t delikit enough to attract these idjit whippersnappers,” Grandma Sarah complained. The sturdy bones gave a ruggedness to her face that a preacher might charitably describe as “honest and open.” The freckles across her nose didn’t help any. Her waist was narrow enough, but she had a “heavy turn of ankle,” and once when a backpack peddler had stopped by ... and Grandpa had called her in for a shoe fitting, the peddler had laughed, “Got a fine pair of men’s uppers will fit this here little lady.” She had turned red and looked down at her twitching toes.
Grandma Sarah was practical, if disappointed ... and resigned. She began preparing Laura Lee for the dismal destiny of unmarried maidenhood. Now, at twenty-two years of age, it was firmly settled; Laura Lee was an "old maid,” and would so be, the rest of her life.
Grandma Sarah’s bachelor brother Tom had sent the papers on his west Texas ranch, and when word reached them that he died at Shiloh, they made plans to leave the chert hill farm and take up the ranch. Laura Lee never questioned any thought of not going. There was nowhere else
to go.
Now, stumbling behind the wagon, she had no doubt what awaited her. She accepted the fate without bitterness. She would fight... and then she would die. The wildness of this land called Texas had astonished her with its brutality. The picture of Towash flashed again in her mind; the picture of the scarred face, the searing black eyes of the killer, Josey Wales. He had looked deadly, spitting and snarling death ... like the mountain lion she once saw ... cornered against a rock face as men moved in upon it. She wondered if he were like these men into whose hands they had fallen.
Grandma Sarah stumbled along beside her. The long dress she wore cut her stride into short jerky steps, and sometimes she was forced to a half trot. Beside Grandma Sarah the captured savage walked easily. He was very tall and thin, but he strode with a lithe suppleness that denied the age of his wrinkled, oaken face, set in stoic calmness. He had said nothing. Even when the big Mexican had questioned and threatened him, he had remained silent ... smiling, and then he had spat in the Mexican’s face ... and been struck backward.
She watched him now. Thirty yards behind them two horsemen rode, but she had seen the savage stealthily move the rawhide thong to his face twice before, and she was sure he chewed on it.
Dust boiled up in their faces from the squealing carts ahead, and a fit of coughing seized Grandma
Sarah. She stumbled and fell. Laura Lee moved to help her, but before she could reach the tiny figure the savage bent quickly and lifted her with surprising ease. He walked along, never breaking stride, as he held the little woman’s tiny waist with his bound hands. He set her down and carefully kept his grip until Grandma Sarah had regained her stride. Grandma Sarah threw back her head to toss the long white hair back over her shoulders.
“Thank’ee,” she mumbled.
“Ye’re welcome,” the savage said in a low, pleasant voice.
Laura Lee was stunned. The savage spoke English. She looked across at Lone, “You... that is... ye speak our language,” she said haltingly, half afraid to address him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “reckin I take a swang at it.”
Grandma Sarah, despite her jolting gait, was looking at him.
“But ...” Laura Lee said, “ye’re Indian... ain’t ye?” She saw white teeth flash in the moonlight as the savage smiled.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “full bred, I reckin... ’er so my pa told me. Don’t reckon he had reason to lie about it.”
Grandma Sarah couldn’t contain any further silence. “Ye talk like... a... mountain ... man,” she jolted out the sentence from her half trot.
The Indian sounded surprised. “Why... reckin that’s what I am, ma’am. Being Cherokee from the mountains of north Alabamer. Wound up in the Nations... leastwise, that is, ’til I wound up on the end of this here strang.”
“Lord save us all,” Grandma Sarah said grimly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lone answered, but Laura Lee noticed he had turned his head as he spoke and was scanning the prairie, as though he fully anticipated additional help besides the Lord’s.
They lapsed into silence; the wagon was moving rapidly, and talking was difficult. The night wore on, and the moon passed its peak in the sky and dropped westward. It was cold, and Laura Lee could feel the chill as her naked legs opened the blanket with each stride. Once she felt the knot that held it loosening about her shoulders and she struggled futilely to hold it with her bound hands. She was surprised by the Indian suddenly walking close to her. He reached with his bound hands and silently retied the knot.
Grandma Sarah was stumbling more often now, and the Indian, each time, retrieved her and set her back in stride. He mumbled encouragement in her ear, “Won’t be long, ma’am, before we stop.” And once, when she seemed almost too weak to regain her legs, he had scolded her mildly, “Cain’t quit, ma’am. They’ll kill ye... ye cain’t quit.”
Grandma Sarah had a note of despair in her voice, “Pa’s gone. ’Ceptin’ Laura Lee, I’d be ready to go.” Laura Lee moved closer to the old woman and held her arm.
The moon hung palely suspended at the western rim when the streak of dawn crossed the big sky above them. Suddenly the wagon halted. Laura Lee could see a campfire kindled ahead and men gathering around it. Grandma Sarah sat down, and Laura Lee, sitting beside her, lifted her bound arms around the old woman and pulled her head down on her lap. She said nothing but clumsily stroked the wrinkled face and combed at the long white hair with her fingers.
Grandma Sarah opened her eyes. “Thank’ee, Laura Lee,” she said weakly.
Lone stood beside them but he did not look toward the campfire ahead. Instead, he had his back to the wagon and gazed far off, along the way they had come. He stood like stone, transfixed in his concentration. After a long moment he was rewarded by catching the merest flicker of a shadow, perhaps an antelope ... or a horse, as it dropped quickly over a roll in the plain. He watched more intently now and caught another shadow, moving more slowly, and curiously dotted with white, that followed the path of the first. His face cracked in a wolfish smile as he raised the rawhide to his teeth.
The sun rose higher ... and hotter. The Comancheros were walking about now, stretching off the night’s ride. The red-bearded man came around the wagon. Big Spanish spurs jingled as he walked. He carried a canteen in his hand and knelt beside Laura Lee and Grandma Sarah, and thrust the canteen into Laura Lee’s hand.
“I’m gonna outbid the Comanch and breed you myself,” he leered with a wide grin. Saliva and tobacco spittle ran down into his dirty beard. As he wiped his mouth on the back of one hand he slyly slid the other up her thigh. She struggled to rise, but he pressed himself down on her, one knee moving between her legs as he slipped a hand under the blanket and fondled her breasts. Lone plunged head down into the man with such force that he was knocked under the wagon. Laura Lee dropped the canteen. The Indian stood, implacable, as the red-bearded Comanchero cursed and thrashed his way to his feet. Without looking at Laura Lee, Lone said quietly, “Quick ... the canteen .... give water to Grandma . maybe her last chancet.” She grabbed the canteen and tilted it to Grandma Sarah’s lips as she heard the cracking thud of iron on bone, and the Indian fell beside her on the ground. He lay still, blood spurting over the coal-black hair.
Laura Lee was pouring water down Grandma Sarah. “Dadblame it, don’t drown me, child,” the old woman rose up, spluttering and choking.
The Comanchero grabbed the canteen, and Laura Lee fought him for it. She rose to her feet, twisting it from his grasp, and managed to splash water on the head of Lone. The Comanchero kicked her flat and retrieved the water. He was panting heavily. “You’ll make a good lay when I bed you down,” he spat. The scuffle had attracted more men toward the wagon ... and he hurried away.
Laura Lee worked over the unconscious Lone. She turned him on his back and with the tail of her blanket clotted and stopped the blood flow. Grandma Sarah was up on her knees struggling with a string about her neck. She withdrew a small bag from the bosom of her dress. “Slap this asphitify bag under his nose,” she instructed as she handed the bag to the girl.
Lone took one breath of the bag, twisted his head violently, and opened his eyes. “Beggin’ yore pardon, ma’am,” he said calmly, “but I never cottoned to rotted skunk.”
Grandma Sarah’s tone was weak but stern, “They’ll shoot ye down iff’n ye cain’t walk,” she warned from her wobbly knees.
Lone rolled over on his stomach and brought himself to hands and knees. He stayed there a moment, swaying... then straightened up. “I’ll walk,” he grinned through caked blood, “not much more walkin’ to do anyhow.”
As he spoke, the wagon jerked, and Lone was forced to hold Grandma Sarah up by the seat of her underwear to straighten her legs and get her in stride.
There was no pause at noon; the caravan rolled steadily on, to the west. White alkali dust, mingled with sweat, caked their faces into unreal masks, and the sun heat sapped the strength from their legs. Now Lone held a steady grip on Grandma
Sarah; her trembling legs made half motions of walking, but it was Lone who supported her weight.
The wagon began to drop downward as the caravan moved into a deep canyon. It was narrow, with sheer walls on either side, leveling off at the bottom. They were headed, now, directly into the sun. Laura Lee felt her legs trembling as she walked; she stumbled and fell but scrambled to her feet without help. Suddenly the wagons halted. She looked across at Lone. “I wonder why we’ve stopped?” Her voice sounded cracked and coarse in her ears.
There was a triumphant smile on the Indian’s face ... she thought he had become crazed from the blow on his head. Finally, he answered her. “Iff’n I cal’clate right, we’re facin’ directly into thet sun. These walls hem us in. Thet would look like the thinkin’ of a feller I know what figgers all the edge he can git. I ain’t looked up ahead yet, but I’ll bet my scalp a gent by the name of Josey Wales has stopped this here train.” “Josey Wales?” Laura Lee croaked the name. Grandma Sarah, from her knees on the ground, whispered weakly, “Josey Wales? The killin’ man we seen at Towash? Lord save us.”
Lone eased around the tailgate of the wagon. Laura
Lee stood beside him. Fifty yards ahead of them, astride the giant roan, standing squarely in the middle of the sun, sat Josey Wales. Lone shaded his eyes, and he could see the slow, meditative working of the jaws.
“Chawin’ his tobaccer, by God,” Lone said. He saw Josey look to the side with musing contemplation.
“Now spit,” Lone breathed. Josey spat a stream of tobacco juice that expertly knocked a bloom from sagebrush. The Comancheros looked aghast, riveted into statues at this strange figure who appeared before them and evidenced such nonchalant interest... in aiming and spitting at sagebrush blooms.
Lone chewed vigorously at the rawhide on his wrists. “Git ready, little lady,” he muttered to Laura Lee, “hell is fixin’ to hit the breakfast.”
The Outlaw Josey Wales Page 10