The Outlaw Josey Wales

by Forrest Carter

  The riders at the rear of the wagons came past and joined the others at the front of the caravan. Laura Lee shaded her eyes against the white light of the sun. “You speak of him... Josey Wales... as though he were your friend,” she said to Lone.

  “He is more than my friend,” Lone said simply.

  Grandma Sarah, still sitting, pulled herself around the wagon wheel and watched. “Even fer a mean ’un like him, they’re too many of ’em,” she whispered, but she held the wagon wheel and watched.

  They saw Josey straighten in the saddle and slowly... slowly, he lifted a stick, at the end of which was attached a white flag. He waved it back and forth at the Comancheros, all grouped together at the head of the caravan.

  “That’s a surrender flag!” Laura Lee gasped.

  Lone grinned through the mask of dusky face, “I don’t know what he’s figgerin’ to do, but surrender ain’t one of ’em.”

  The Comancheros were excited. There was agitated talk, and argument developed among them. The big Mexican leader, mounted on a dappled gray, rode among the men and pointed with his hand. He selected the man with the red beard, another particularly vicious-appearing Anglo with human scalps sewed into his shirt, and a long-haired Mexican with two tied-down holsters.

  The four horsemen advanced in a line, walking their horses cautiously toward Josey Wales. As they began their advance, Josey, as slowly, brought the roan to meet them. Silence, disturbed only by a faint moan of wind in the canyon rocks, fell over the scene. To Laura Lee the horses moved painfully slowly, stepping gingerly as their riders held them in check. It seemed to her that Josey Wales moved his horse only slightly faster... not enough to cause notice... but nevertheless, when they came together, facing each other, the roan was much closer to the wagons. They stopped.

  She saw the scarred face of the outlaw plainly now. The same burning black eyes from beneath the hat brim. He rose slowly, standing in the stirrups as though stretching his body, but the subtle movement brought the angle of his pistols directly under his hands.

  Suddenly the flag fell. She didn’t see Josey Wales move his hands, but she saw smoke spurt from his hips. The BOOMS! of the heavy-throated .44’s bounced into solid sound off the canyon walls. Two saddles emptied... the Mexican with tied-down holsters somersaulted backward off his horse. The red-bearded man twisted and fell, one foot caught in a stirrup. The scalp-shirted horseman doubled and slumped, and as the big Mexican leader half whirled his horse in a frantic rearing, a mighty force tore the side of his face off.

  The speed and sound of the happening was like a sharp thunderclap, causing a scene of mass confusion. The grulla horse of the red-bearded man came stampeding back upon the wagons, dragging the dead man by one foot. The half-crazed horse of the Mexican leader had been jerked, by his death grip, into a yoke of oxen. Out of the tangle, riding directly at them, Laura Lee saw the giant roan.

  Josey Wales had two pistols in his hands. The reins of the roan were in his teeth, and as he crashed into the remaining horsemen bunched by the wagon, she saw him firing... and the earsplitting .44’s bounced and ricocheted sound all around them. One man screamed as he fell headlong from his bucking horse; yells and cursings, frightened horses dashing this way and that. In the middle of it all, Laura Lee heard a sound that began low and rose in pitch and volume until it climaxed in a bloodcurdling crescendo of broken screams that brought pimples to her skin. The sound came from the throat of Josey Wales... the Rebel yell of exultation in battle and blood... and death. The sound of the scream was as primitive as the man. He swept so close by the wagon that Laura Lee shrank from the hooves of the terrible roan thundering down on her. Whirling the big red horse almost in midair, he brought him around behind a cart driver, half-naked... running on foot, and shot him squarely between the shoulders.

  A Comanchero, his sombrero lying on his back, dashed by on a running horse and disappeared down the canyon. Josey whirled the big roan after him, and the hooves of their horses echoed down the canyon and diminished in the distance.

  A fancily dressed Comanchero lying near Laura Lee raised his head. Blood covered his chest, and he looked across the open ground directly into her eyes. “Water...” he said weakly, and tried to crawl, but his arms would not support the weight, “please... water.” Laura Lee watched horrified as he tried again to pull himself toward her.

  An Indian rose from the rocks of the canyon. Long plaited hair and fringed buckskin, but wearing a huge, flopping gray hat. The figure trotted up to the bloody Comanchero and stopped a few feet from him. As he lifted his hand ... the Indian raised an old rifle and shot him cleanly through the head. It was Little Moonlight, with the scrawny red-bone shuffling at her heels. Now she dropped the rifle and advanced on them, pulling a wicked-looking knife from her belt. “Injuns!” Grandma Sarah shouted from her seat by the wagon wheel. “Lord save us.”

  Lone laughed. He, like the women, had watched the juggernaut of death that hit the camp with something akin to fascination... now the sight of Little Moonlight released the tension. She cut the thongs from his wrists, wrapped her arms around him, and laid her head on his chest.

  A pistol shot in the distance rolled a rumbling echo up the canyon. Around them was the aftermath of the storm. Men lay in the grotesque postures of death. Horses stood head down. The grulla, coming from the head of the caravan, alternately walked and stopped, dragging the limp corpse by a stirrup. Except for the moan of the wind, it was the only sound in the canyon.

  They saw Josey walking the horses. He was leading a sorrel that carried a pistol belt and sombrero dangling from the horn of an empty saddle. Behind the sorrel was Lone’s big black.

  The roan was lathered white, and froth whipped from his mouth. Josey pulled the horses to a halt in the shade of the wagon and politely touched the brim of his hat to Laura Lee and Grandma Sarah. Laura Lee nodded dumbly at his gesture. She felt awkward in the blanket and ill at ease. How did anybody act so calm and have company manners, like this man, after such violent death. A few minutes before he had shot... and yelled... and killed. She watched him shift sideways in the saddle and hook a leg around the horn. He made no motion to dismount as he meticulously cut tobacco with a long knife and thrust the wad into his mouth.

  “Proud to struck up with ye agin, Cherokee,” he drawled at Lone, “I would’ve rode on to Mexico, but I had to come and git ye, so ye could make thet crazy squaw behave.”

  Lone grinned up at him, “Knowed that’d bring ye.” “Now,” Josey drawled laconically, “iff’n ye can git it ’crost to her, more’n likely these here two ladies would cotton to gittin’ cut loose, a dab of water ... clothes and sich as thet.”

  Lone looked embarrassed. “Sorry, ma’am," he mumbled to Laura Lee.

  Little Moonlight got two canteens of water from the wagons, and as Laura Lee splashed cool water over her face, Lone knelt with a canteen for Grandma Sarah.

  Josey frowned. “I was wonderin’ about grain fer the hosses.”

  “I knowed ye’d ask that,” Lone said dryly. “As I was ambling along behind this here wagon, whistlin’ and singin’ in the moonlight, I says to myself, I’ve got to take time from my enjoyment to check about the grain in these here wagons. I know Mr. Wales will likely come ridin’ by d’rectly and lift his hat ... and fust thing.... ast about the grain.”

  Laura Lee was startled by the laughter of the two men. Bloody corpses lay all about them. They had all narrowly escaped death. Now they laughed uproariously ... but instinctively, beneath the laughter, she sensed the grim humor and a deep bond between the Indian and the outlaw.

  As though reading her thoughts Josey dismounted, opened the flaps of the wagon, and taking her by the arm, helped her into the back. “Set there, ma’am,” he said. “We’ll scuffle ye some clothes.” Turning to Grandma Sarah, he lifted her in his arms and carefully placed her beside Laura Lee. “There now, ma’am,” he said.

  Grandma Sarah looked keenly at him. “Ye shore bushwhacked all of ’em, looks like ... them a
s was fightin’ and them as was runnin’.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Josey said politely. “Pa always said a feller ought to take pride in his trade.” He didn’t explain that the “running” Comancheros would most surely bring back Indians.

  “My God!” Grandma Sarah screamed. Josey and Lone whirled in the direction she pointed.

  Little Moonlight, a knife in one hand and two bloody scalps in the other, was kneeling beside the head of a third corpse on the ground. Laura Lee pushed farther back in the wagon.

  “She don’t mean nothin’... bad, that is,” Lone said. “Little Moonlight is Cheyenne. It’s part of her religion. Ye see, ma’am, Cheyennes believe there ain’t but two ways ye can keep from goin’ to the Huntin’ Grounds— that is to be hung, where yore soul cain’t git out of yore mouth, and the other is being scalped. Little Moonlight is makin’ shore thet our enemies don’t git there... then we’ll have it... well, more easy, when we git there. Kinda like,” Lone grinned, “a Arkansas preacher sendin’ his enemies to hell. Indian believes they ain’t but two sins... bein’ a coward... and turnin’ agin yer own kind.”

  “Well,” Grandma Sarah said doubtfully, “I reckin that’s one way of lookin’ at it.”

  Laura Lee looked at Josey, “Does she keep... the... scalps?”

  Josey looked startled. “Why... I don’t reckin, thet is, I never seen her totin’ none around. But don’t ye worry about Little Moonlight, ma’am... she’s... kin.”

  Lone and Josey mounted their horses and with lariats dragged the bodies of the Comancheros far down the canyon into the boulders and rolled rocks over them. They had stripped them of guns and piled the guns and saddles they took from the horses into the wagons.

  In his scouting Josey had discovered a narrow cleft in the far wall of the canyon, and near it a rock tank held clear water. He and Lone rummaged the three big carts and found barrels of grain, salt pork, jerky beef, dried beans, and flour. There were rifles and ammunition. All this they piled into the wagons; and with the eight horses tethered behind, Lone and Little Moonlight drove the wagons to the cleft in the canyon, as Laura Lee and Grandma Sarah rode with them.

  The ground dropped down as it met the canyon wall, almost hiding the wagons from the trail. It was cool in the shadows, and they made camp at dusk; the high wall and cleft at their backs, the wagons before them.

  Josey and Lone watered the horses and mules at the tank, and after picketing the mules near the wall on bunch grass and graining the horses, they led the six oxen to water. Laura Lee, in the wagon, heard Josey speaking to Lone, “We’ll butcher one of the oxen in the mornin’ and turn the rest of ’em loose. Might as well leave them carts where they are... they’s all kind of stuff in ’em... old watches... picture frames... I seen a baby’s crib... looted from ranches, I reckin.” She thought of the terrible Comancheros. How many lonely cabins had they burned? How many of the helpless had they tortured and murdered? The wretched, hoarse screams of Grandpa Samuel echoed in her ears, and the laughter of his tormentors. She sobbed, and her body shook. Grandma Sarah, beside her, squeezed her hand, and great tears rolled silently down her wrinkled face.

  A hand touched her shoulder. It was Josey Wales. The yellow moon had risen over the canyon rim, shadowing his face as he looked up to her in the wagon. Only the white scar stood out in the moonlight. “Pick up yer clothes, ma’am,” he said softly, “and I’ll carry ye up to the tank... ye can wash. I’ll come back and git Grandma Sarah.”

  He swung her in his arms, and she felt the strength of him. Timidly, she slipped her arm about his neck, and as he walked upward to the tank, she felt an overwhelming weakness. The horror of the past hours, the terror; now the overpowering comfort in the arms of this strange man she should fear... but did not. The blanket fell away, but it didn’t matter.

  He placed her on a broad, flat rock beside the pool of water and in a moment returned, carrying the frail Grandma Sarah. He knelt beside them. “I’ll have to cut them shoes off ya’alls feet. Reckin ye’ll have to wear boot moccasins, it’s all we got.”

  As he slid the knife along the leather, Laura Lee asked, “Where is... the Indian?”

  “Lone? Him and Little Moonlight is down there brushin’ out our tracks,” he chuckled softly with secret humor, “they done washed in the tank.”

  Their feet were swollen, puffy lumps, and ugly cuts slashed by the rawhide swelled their arms. Josey stood up and looked down at them. “They’s a little wall spring trickles water in this here tank... feeds out’n the other end. Stays fresh and cold... ought to take the swellin’ down. Tank ain’t but three foot deep. I’ll be close by,” and he pointed, “up there, in the rocks.”

  He disappeared into the shadows and in a moment reappeared, silhouetted against the moon, looking past them into the canyon.

  Laura Lee helped Grandma Sarah into the tank. The water was cold, washing over her body like a refreshing tonic.

  “I couldn’t help cryin’,” Grandma Sarah said as she sat in the water. “I cain’t help worryin’ about Pa and Dan’l, layin’ back there on the prairie.”

  The voice of Josey Wales floated softly down to them, “They was buried, ma’am... proper.” Did his ears catch everything? Laura Lee wondered.

  “Thank’ee, son,” Grandma Sarah spoke as softly... and her voice broke, “God bless ye.”

  Laura Lee looked up at the figure on the rock. He was slowly chewing tobacco, looking out toward the canyon... and with a ragged cloth he was cleaning his pistols.

  Chapter 16

  The morning broke red and hot and chased the chill from the canyon. Josey and Lone slaughtered an oxen and brought slabs of the meat to the smokeless fire Little Moonlight had built in a chimney crack of the canyon cleft. Laura Lee pushed a weakly protesting Grandma Sarah back on her blankets and walked to the fire on swollen feet.

  “I can work,” she announced flatly to Josey. Little Moonlight smiled and handed her a knife to slice the beef. Salting thin strips, they laid them on the flat rocks to cure in the sun, and it was late afternoon before they ate.

  Laura Lee noticed that the two men never worked together. If one was working, the other watched the rim of the canyon. When she asked Josey why, he answered her shortly, “Comanche country, ma’am. This is their land... not our’n.” And she saw that both he and Lone looked with studied concern at the spiral of circling buzzards that rose high in the air over the rocks that held the dead Comancheros.

  They rested, filled with beef, in the dusk of shadows, against the canyon wall. Josey came to the blankets of Laura Lee and Grandma Sarah. He carried a small iron pot and knelt beside them.

  “Taller and herbs Lone fixed. It’ll take the swellin' down.” He smoothed it on their feet and legs, and as Laura Lee blushed and timidly extended her leg, he looked up at her for a steady moment, “It don’t matter none, ma’am. We do... what we have to do ... to live. Ain’t always purty... ’ner proper, I reckin. Necessary is what decides it.”

  Laura Lee lay back on the blankets and slept. She dreamed of a huge, charging red horse that bore down upon her, ridden by a terrible man with a scarred face who screamed and shot death from his guns. The deep howl of a wolf close by on the canyon rim awakened her. Grandma Sarah was sitting up, combing her hair. Close by in the shadows and facing her was Lone. Little Moonlight lay on the ground, her head on Lone’s thigh. She didn’t see Josey Wales. The soreness and swelling was gone from her feet.

  “Is... where is Mr. Wales?” Laura Lee asked of Lone.

  He looked toward the canyon valley flooded with the soft light of a nearly full moon. “He’s here,” he said softly, “somewhere in the rocks. He don’t sleep much, reckin it’s from years of brush ridin’.”

  Laura Lee hesitated, and her voice was timid, “I heard him say that he was kin to Little Moonlight... is he?”

  Lone’s laugh was low. “No, ma’am. Not like you mean. Where Josey come from... back in the mountains... the old folks meant different by thet word. If a feller told another’n
thet he kin ’em... he meant he understands ’em. Iff’n he tells his woman that he kin ’er ... which ain’t often ... he means he loves ’er.” There was a moment of silence before Lone continued, “Ye see, ma’am, to the mountain man, it’s the same thing... lovin’ and understandin’... cain’t have one without t’other’n. Little Moonlight here,” and he laid his hand on her head, “Josey understands. Oh, he don’t understand Cheyenne ways and sich... it’s what’s underneath, he understands... reckin loyalty and sich... and she understands them things... and well, they love thet in one ’nother. So ye see, they got a understandin’... a love fer one another ... they’re kin.”

  “You mean ... ?” Laura Lee left the meaning in the question.

  Lone chuckled, “No, I don’t mean she’s his woman ... nothin’ like thet. Reckin I cain’t talk it like it is, ma’am ... but Josey and Little Moonlight, either one would die flat in their track fer t’other’n.”

  “And you,” Laura Lee said softly.

  “And me,” Lone said.

  The night wind picked up a low sigh across the brush, and a coyote reminded them with his long howl of the distance and the loneliness of the desolate land. Laura Lee shivered, and Grandma Sarah placed a blanket around her shoulders. She had never asked questions ... boldly of other people ... but curiosity ... and something more, overcame her reticence. “Why ... I mean, how is it that he is ... wanted?” she asked.

  The silence was so long that she thought Lone would not speak. Finally, his voice floated softly in the shadows, searching for words, “Iff’n I told ye that a lodge ... a house was burnin’ down, ye’d say thet was bad. Iff’n I told ye it was yore home thet was burnin’... and ye loved thet home, and them thet was in it, ye’d crawl ... iff’n ye had to ... to fight thet fire. Ye’d hate thet fire ... but only jest as deep as ye loved thet home ... not ’cause ye hate fire ... but ’cause ye loved yer home. Deeper ye loved ... deeper ye’d hate.” The Indian’s tone grew hard, “Bullies don’t love, ma’am. They kill out’a fear and torture to watch men beg ... tryin’ to prove they’s something low in men as they are. When they’re faced with a fight ... they cut and run. Thet's why Josey knowed he could whup them Comancheros. Josey is a great warrior. He loves deep ... hates hard, ever’thing’s that killed what he loves. All great warriors are sich men.” Lone’s voice softened, “It is so ... and it will always be.”