Read Online The Outlaw Josey Wales by Forrest Carter - Free Book Online
Authors: Forrest Carter
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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
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
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