knife. The inevitable gray hat of the cavalry lay on a willow bed.
He remembered the cabin. After wintering at Mineral Creek, Texas, near Sherman, in ’63, he had come back up the trail and had camped here. They had been told it was the farm of Lone Watie, but no one had been there… though there was evidence left of what had been a farm.
He knew something of the history of the Waties. They had lived in the mountains of north Georgia and Alabama. Stand Watie was a prominent Chief. Lone was a cousin. Dispossessed of their land by the U.S. government in the 1830’s, they had walked with the Cherokee tribe on the “Trail of Tears” to the new land assigned them in the Nations. Nearly a third of the Cherokee had died on that long walk, and thousands of graves still marked the trail.
He had known the Cherokee as a small boy in the mountains of Tennessee. His father had befriended many of them who had hidden out, refusing to make the walk.
The mountain man did not have the ‘land hunger” of the flatlander who had instigated the government’s action. He preferred the mountains to remain wild … free, unfettered by law and the irritating hypocrisy of organized society. His kinship, therefore, was closer to the Cherokee than to his racial brothers of the flat-lands who strained mightily at placing the yoke of society upon their necks.
From the Cherokee he had learned how to hand-fish, easing his hands into the bank holes of the mountain streams and tickling the sides of trout and bass, that the gray fox runs in a figure eight and the red fox runs in a circle. How to track the bee to the honey hive, where the quail trap caught the most birds, and how curious was the buck deer
He had eaten with them in their mountain lodge-pole cabins, and they had brought meat to his own family. Their code was the loyalty of the mountain man with all his clannishness, and therefore Lone Watie merited his trust. He was of his kind.
When the War between the States had burst over the nation, the Cherokee naturally sided with the Confederacy against the hated government that had deprived him of his mountain home. Some: had joined General Sam Cooper, a few were in the elite brigade of Jo Shelby, but most had followed their leader General Stand Watie, the only Indian General of the Confederacy.
Lone returned to the cabin and squatted before the fire.
“Breakfast,” he grunted as he extended the pan of fish to Josey. They ate with their hands while the Indian looked moodily into the fire. “There’s been a lot of talk in the settlements. Ye been raising hell in Missouri, they say.”
“I reckin,” Josey said.
Lone dusted meal on the hearth of the fireplace and from a burlap extracted two cleaned catfish, which he rolled in the meal and placed over the fire.
“Where ye headin’?” he asked.
“Nowheres… in pa’ticular,” Josey said around a mouthful of fish… and then, as if in explanation, “My partner is dead.”
For a few harrowing days he had had somewhere to go. It had become an obsession with him, to bring Jamie out of Missouri, to bring him here. With the death of the boy the emptiness came back. As he had ridden through the night he had caught himself checking back… to see to Jamie. The brief purpose was gone.
Lone Watie asked no questions about the partner, but he nodded his head in understanding.
“I heard last year thet General Jo Shelby and his men refused to surrender,” Lone said, “… heard they went to Mexico, some kind of fight down there. Ain’t heard nothin’ since, but some, I believe, left to join up with ’em.” The Indian spoke flatly, but he shot a quick glance at Josey to find the effect.
Josey was surprised. “I didn’t know there was other’n thet didn’t surrender. I ain’t never been farther into Texas than Fannin County. Mexico’s a long way off.”
Lone pushed the pan toward Josey. “It is somethin’ to think about,” he said. “Men sich as we are… our trade…
He remembered the cabin. After wintering at Mineral Creek, Texas, near Sherman, in ’63, he had come back up the trail and had camped here. They had been told it was the farm of Lone Watie, but no one had been there… though there was evidence left of what had been a farm.
He knew something of the history of the Waties. They had lived in the mountains of north Georgia and Alabama. Stand Watie was a prominent Chief. Lone was a cousin. Dispossessed of their land by the U.S. government in the 1830’s, they had walked with the Cherokee tribe on the “Trail of Tears” to the new land assigned them in the Nations. Nearly a third of the Cherokee had died on that long walk, and thousands of graves still marked the trail.
He had known the Cherokee as a small boy in the mountains of Tennessee. His father had befriended many of them who had hidden out, refusing to make the walk.
The mountain man did not have the ‘land hunger” of the flatlander who had instigated the government’s action. He preferred the mountains to remain wild … free, unfettered by law and the irritating hypocrisy of organized society. His kinship, therefore, was closer to the Cherokee than to his racial brothers of the flat-lands who strained mightily at placing the yoke of society upon their necks.
From the Cherokee he had learned how to hand-fish, easing his hands into the bank holes of the mountain streams and tickling the sides of trout and bass, that the gray fox runs in a figure eight and the red fox runs in a circle. How to track the bee to the honey hive, where the quail trap caught the most birds, and how curious was the buck deer
He had eaten with them in their mountain lodge-pole cabins, and they had brought meat to his own family. Their code was the loyalty of the mountain man with all his clannishness, and therefore Lone Watie merited his trust. He was of his kind.
When the War between the States had burst over the nation, the Cherokee naturally sided with the Confederacy against the hated government that had deprived him of his mountain home. Some: had joined General Sam Cooper, a few were in the elite brigade of Jo Shelby, but most had followed their leader General Stand Watie, the only Indian General of the Confederacy.
Lone returned to the cabin and squatted before the fire.
“Breakfast,” he grunted as he extended the pan of fish to Josey. They ate with their hands while the Indian looked moodily into the fire. “There’s been a lot of talk in the settlements. Ye been raising hell in Missouri, they say.”
“I reckin,” Josey said.
Lone dusted meal on the hearth of the fireplace and from a burlap extracted two cleaned catfish, which he rolled in the meal and placed over the fire.
“Where ye headin’?” he asked.
“Nowheres… in pa’ticular,” Josey said around a mouthful of fish… and then, as if in explanation, “My partner is dead.”
For a few harrowing days he had had somewhere to go. It had become an obsession with him, to bring Jamie out of Missouri, to bring him here. With the death of the boy the emptiness came back. As he had ridden through the night he had caught himself checking back… to see to Jamie. The brief purpose was gone.
Lone Watie asked no questions about the partner, but he nodded his head in understanding.
“I heard last year thet General Jo Shelby and his men refused to surrender,” Lone said, “… heard they went to Mexico, some kind of fight down there. Ain’t heard nothin’ since, but some, I believe, left to join up with ’em.” The Indian spoke flatly, but he shot a quick glance at Josey to find the effect.
Josey was surprised. “I didn’t know there was other’n thet didn’t surrender. I ain’t never been farther into Texas than Fannin County. Mexico’s a long way off.”
Lone pushed the pan toward Josey. “It is somethin’ to think about,” he said. “Men sich as we are… our trade…
Similar Books
