ain’t wanted around hereabouts… seems like.”
“Something to think about,” Josey agreed, and without further ceremony he walked to a willow bed and unbuckled his guns for the first time in many days. Placing his hat over his face, he stretched out and was in deep sleep in a moment. Lone received this unspoken confidence with implacable routine.
The days that followed slipped into weeks. There was no more talk of Mexico … but the thought worked at the mind of Josey. He asked no questions of Lone, nor did the Indian volunteer information about himself, but it was apparent that he was in hiding.
As the winter days passed, Josey relaxed his tensions and even enjoyed helping Lone make fish baskets, which he did with a skill equaling the Indian’s. They set the baskets in the river with meal balls for bait. Food was plentiful; besides the fish they ate fat quail from cunningly set traps on the quail runs, rabbit, and turkey, all seasoned with the wild onion, skunk cabbage, garlic, and herbs Lone dug from the bottoms.
January, 1867, brought snow across the Nations. It swept in a great white storm out of the Cimarron flats, gathered fury over the central plateau, and banked its blanket against the Ozarks. It brought misery to the Plains Indian, the Kiowa, the Comanche, Arapaho, and Pottawatomie… short of winter food they were driven toward the settlements. The snow settled in four-foot drifts along the Neosho, but driftwood was plentiful and the cabin was snug. The confinement brought a restlessness to Josey Wales. He had noted the leanness of Lone’s provisions. There was no ammunition for his pistol, and the horses were short of grain.
And so it was, as they sat silently around the fire of a bleak evening, Josey placed a fistful of gold pieces in Lone’s hand.
“Yankee gold,” he said laconically, “we’ll be needin’ grain… ammunition and sich.”
Lone stared at the glittering coins in the firelight, and a wolfish smile touched his lips.
“The gold of the enemy, like his corn, is always bright. It’ll cause some questions in the settlement, but,” he added thoughtfully, “if I tell ’em the blue pony soldiers will take it away from them if they talk…”
Bright, crystal-blue days brought the sun’s rays in an unseasonable warmth and melted away the snow in a few days and fed new life into the rivulets and streams. Lone brought his gray gelding to the cabin and prepared to leave. Josey carried Lone’s saddle to the door, but the Indian shook his head.
“No saddle… also no hat… no shirt. I’ll wear a blanket and carry only the rifle. I’ll be a dumb blanket buck, the soldiers think all Indians with a blanket are too stupid to question.”
He left, riding along the river bank, where the marshy bottom would hide his tracks … a forlorn, hunched figure under his blanket.
Two days passed, and Josey felt the tenseness of listening for Lone’s return. The feeling of the trailed outlaw returned, and the cabin became a trap. On the third day he moved his bedroll and guns to the brush and alternated his watch between river bank and cabin. He could never have been persuaded that Lone would betray him, but many things could have happened.
Lone could have been found out, backtracked by a patrol… many of them had Osage trackers. He had moved the roan from the stable and picketed him in the brush when on the afternoon of the fourth day he heard the clear call of the nighthawk. He answered and watched as Lone slipped silently up from the river bank, leading the gray. The Indian looked even more emaciated. Josey suddenly wondered at his age as he saw wrinkles that sagged the bony face. He was older… in a dispirited sense that had suckled away the sap from his physical body. As they unloaded the grain and supplies from the back of the horse the Indian said nothing… and Josey volunteered no questions.
Around the fireplace they ate a silent meal as both stared into the flames, and then Lone
“Something to think about,” Josey agreed, and without further ceremony he walked to a willow bed and unbuckled his guns for the first time in many days. Placing his hat over his face, he stretched out and was in deep sleep in a moment. Lone received this unspoken confidence with implacable routine.
The days that followed slipped into weeks. There was no more talk of Mexico … but the thought worked at the mind of Josey. He asked no questions of Lone, nor did the Indian volunteer information about himself, but it was apparent that he was in hiding.
As the winter days passed, Josey relaxed his tensions and even enjoyed helping Lone make fish baskets, which he did with a skill equaling the Indian’s. They set the baskets in the river with meal balls for bait. Food was plentiful; besides the fish they ate fat quail from cunningly set traps on the quail runs, rabbit, and turkey, all seasoned with the wild onion, skunk cabbage, garlic, and herbs Lone dug from the bottoms.
January, 1867, brought snow across the Nations. It swept in a great white storm out of the Cimarron flats, gathered fury over the central plateau, and banked its blanket against the Ozarks. It brought misery to the Plains Indian, the Kiowa, the Comanche, Arapaho, and Pottawatomie… short of winter food they were driven toward the settlements. The snow settled in four-foot drifts along the Neosho, but driftwood was plentiful and the cabin was snug. The confinement brought a restlessness to Josey Wales. He had noted the leanness of Lone’s provisions. There was no ammunition for his pistol, and the horses were short of grain.
And so it was, as they sat silently around the fire of a bleak evening, Josey placed a fistful of gold pieces in Lone’s hand.
“Yankee gold,” he said laconically, “we’ll be needin’ grain… ammunition and sich.”
Lone stared at the glittering coins in the firelight, and a wolfish smile touched his lips.
“The gold of the enemy, like his corn, is always bright. It’ll cause some questions in the settlement, but,” he added thoughtfully, “if I tell ’em the blue pony soldiers will take it away from them if they talk…”
Bright, crystal-blue days brought the sun’s rays in an unseasonable warmth and melted away the snow in a few days and fed new life into the rivulets and streams. Lone brought his gray gelding to the cabin and prepared to leave. Josey carried Lone’s saddle to the door, but the Indian shook his head.
“No saddle… also no hat… no shirt. I’ll wear a blanket and carry only the rifle. I’ll be a dumb blanket buck, the soldiers think all Indians with a blanket are too stupid to question.”
He left, riding along the river bank, where the marshy bottom would hide his tracks … a forlorn, hunched figure under his blanket.
Two days passed, and Josey felt the tenseness of listening for Lone’s return. The feeling of the trailed outlaw returned, and the cabin became a trap. On the third day he moved his bedroll and guns to the brush and alternated his watch between river bank and cabin. He could never have been persuaded that Lone would betray him, but many things could have happened.
Lone could have been found out, backtracked by a patrol… many of them had Osage trackers. He had moved the roan from the stable and picketed him in the brush when on the afternoon of the fourth day he heard the clear call of the nighthawk. He answered and watched as Lone slipped silently up from the river bank, leading the gray. The Indian looked even more emaciated. Josey suddenly wondered at his age as he saw wrinkles that sagged the bony face. He was older… in a dispirited sense that had suckled away the sap from his physical body. As they unloaded the grain and supplies from the back of the horse the Indian said nothing… and Josey volunteered no questions.
Around the fireplace they ate a silent meal as both stared into the flames, and then Lone
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