The Outlaw Josey Wales by Forrest Carter Page B

quietly spoke. “There is much talk of ye. Some say ye have killed thirty-five men, some say forty. Ye’ll not live long, the soldiers say, for they’ve raised the price fer yer head. It’s five thousand in gold. Many are searching fer ye, and I myself saw five different patrols. I was stopped two times as I returned. I hid the ammunition in the grain.”
    There was a touch of bitterness in Lone’s laugh.
    “They would’ve stolen the grain, but I told them I had gathered it from the leavings of the post… thrown out by the white man because it made the white man sick… and I was takin’ it to my woman. They laughed… and said a damn Indian could eat anything. They thought it was poisoned.”
    Lone fell silent, watching the flames dance along the logs. Josey splattered one of the logs with a long stream of tobacco juice, and after a long time Lone continued. “The trails are patrolled… heavy… when the weather breaks, they’ll begin beatin’ the brush. They know ye are in the Nations… and they’ll find ye.”
    Josey cut a plug of tobacco. “I reckin,” he said easily, with the casual manner of one who had lived for years in the bosom of enemy patrols. He watched the firelight play across the Indian’s face. He looked ancient, a haughty and forlorn expression that harked backward toward some wronged god who sat in grieved dignity and disappointment.
    “I’m sixty years old,” Lone said. “I was a young man with a fine woman and two sons. They died on the Trail of Tears when we left Alabama. Before we were forced to leave, the white man talked of the bad Indian … he beat his breast and told why the Indian must leave. Now he’s doin’ it again. Already the talk is everywhere. The thumpin’ of the breast to justify the wrong that will come to the Indian. I have no woman… I have no sons. I would not sign the pardon paper. I will not stay and see it again. I would go with ye… if ye’ll have me.”
    He had said it all simply, without rancor and with no emotion. But Josey knew what the Indian was saying. He knew of the heartache of lost woman and child… of a home that was no more. And he knew that Lone Watie, the Cherokee, in saying simply that he would go with him… meant much more… that he had chosen Josey as his people… a like warrior with a common cause, a common suffrage… a respect for courage. And as it was with such men as Josey Wales, he could not show these things he felt. Instead, he said, “They’re payin’ to see me dead. Ye could do a lot better by driftin’ south on yer own.”
    Now he knew why Lone had refused to sign the pardon paper… why he had deliberately made an outcast of himself, hoping that the blame would be placed on such men as himself… rather than his people. On this trip he had become convinced that nothing would save the Nation of the Cherokee.
    Lone took his gaze from the fire and looked across the hearth into the eyes of Josey. He spoke slowly. “It is good that a man’s enemies want him dead, for it proves he has lived a life of worth. I am old but I will ride free as long as I live. I would ride with such a man.”
    Josey reached into a paper sack Lone had brought back with the supplies and drew forth a round ball of red, hard rock candy. He held it up to the light. “Jest like a damn Indian,” he said, “always buying somethin’ red, meant fer foolishness.”
    Lone’s smile broadened into a deep-throated chuckle of relief. He knew he would ride with Josey Wales.
    The bitterness of February slipped toward March as they made preparation for the trail. Grass would be greening farther south, and the longhorn herds, moving up from Texas on the Shawnee Trail for Sedalia, would hide their own movements south.
    Mexico! The thought had lingered in Josey’s mind. Once, wintering at Mineral Creek, an old Confederate cavalryman of General McCulloch’s had visited their campfires, regaling the guerrillas with stories of his soldiering with General