The Outlaw Josey Wales (12 page)

It was near midnight before Josey called a halt. They rolled in their blankets against the chill and were back in the saddles before the first red color touched the east. The elevation in the land was sharper since turning west, and by morning they were on the Great Plains of Texas. Where the wind had swept away loose soil, stark rock formations rose in brutal nakedness. Arroyos, choked with boulders, split the ground, and in the distance a bald mountain poked its barren back against the sky. As the sun rose higher, lizards scurried to the sparse shades of spiny cactus and a clutch of buzzards soared, high and circling, on their death-watch.

Heat rays began to lift off the baked ground, making the distant land ahead look liquid and unreal. Josey began to search for shade.

It was Lone who saw the horse tracks first. They angled from the southeast until they crossed the trail of the two wagons. Now they followed them.

Lone dismounted and walked down the trail, searching the ground. “Eight horses… unshod, probably Comanch,” he called back to Josey. “But these big wide-wheel tracks… three sets of ’em… and they ain’t wagons … they’re two-wheel carts. I never heard of Comanches travelin’ in two-wheel carts.”

“I ain’t never heard of anybody travelin’ in two-wheel carts,” Josey said laconically.

Little Moonlight had walked down the trail and now came back running. “Koh-mahn-chey-rohs!” she shouted, pointing at the track. “Koh-mahn-chey-rohs!”

“Comancheros!” Josey and Lone exclaimed together.

Little Moonlight moved her hands with such agitation that Lone motioned for her to go slower. When she had finished, Lone looked grimly up at Josey. “She says they steal… loot. They kill… murder the very old and the very young. They sell the women and strong men to the Comanche for the horses the Comanche takes in raids. They sell the fire stick … the gun to the Comanche. They have carts with wheels higher than a man. They sell the horses they get from the Comanches… like the two ye killed in the Nations. Some of ’em are Anglo… some Mexicano… some half-breed Indian.”

Lone spread his hands and looked at the ground. “That’s all she knows. She says she’ll kill herself before she’ll be taken… she says the Comanch will pay high price only for the unused woman and… her nose shows she has been used… that the Comanchero would… use her… rape her… many times before they sold her. That it would make no difference in her price.” Lone’s voice was hard.

Josey’s jaws moved deliberately on a chew of tobacco. His eyes narrowed into black slits as he listened and watched the trail west. “Border trash,” he spat, “knowed them two in the Nations was sich when I seen ’em. We’d best git along… them pore pilgrims in the waggins…”

Lone and Little Moonlight mounted, and in her passing, she touched the leg of Josey Wales; the touchstone of strength; the warrior with the magic guns.

The sun had slipped far to the west, picking up a red dust haze, when the tracks they were following suddenly cut to the left and dipped down behind a rise of rock outcroppings. Lone pointed silently at a thin trail of smoke that lifted, undisturbed, high into the air. They left the trail and walked the horses, slowly, toward the rocks. Dismounting, Josey motioned for Little Moonlight to stand and hold the horses while he and Lone stealthily walked, head down, to the top of the rise. As they neared the summit both bellied down and crawled hatless to the rim.

They weren’t prepared for the scene a hundred yards below them. Three huge wooden carts were lined end to end in the arroyo. They were two-wheeled… solid wheels that rose high above the beds of the carts; and each was pulled by a yoke of oxen. Back of the carts were two covered wagons with mules standing in the traces. It was the scene twenty yards back of the wagons that brought low exclamations from Lone and Josey.

Two elderly men lay on their backs, arms and legs staked, spread-eagled on the ground. They were naked, and most of their withered bodies were smeared with dried blood. The smoke rising in the air came from fires built between their legs, at the crotch, and on their stomachs. The sick-sweet smell of burned human flesh was in the air. The old men were dead. A circle of men stood and squatted around the bodies on the ground. They wore sombreros, huge rounded hats that shaded their faces. Most of them were buckskin-trousered with the flaring chaparral leggings below the knees and fancy vests trimmed with silver conchos that picked up the sun with flashes of light. They all wore holstered pistols, and one man carried a rifle loosely in his hand.

As Josey and Lone watched, one of the men stepped from the circle, and sweeping the sombrero from his head, he revealed bright red hair and beard. He made an elaborate bow toward the corpse on the ground. The circle roared with laughter. Another kicked the bald head of a corpse while a slender, fancily dressed one jumped on the chest of a corpse and stomped his feet in imitation of a dance, to the accompaniment of loud hand-clapping.

“I make out eight of them animals,” Josey gritted between clenched teeth.

Lone nodded. “There ought to be three more. There’s eight hosses and three carts.”

The Comancheros were leaving the mutilated figures on the ground and strolling with purpose toward the wagons. Josey looked ahead toward what drew their interest and for the first time saw the women in the shade of the last wagon.

An old woman was on her hands and knees, white hair loosened and streaming down about her face. She was vomiting on the ground. A younger woman supported her, holding her head and waist. She was kneeling, and long, straw-colored hair fell about her shoulders. Josey recognized her as the girl he had seen at Towash, the girl with the startling blue eyes, who had looked at him.

The Comancheros, a few feet from the women, broke into a rush that engulfed them. The girl was lifted off her feet as a Comanchero, his hand wrapped in her hair, twisted her head backward and down. The long dress was ripped from her body, and naked she was borne up and backward by the mob. Briefly, the large, firm mounds of her breasts arched in the air above the mob, pointing upward like white pyramids isolated above the melee until hands, brutally grabbing, pulled her down again. Several held her about the waist and were attempting to throw her to the ground. They howled and fought each other.

The old woman rose from her knees and flung herself at the mob and was knocked down. She came to her feet, swaying for an instant, then lowered her head like a tiny, frail bull and charged back into the mass, her fists flailing. The girl had not screamed, but she fought; her long, naked legs thrashed the air as she kicked.

Josey lifted a .44 and hesitated as he sought a clear target. Lone touched his arm. “Wait,” he said quietly and pointed. A huge Mexican had emerged from the front wagon. The sombrero pushed back from his head revealed thick, iron-gray hair. He wore silver conchos on his vest and down the sides of tight breeches.

“Para!” he shouted in a bull voice as he approached the struggling mob. “Stop!” And drawing a pistol, he fired into the air. The Comancheros immediately fell away from the girl, and she stood, naked and head down, her arms crossed over her breasts. The old woman was on her knees. The big Mexican crashed his pistol against the head of one man and sent him staggering backward. He stomped his foot, and his voice shook with rage as he pointed to the girl and turned to point at the horses. “He is tellin’ ’em they’ll lose twenty horses by rapin’ the girl,” Lone said, “and that they got plenty of women at camp to the northwest.”

A burst of laughter floated up from the Comancheros. “He jest told ’em the old woman is worth a… donkey… and they can have her… if they think it’s worth it,” Lone added grimly.

“By God!” Josey breathed. “By God, I didn’t know sich walked around on two legs.”

The big leader drew a blanket from the wagon and threw it at the girl. The old woman rose to her feet, picked up the fallen blanket, and brought it around the younger woman, covering her. Orders were shouted back and forth; Comancheros leaped to the seats of the carts and wagons. Another bound the wrists of the two women with long rawhide rope and fastened the ends to the tailgate of the last wagon.

“Gittin’ ready to leave,” Josey said. He looked at the sun, almost on the rim of earth to the west. “They must be in a hurry to make it to thet camp. They’re travelin’ at night.” He motioned Lone back from the rimrock. Pulling Jamie’s pistol and belt from his saddlebags, he tossed them to Lone. “Ye’ll need a extra pistol,” he said and squatted on the ground before Lone and Little Moonlight and marked with his finger in the dust as he talked. “Put thet hat of yores on Little Moonlight, thet Indian haid of yores will confuse ’em. Ye circle on foot around behind. I’ll give ye time … then I’ll hit ’em, mounted from the front. What I don’t git, I’ll drive ’em into you. We got to get ’em ALL … one gits away… he’ll bring back Comanch.”

Lone squashed the big hat down over the ears of Little Moonlight, and she looked up, questions in her eyes, from under the wide brim. “Reh-wan,” Lone said… revenge… and he drew a finger across his throat. It was the cutthroat sign of the Sioux… to kill… not for profit… not for horses… but for revenge… for a principle; therefore, all the enemy must die.

Little Moonlight nodded vigorously, flopping the big hat down over her eyes. She grinned and trotted to the paint and slid the old rifle from a bundle.

“No … No,” Lone held her arm and signed for her to stay.

“Fer Gawd’s sake,” Josey sighed, “tell her to stay here and hold the hosses… and keep thet red-bone from chewing one of our laigs off.” The hound had, throughout, made low, rumbling noises in his throat. Lone strapped the extra gunbelt around his waist.

“What if they don’t run?” he asked casually.

“Them kind,” Josey sneered, “always run… the ones thet can. They’ll run… straight back’ards… they’ll be trapped agin the walls of that there ditch.”

Lone lifted his hand in half salute, and bent low, moved silently on moccasined feet out of sight around the rocks. Josey checked the caps and loads of his .44’s and the .36 Navy under his arm. Twelve loads in the 44’s… there were eight horsemen… three cart drivers… that made eleven; his mind clicked. He had counted only nine; the leader and the eight men. He whirled to stop Lone, but the Indian was gone.

Where were the other two men? The “edge” could be on the other side. Josey cursed his carelessness; the upsetting sight of the women… but there were no excuses… Josey bitterly condemned himself. Little Moonlight sat down, still holding the reins of the horses, with the rifle cradled in her arms. Josey slipped back to the rimrock and counted off the minutes. The sun slid below the mountain to the west, and a dusky red glow illumined the sky.

Mounted horsemen dashed up and down the line of carts and wagons. The canvas on one of the carts was being lashed down by a half-naked breed, and Josey looked for the women. They were standing behind the last wagon, close together, their hands tied in front of them. Josey slid back from the rim. It was time.

A shout, louder than the others, caused him to scramble up for a look. He saw two Comancheros dragging a limp figure between them. Other men on horses and foot were running toward the men and their burden, and for a moment obstructed his view. They pointed excitedly toward the rocks, and some of the mounted men rode in that direction, while others pulled their burden toward the rear of the last wagon where the two women stood.

They dropped their burden to the ground. The long, plaited hair… buckskin-garbed. It was Lone Watie. Josey cursed beneath his breath. The two missing Comancheros he should have figured. As he watched, Lone sat up and shook his head. He looked around him as the leader of the Comancheros approached. The big Mexican jerked the Indian to his feet and talked rapidly, then struck him in the face. Lone staggered back against the wagon and stood, staring stoically straight ahead. Josey watched them down the barrels of both .44’s. Had a Comanchero raised a gun or knife … he would not have used it.

The big Mexican was obviously in a hurry. He shouted orders, and two men leaped forward, lashed Lone’s hands together, and secured the rawhide to the tailgate of the wagon with the women. As they did… Lone raised his arms and wigwagged his hands back and forth. He did not look upward toward the rocks where he knew Josey watched. The hand signal was the well-known message of the Confederate Cavalry, “All well here, reconnoiter your flanks!” Josey read the message, and the shock hit him; his flanks!… the Comanchero horsemen who had raced for cover behind the wagons!

Josey scrambled down the rocks and ran toward the horses. He motioned Little Moonlight to mount, and leading the black, they raced toward the only immediate cover, two huge boulders that stood fifty yards from the arroyo. They had barely rounded the boulders when four horsemen appeared over the top. They paused and scanned the prairie but did not approach far enough to see the tracks. Turning, they ran their horses in the direction from which the wagons had come and then disappeared back into the arroyo.

A horrendous squealing rent the air, and the horses jumped. It was the carts moving… their heavy wooden wheels screeching against ungreased axles. Little Moonlight moved her horse next to Josey.

“Lone,” she said. Josey crossed his wrists in the sign of the captive and then sought to reassure the fear that flashed in her eyes. His scarred face creased in a half grin. He tapped his chest and the big pistol butts in their holsters and moved his hands forward, palm down, in the sign that all would be well. Little Moonlight still wore the big hat of Lone’s, and now she nodded, flopping it comically on her head. Her eyes lost the fear; the warrior with the magic guns would free Lone. He would kill the enemies. He would make things as they were.

Josey listened to the squealing carts growing fainter in the distance. It was dark now, but a three-quarter yellow Texas moon was just lifting behind broken crags to the east. A soft golden haze made shadows of the boulders, and a cooling breeze stirred the sagebrush. Somewhere, far off, a coyote yipped in quick barks and ended it with a long tenor howl.

Little Moonlight brought a thin handful of jerky beef from her bundle and held it out to Josey. He shook his head and motioned for her to eat. Instead, he cut a fresh cud of tobacco from the twist, hooked a leg over his saddle horn, and slowly chewed.