off. The third was hit low, the big slug kicking him forward, and he flopped on his face. The fourth man was already dead from a smoking pistol held in the hand of Lone Watie.
It had been a deafening, staccato roar … so fast that a single shot could not be distinguished. The Regulators had never cleared leather. The awesome speed of the death-dealing outlaw ran through the crowd like tremors of an earthquake. Bedlam broke loose. Blue-clad figures ran across the street; people jumped and ran … this way and that… like chickens with a wolf among them.
Josey sprang to the back of the roan, and in an instant the big horse was running, belly-down, and at his saddle was the head of the black with Lone laying forward on his neck.
They drummed west down the street and veered north, away from the Brazos. They had to have distance, and there was no time to cross a river.
Regulators dashed for their hitch-racked horses, which stood, all together, before a line of saloons. As they were mounting, an Indian squaw, probably drunk, lost control of her paint horse and dashed among them, scattering men to right and left and stampeding horses that bolted, reins trailing, down the street. A Regulator finally struck her in the head with a swung rifle butt and brought her crashing to the ground. The riders mounted, rounded up the running horses, and chased after the fleeing killers.
Behind them Little Moonlight lay motionless in the dust, a bloody gash across her forehead, but one hand still holding the reins of a head-down paint … a gaunt red-bone hound whined and licked the trickling blood from her face. Near her the four Regulators lay untended, sprawled in violent death, their blood widening in a growing circle … soaking black in the gray soil of Texas.
Cowboys mounted their horses to depart for the far-flung ranches whence they came Gamblers left on their high-stepping horses to return to the saloons of towns and villages that were haunts. With them they carried the story. The story that smacked of legend. The pistoleer without match in speed and nerve… the cold bracing of four armed Regulators strained the imagination with its audacity and boldness. The Missouri guerrilla, Josey Wales, had arrived in Texas.
When the news reached Austin, the Governor added twenty-five hundred dollars to the federal five thousand for the death of Josey Wales, and fifteen hundred dollars for the unnamed “renegade” Rebel Indian who had notched a Regulator at Towash. Politicians felt the threat as the shock waves of the story spread over the state. The hard-rock Texas Rebels chortled with glee. Texas had another son; tough enough to stand … mean enough; enough to walk ’em down, by God!
Two covered wagons rolled out of Towash that afternoon and crossed the ferry on the Brazos, headed southwest into the sparsely settled land of the Comanche. Grandpa Samuel Turner handled the reins of the Arkansas mules on the lead wagon, and Grandma Sarah sat beside him. Behind them their granddaughter Laura Lee rode with Daniel Turner, Grandpa’s brother. Two old men, an old woman, and a young one, with nothing left behind in Arkansas and only the promise of an isolated ranch bequeathed by Grandma’s War-dead brother. They had been warned of the land and the Comanche … but they felt lucky … they had somewhere to go.
It was Laura Lee, Josey had seen, straw hair and prim, high-collared dress, frozen in the act of mounting the wagon. Now she shuddered as she remembered the burning black eyes of the outlaw… the deadly snarl of his voice… the pistols shooting fire and thunder… and the blood. Josey Wales! She would never forget the name nor the picture of him in her mind. Bloody, violent Texas! She would not scoff again at the stories. Laura Lee Turner would become a Texan … but only after baptism in the blood of yet another of Texas’ turbulent frontiers … the land of the Comanche!
PART III
Chapter 13
Josey and Lone let the big
It had been a deafening, staccato roar … so fast that a single shot could not be distinguished. The Regulators had never cleared leather. The awesome speed of the death-dealing outlaw ran through the crowd like tremors of an earthquake. Bedlam broke loose. Blue-clad figures ran across the street; people jumped and ran … this way and that… like chickens with a wolf among them.
Josey sprang to the back of the roan, and in an instant the big horse was running, belly-down, and at his saddle was the head of the black with Lone laying forward on his neck.
They drummed west down the street and veered north, away from the Brazos. They had to have distance, and there was no time to cross a river.
Regulators dashed for their hitch-racked horses, which stood, all together, before a line of saloons. As they were mounting, an Indian squaw, probably drunk, lost control of her paint horse and dashed among them, scattering men to right and left and stampeding horses that bolted, reins trailing, down the street. A Regulator finally struck her in the head with a swung rifle butt and brought her crashing to the ground. The riders mounted, rounded up the running horses, and chased after the fleeing killers.
Behind them Little Moonlight lay motionless in the dust, a bloody gash across her forehead, but one hand still holding the reins of a head-down paint … a gaunt red-bone hound whined and licked the trickling blood from her face. Near her the four Regulators lay untended, sprawled in violent death, their blood widening in a growing circle … soaking black in the gray soil of Texas.
Cowboys mounted their horses to depart for the far-flung ranches whence they came Gamblers left on their high-stepping horses to return to the saloons of towns and villages that were haunts. With them they carried the story. The story that smacked of legend. The pistoleer without match in speed and nerve… the cold bracing of four armed Regulators strained the imagination with its audacity and boldness. The Missouri guerrilla, Josey Wales, had arrived in Texas.
When the news reached Austin, the Governor added twenty-five hundred dollars to the federal five thousand for the death of Josey Wales, and fifteen hundred dollars for the unnamed “renegade” Rebel Indian who had notched a Regulator at Towash. Politicians felt the threat as the shock waves of the story spread over the state. The hard-rock Texas Rebels chortled with glee. Texas had another son; tough enough to stand … mean enough; enough to walk ’em down, by God!
Two covered wagons rolled out of Towash that afternoon and crossed the ferry on the Brazos, headed southwest into the sparsely settled land of the Comanche. Grandpa Samuel Turner handled the reins of the Arkansas mules on the lead wagon, and Grandma Sarah sat beside him. Behind them their granddaughter Laura Lee rode with Daniel Turner, Grandpa’s brother. Two old men, an old woman, and a young one, with nothing left behind in Arkansas and only the promise of an isolated ranch bequeathed by Grandma’s War-dead brother. They had been warned of the land and the Comanche … but they felt lucky … they had somewhere to go.
It was Laura Lee, Josey had seen, straw hair and prim, high-collared dress, frozen in the act of mounting the wagon. Now she shuddered as she remembered the burning black eyes of the outlaw… the deadly snarl of his voice… the pistols shooting fire and thunder… and the blood. Josey Wales! She would never forget the name nor the picture of him in her mind. Bloody, violent Texas! She would not scoff again at the stories. Laura Lee Turner would become a Texan … but only after baptism in the blood of yet another of Texas’ turbulent frontiers … the land of the Comanche!
PART III
Chapter 13
Josey and Lone let the big
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