horses out. Running with flared nostrils, they beat the dim trail into a thunder with their passing. One mile, two … three miles at a killing pace for lesser mounts. Froth circled their saddles when they pulled down into a slow canter. They had headed north, but the Brazos curved sharply back and forced them in a halfcircle toward the northeast. There was no sound of pursuit.
“But they’ll be comin’,” Josey said grimly as they pulled up in a thicket of cedar and oak. Dismounting, they loosed the cinches of the saddles to blow the horses as they walked them, back and forth, under the shade. Josey ran his hands down the legs of the roan … there wasn’t a tremble. He saw Lone doing the same with the black, and the Indian smiled, “Solid.”
“They’ll beat the brakes along the Brazos first,” Josey said as he cut a chew of tobacco, “be looking fer a crossin’ … cal’clate they’ll be here in a hour.” He rummaged in saddlebags, sliding caps on the nipples of the .44’s and reloading charge and ball.
Lone followed his example. “Ain’t got much loadin’ to do,” he said, “I was set to work on my end of the blues … but godamighty, I never seen sich greased pistol work. How’d ye know which one would go fer it first?” There was genuine awe and curiosity in Lone’s voice.
Josey holstered his pistol and spat, “Well… the one third from my left had a flap holster and wa’ant of no, itchin’ hurry… one second from my left had scared eyes… knowed he couldn’t make up his mind ’til somebody else done somethin’. The one on my left had the crazy eyes that would make him move when I said somethin’. I knowed where to start.”
“How ’bout the one nearest me?” Lone asked curiously.
Josey grunted, “Never paid him no mind. I seen ye on the side.”
Lone removed his hat and examined the gold tassels knotted on its band. “I could’ve missed,” he said softly.
Josey turned and worked at cinching his saddle. The Indian knew… that for a death-splitting moment… Josey Wales had made a decision to place his life in Lone Watie’s hands. He fussed with the leather… but he did not speak. The bond of brotherhood had grown close between him and the Cherokee. The words were not needed.
The sun set in a red haze behind the Brazos as Josey and Lone traveled east. They rode for an hour, walking the horses through stands of woods, cantering them across open spaces, then turned south. It was dark now, but a half-moon silvered the countryside. Coming out of trees onto an open stretch, they nearly bumped into a large body of horsemen emerging from a line of cedars. The posse saw them immediately. Men shouted, and a rifle cracked an echo. Josey whirled the roan, and followed by Lone, pounded back toward the north. They rode hard for a mile, chancing the uneven ground in the half-light and ripping through trees and brush. Josey pulled up. The thrashing behind them had faded, and in the far distance men’s shouts were dim and faraway.
‘These hosses won’t take us out of another’n,” Josey said grimly. “They got to have rest and graze… they’re white-eyed.” He turned west, back toward the Brazos. They stopped in the brakes of the river and under the shadows of the trees rope-grazed the horses with loose-cinched saddles.
“I could eat the south end of a northbound Missouri mule,” Lone said wistfully as they watched the horses cropping grass.
Josey comfortably chewed at a wad of tobacco and knocked a cicada from his grass-stern perch with a stream of juice. “Proud I stuck this ’baccer in my pockets… leavin’ all them supplies layin’ in thet town. And Little Moonlight’s saddle…” Josey’s voice trailed off. Neither of them had mentioned the Indian woman… nor did they know of her dash into the horses that had delayed pursuit. Lone had anxiously marked their progress north and had felt relief when Josey had led back south. Little Moonlight would remember the
“But they’ll be comin’,” Josey said grimly as they pulled up in a thicket of cedar and oak. Dismounting, they loosed the cinches of the saddles to blow the horses as they walked them, back and forth, under the shade. Josey ran his hands down the legs of the roan … there wasn’t a tremble. He saw Lone doing the same with the black, and the Indian smiled, “Solid.”
“They’ll beat the brakes along the Brazos first,” Josey said as he cut a chew of tobacco, “be looking fer a crossin’ … cal’clate they’ll be here in a hour.” He rummaged in saddlebags, sliding caps on the nipples of the .44’s and reloading charge and ball.
Lone followed his example. “Ain’t got much loadin’ to do,” he said, “I was set to work on my end of the blues … but godamighty, I never seen sich greased pistol work. How’d ye know which one would go fer it first?” There was genuine awe and curiosity in Lone’s voice.
Josey holstered his pistol and spat, “Well… the one third from my left had a flap holster and wa’ant of no, itchin’ hurry… one second from my left had scared eyes… knowed he couldn’t make up his mind ’til somebody else done somethin’. The one on my left had the crazy eyes that would make him move when I said somethin’. I knowed where to start.”
“How ’bout the one nearest me?” Lone asked curiously.
Josey grunted, “Never paid him no mind. I seen ye on the side.”
Lone removed his hat and examined the gold tassels knotted on its band. “I could’ve missed,” he said softly.
Josey turned and worked at cinching his saddle. The Indian knew… that for a death-splitting moment… Josey Wales had made a decision to place his life in Lone Watie’s hands. He fussed with the leather… but he did not speak. The bond of brotherhood had grown close between him and the Cherokee. The words were not needed.
The sun set in a red haze behind the Brazos as Josey and Lone traveled east. They rode for an hour, walking the horses through stands of woods, cantering them across open spaces, then turned south. It was dark now, but a half-moon silvered the countryside. Coming out of trees onto an open stretch, they nearly bumped into a large body of horsemen emerging from a line of cedars. The posse saw them immediately. Men shouted, and a rifle cracked an echo. Josey whirled the roan, and followed by Lone, pounded back toward the north. They rode hard for a mile, chancing the uneven ground in the half-light and ripping through trees and brush. Josey pulled up. The thrashing behind them had faded, and in the far distance men’s shouts were dim and faraway.
‘These hosses won’t take us out of another’n,” Josey said grimly. “They got to have rest and graze… they’re white-eyed.” He turned west, back toward the Brazos. They stopped in the brakes of the river and under the shadows of the trees rope-grazed the horses with loose-cinched saddles.
“I could eat the south end of a northbound Missouri mule,” Lone said wistfully as they watched the horses cropping grass.
Josey comfortably chewed at a wad of tobacco and knocked a cicada from his grass-stern perch with a stream of juice. “Proud I stuck this ’baccer in my pockets… leavin’ all them supplies layin’ in thet town. And Little Moonlight’s saddle…” Josey’s voice trailed off. Neither of them had mentioned the Indian woman… nor did they know of her dash into the horses that had delayed pursuit. Lone had anxiously marked their progress north and had felt relief when Josey had led back south. Little Moonlight would remember the
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