Zukie Limmer was nervous and frightened. He had reason. He held his trading post contract under auspices of the U.S. Army, which specifically forbade the sale of liquor. Zukie made more profit from his bootlegging than he did from all his trade goods cheating of the Creeks. Now he was frightened. The two men had brought the horses in yesterday and were waiting, they said, for the Army detachment from Fort Gibson to come and inspect them for buying. They had turned their own horses into the corral, and dragging their saddles and gear into the post, had slept on the dirt floor without so much as asking a leave to do so. He knew them only as Yoke and AI, but he knew they were dangerous, for they had about them the leering smiles of thinly disguised threat as they took whatever pleased them with the remark, “Put that on our bill,” at which they both invariably burst into roars of laughter at a seemingly obvious joke. They claimed to have papers on the horses, but Zukie suspected the horse herd to be Comanche... the fruits of a Comanche raiding party on Texas ranches of the Southwest.
The evening before, the larger of the two, Yoke, had thrown a huge arm around the narrow shoulders of Zukie, drawing him close in an overbearing, confidential manner. He had blown the breath of his rotten teeth into Zukie’s face while he assured him, “We got papers on them horses... good papers. Ain’t we, Al?”
He had winked broadly at Al, and both had laughed uproariously. Zukie had scuttled back behind the heavy plank set on barrels that served as his bar. During the night he had moved his gold box back into the sloping lean-to shed where he slept. All day he had stayed behind the plank, first hoping for the Army patrol... now dreading it; for the men had broken into his whiskey barrel and had been liquoring up since midmorning.
Once, Zukie had almost forgotten his fear. When the Indian woman had brought out the noon meal and placed the beef platters before them on the rough table, they had grabbed her. She had stood passively while they ran rough hands over her thighs and buttocks and made obscene suggestions to each other.
“How much you take fer this squaw?” Al, the ferret-looking one, had asked as he stroked the woman’s stomach.
“She ain’t fer sale,” Zukie had snapped... then, alarmed at his own brevity, a whine entered his tone... “That is... she ain’t mine... I mean, she works here.”
Yoke had winked knowingly at Al, “He could put ’er on the bill, Al.” They had laughed at the remark until Yoke fell off the stool. The woman had escaped back into the kitchen.
Zukie was not outraged at their treatment of the woman; it was that he had anticipated her for himself. She had been there at the post just four days, and as was his way, Zukie Limmer never entered upon anything in a straight manner... he sidled his way, crablike, forward. Cunning was his nature; it made the prize better.
She had walked into the post from the west and had offered an old dirty blanket for sale. Zukie had sized her up immediately. She was an outcast. The heavy scar running the length of her right nostril was the punishment of some of the Plains tribes for unfaithfulness. “One too many bucks,” Zukie had snickered and repeated it. It was clever, and Zukie savored his humor. She was not unpretty. Maybe twenty-five or thirty, still slender, with pointed breasts and rounded thighs that pushed against the fringed doeskin. Her moccasins had been worn through and hung in tatters on swollen feet. Her bronze face, framed by plaited black hair, was stoical, but her eyes reflected the haunted look of a hurt animal.
Zukie had felt the saliva juices entering his mouth as he looked at her. He had run his hands over the firm roundness of her breasts and she had not moved. She was hungry... and helpless. He had put her to work... and he knew how to train Indians... especially Indian women. He had watched for the opportunity, and when she had fallen and overturned a nearly empty barrel of brine he had pushed her face into the floor with one hand while he had beaten her with a barrel stave until his arm was weary. She had stayed motionless under the beating, but he had felt the animal strength in her. Sinewy, flat stomach, firm buttocks and thighs... properly mastered; Zukie relished the thought. When he ate at his table he opened the back door of the lean-to and made the woman squat outside, with the half-starved hound, and he had tossed scraps to her to eat. She was about ready to be moved into his bed, and she wouldn’t be uppity.
Now Yoke demanded more food, and the Indian woman came, bringing more beef and potatoes. As she reached the table Yoke encircled her waist with a big arm, lifted her from the floor, and slammed her lengthwise on the tabletop. He pressed his huge body down on her breasts, and grabbing her hair, tried to hold her upturned face steady while he slobbered over her mouth. His voice was thick with lust and liquor. “We're gonna have us a little squaw... ain’t we, Al?”
Al was caressing the thighs of the woman, his hands moved under her doeskin skirt. She kicked and twisted her face, not crying out... but she was helpless. The heavy door opened suddenly, and Josey Wales stepped through. Everybody froze in motion.
Zukie Limmer knew it was Josey Wales. The talk of the reward was everywhere. The description of the man was exact; the twin tied-down .44’s, the buckskin jacket, the gray cavalry hat... the heavy white scar that jagged the cheeks. The man must be crazy! No, he must not care whether he lives or dies, to go about making no attempt to disguise himself.
Zukie had heard the stories of the outlaw. No man could feel safe in his presence, and Zukie felt the recklessness... the ruthlessness that emanated from the man. The threat of Yoke and Al faded as of naughty schoolboys. Zukie Limmer placed his hands on the plank... in plain sight... and a cold, dread fear convinced him his life hung balanced on the whim of this killer.
Josey Wales moved with a practiced quickness out of the door’s silhouette and with the same fluid motion moved to the end of the bar so that he faced the door. He appeared not to notice the Indian woman and her tormentors. They still held her but watched, fascinated, as he leaned easily on the bar. Zukie burned to face him... keeping his hands tightly on the plank ... and looked into black eyes that were cold and flat... and he physically shivered. Josey smiled. Perhaps it was meant to be friendly, but the smile only served to deepen and whiten the big scar so that his face took on an inexpressible cruelty. Zukie felt like a mouse before a big purring cat and so was impelled to make some offer.
“Have a whiskey, mister?” he heard himself squeaking.
Josey waited a long time. “Reckin not,” he said dryly.
“I got some cold beer ... good brewed-up Choc. It’s... it’s on the house,” Zukie stammered.
Josey eased the hat back on his head. “Well now, that’s right neighborly of ye, friend.”
Zukie placed a huge tin cup before him and from a barrel dippered the dark liquid into it. He was encouraged by the action of Josey Wales drinking beer. It was, after all, a human act. Perhaps the man had some reasonable qualities about him. Surely he could think humanely ... and sociably.
Josey wiped the beer from his mustache with the back of a hand. “Matter of fact,” he said, “I’m lookin’ to buy a hoss.”
“A hoss... ah... a horse?” Zukie repeated stupidly.
Al had staggered to the bar. “Gimme a bucket of that Choc,” he said thickly.
Zukie, still staring at Josey, dipped a tin bucket of the beer from the barrel and placed it on the bar. “The horses,” he said, “belong to these gentlemen. They’ll more than likely... that is .... I’m sure they’ll sell you one.”
Al turned slowly to face Josey, holding the bucket of beer waist-high, and under it he held a pistol ... the hammer already thumbed back. A sly, triumphant smile wreathed his face.
“Josey Wales,” he breathed ... and then chortled, “Josey Wales, by God! Five thousand gold simoleons walkin’ right in. Mr. Chain Blue Lightening hisself, that ever’body’s so scairt of. Well now, Mr. Lightening, you move a hair, twitch a finger... and I’ll splatter yore guts agin the wall. Come over here, Yoke,” he called aside to his partner.
Yoke shuffled forward, loosing the Indian woman. Zukie was terrified as he looked from A
l to Josey. The outlaw was staring steadily into the eyes of Al ... he hadn’t moved. Confidence began to return to Zukie.
“Now look, Al,” Zukie whined, “the man is in my place. I recognized him, and I’m due a even split. I…”
“Shet up,” Al said viciously, without taking his eyes from Josey, “shet up, you goddamned nanny goat. I’m the one that got ’em.”
Al was growing nervous from the strain. “Now,” he said testily, “when I tell you to move, Mr. Lightening, you move slow, like ’lasses in the wintertime, or I drop the hammer. You ease yore hands down, take them guns out, butt first, and hold ’em out so Yoke can git ’em. You understand? Nod, damn you.”
Josey nodded his head.
“Now,” Al instructed, “ease the pistols out.”
With painful slowness Josey pulled the Colts and extended them butt first toward Yoke. A finger of each hand was in the trigger guard. Yoke stepped forward and reached for the proffered handles. His hands were almost on the butts of the pistols when they spun on the fingers of Josey with the slightest flick of his wrists. As if by magic the pistols were reversed, barrels pointing at Al and Yoke... but Al never saw it.
The big right-hand .44 exploded with an ear splitting roar that lifted Al from the floor and arched his body backward. Yoke was dumbfounded. A full second ticked by before he clawed for the pistol at his hip. He knew he was making a futile effort, but he read death in the black eyes of Josey Wales. The left-hand Colt boomed, and the top of Yoke’s head ... and most of his brains ... were splattered against a post.
“My God!” Zukie screamed. “My God!” And he sank sobbing to the floor. He had witnessed the pistol spin. A few years later the Texas gunfighter John Wesley Hardin would execute the same trick to disarm Wild Bill Hickok in Abilene. It would become known in the West as the “Border Roll,” in honor of the Missouri Border pistol fighters who had invented it... but few would dare practice it, for it required a master pistoleer.
Acrid blue smoke filled the room. The Indian woman had not moved, nor did she now, but her eyes followed Josey Wales.
“Stand up, mister,” Josey leaned over the plank and looked down at Zukie, who pulled himself to his feet. His hands were trembling as he watched the outlaw carefully cut a chew of tobacco and return the twist to his jacket. He chewed for a moment, looking thoughtfully at Zukie.
“Now, let’s see,” he said with studied contemplation, “ye say them hosses belong to these here pilgrims?” He designated the “pilgrims” by accurately hitting Al’s upturned face with a stream of tobacco juice.
“Yes... yes,” Zukie was eagerly helpful, “...and Mr. Wales, I was only trying to throw them off ... to help you ... with that talk of the reward.”
“I ’preciate thet kindly,” Josey said dryly, “but gittin’ back to the hosses, ’pears like these here pore pilgrims won’t be in the need of them hosses no more ... seein’ as how they have passed on... so I reckin the hosses is more or less public property... wouldn’t ye say?”
Zukie nodded vigorously, “Yes, I would say that ... I would agree to that. It sounds fair and right to me.”
“Fair’n fair and right as rain,” Josey said with satisfaction. “Now me being a public citizen and sich as that,” Josey continued, “I reckin I’ll take along my part of the propitty, not havin' time to wait around fer the court to divide it all up.”
“I think you should have all the horses,” Zukie said generously. “They ... that is, they really belong to you.”
“I ain’t a hawg,” Josey said. “We got to think of the other public citizens. One hoss will do me fine. You git thet loop of rope hangin’ yonder, and ye come on out, and we’ll ketch up my propitty.”
Zukie scurried out the door ahead of Josey and trotted to the corral. They caught up the big black. Josey rigged a halter and mounted the roan. From his saddle he looked down at Zukie, who nervously shifted his feet.
“Reckin ye can live, mister,” and his voice was cold, “but a woman is a woman. I got friends in the Nations, and word gittin’ to me of thet woman bein’ mistreated would strike me unkindly.”
Zukie bobbed his head, “I pledge to you, Mr. Wales ... I give my solemn word, she will not be ... again. I will...”
“I’ll be seein’ ye,” and with that, Josey sank spurs to the roan and was off in a whirl of dust, leading the black behind him. The Indian woman watched him from where she crouched behind the lean-to.
As Josey topped the first rise he found Lone waiting with rifle trained on the trading post. Lone’s eyes glistened as he looked at the black.
“A feller would have to sleep with thet hoss to keep his grandma from stealing him,” he said admiringly.
“Yeah,” Josey grinned. “Got him cheap too. But if we ain’t movin’ on in a minute, the Army’s most like to git ’em. A patrol is due any minute from Fort Gibson.”
They worked fast, switching Lone's gear from the gray gelding to the black. The gelding moved off immediately, cropping grass.
“He'll be all right in a week... maybe he’ll run free the rest of his life,” Lone said wistfully.
“Let’s move out,” Josey said, and he swung the big roan down the hill, followed by Lone on the black. They were magnificently mounted now; the roan scarcely a hand higher than the strong black horse. Fording the Canadian, they moved toward the Seminole and the Choctaw Nations.
Less than an hour later, Zukie Limmer was pouring out his story to the Army patrol from Fort Gibson, and in three hours dispatches were alerting the state of Texas. Added to the dispatches were these words:
SHOOT ON SIGHT. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DISARM, REPEAT: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DISARM. FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD: DEAD.
The tale of the pistol spin fled southward, keeping pace with the dispatches. The story grew with each telling through the campfires of the drovers coming up the trail ... and spread to the settlements. Violent Texas knew and talked of Josey Wales long before he was to reach her borders ... the bloody ex-lieutenant of Bloody Bill; the pistol fighter with the lightning hands and stone nerves who mastered the macabre art of death from the barrels of Colt .44’s.
Chapter 10
They rode far into the night. Josey left the trail heading to Lone and followed his lead. The Cherokee was a crafty trailsman, and with the threat of pursuit he brought all his craft into practice.
Once, for a mile, they rode down the middle of a shallow creek and brought their horses to the bank when Lone found loose shale rock that carried no print. For a distance of ten miles they boldly traveled the well-marked Shawnee Trail, mixing their tracks with the tracks of the trail. Each time they paused to rest the horses Lone drove a stick in the ground... grasping it with his teeth, he “listened,” feeling for the vibrations of horses. Each time as he remounted he shook his head in puzzlement, “Very light sound ... maybe one horse ... but it’s stayin’ with us… we ain’t shakin’ it off.”
Josey frowned, “I don’t figger one hoss... maybe it’s a damn buffalo... ’er a wild hoss follerin’.”
It was after midnight when they rested. Rolled in blankets on the bank of a creek that meandered toward Pine Mountain, they slept with bridle reins wrapped about their wrists...They grained the horses but left the saddles on them, loosely cinched.
Up before dawn, they made a cold breakfast of jerky beef and biscuits and double-grained the horses for the hard riding. Lone suddenly placed his hand on the ground. He kneeled with ear pressed against the earth.
“It’s a horse,” he said quietly, “comin’ down the creek.” Now Josey could hear it crashing through the undergrowth. He tied the horses back behind a persimmon tree and stepped into the small clearing.
“I’ll be bait man,” he said calmly. Lone nodded and slipped the big knife from its scabbard. He placed it between his teeth and slid noiselessly into the brush toward the creek. Now Josey could see the horse. It was a spotted paint, and the rider was leaning from its back, studying the ground as he rode. Now he saw Josey but didn’t pause, but in
stead lifted the paint into a trot. The horse was within twenty yards of Josey and he could see that the rider wore a heavy blanket over his head, falling around his shoulders.
Suddenly a figure leaped from the brush astride the paint and toppled the rider from the horse. It was Lone. He was over the rider, lying on the ground, and raised his knife for the downward death stroke. “Wait!” Josey shouted.
The blanket had fallen away from the rider. It was the Indian woman. Lone sat down on her in amazement. A vicious-looking hound was attacking one of his moccasined feet, and he kicked at the dog as he rose. The Indian woman calmly brushed her skirt and stood up. As Josey approached she pointed back up the creek.
“Pony soldiers,” she said, "two hours.” Lone stared at her.
“How in hell...” he said.
“She was at the trading post,” Josey said, then to the woman, "How many pony soldiers?”
She shook her head, and Josey turned to Lone. “Ask her about the pony soldiers ... try some kind of lingo.”
“Sign,” Lone said. “All Indians know sign talk, even tribes that cain’t understand each other’s spoke word.”
He moved his hands and fingers through the air. The woman nodded vigorously and answered with her own hands.
“She says,” Lone turned to Josey, "there are twenty pony soldiers, two ... maybe three hours back ... wait, she’s talkin’ agin.”
The Indian woman’s hands moved rapidly for a space of several minutes while Lone watched. He chuckled... laughed... then fell silent.
“What is it?” Josey asked. “Hell, man, cain’t ye shet her up?”
Lone held his palm forward toward the woman and looked admiringly at Josey.
The Outlaw Josey Wales Page 6
