The Outlaw Josey Wales by Forrest Carter Read Free Book Online Page B

kingfisher and the bluejays that quarreled incessantly… the early caw of a crow-scout… once… that all was well. Lone Watie felt rather than thought of these things as he fried his breakfast of fish over a tiny flame in the big fireplace.
    Like many of the Cherokees, he was tall, standing well over six feet in his boot moccasins that held, half tucked, the legs of buckskin breeches. At first glance
    he appeared emaciated, so spare was his frame … the doeskin shirt jacket flapping loosely about his body, the face bony and lacking in flesh, so that hollows of the cheeks added prominence to the bones and the hawk nose that separated intense black eyes capable of a cruel light. He squatted easily on haunches before the fire, turning the mealed fish in the pan with fluid movement, occasionally tossing back one of the black plaits of hair that hung to his shoulders.
    The clear call of a nighthawk brought instant movement by the Indian. Nighthawks do not call in the light of day. He moved with silent litheness; taking his rifle, he glided to the rear door of the one-room cabin … dropped to belly and slid quickly into the brush. Again the call came, loud and clear.
    As all mountain men know, the whippoorwill will not sing when the nighthawk is heard… and so now, from the brush, Lone answered with that whipping call.
    Now there was silence. From his position in the brush Lone listened for the approach. Though only a few feet from the cabin he could scarcely see it. Sumac and dead honeysuckle vine had grown up the chimney and run over the roof. Brush and undergrowth had encroached almost to the walls. What once had been a trail had long since been covered over. One must know of this inaccessible hideout to whistle an approach.
    The horse burst through the brush without warning. Lone was startled by the appearance of the big roan. He looked half wild with flaring nostrils and he stamped his feet as the rider reined him before the cabin door. He watched as the rider dismounted and casually turned his back to the cabin as he uncinched saddle and pulled it from the horse.
    Lone’s eyes ran over the man; the big, holstered pistols, the boot knife, nor did he miss the slight bulge beneath the left shoulder. As the man turned he saw the white scar standing out of the black stubble and he noted the gray cavalry hat pulled low. Lone grunted with satisfaction; a fighting man who carried himself as a warrior should, with boldness and without fear.
    The open buckskin jacket revealed something more that made Lone step confidently from the brush and approach him. It was the shirt; linsey-woolsey with a long open V that ended halfway down the waist with a rosette. It was the “guerrilla shirt,” noted in U.S. Army dispatches as the only sure way to identify a Missouri guerrilla. Made by the wives, sweethearts, and womenfolk of the farms, it had become the uniform of the guerrilla. He always wore it… sometimes concealed… but always worn. Many of them bore fancy needlework and bright colors… this one was the plain color of butternut, trimmed in gray.
    The man continued to rub down the roan, even as Lone walked toward him… and only turned when the Indian stopped silently, a yard away.
    “Howdy,” he said softly and extended his hand, “I’m Josey Wales.”
    “I have heard,” Lone said simply, grasping the hand, “I am Lone Watie.”
    Josey looked sharply at the Indian. “I re’clect. I rode with ye once… and yer kinsman, General Stand Watie, ‘crost the Osage and up into Kansas.”
    “I remember,” Lone said, “it was a good fight”… and then… “I will stable your horse with mine down by the river. There is grain.”
    As he led the roan away Josey pulled his saddle and gear into the cabin. The floor was hard-packed dirt. The only furnishings were willows laid along the walls draped with blankets. Besides the cooking utensils there was nothing else, save the belt hanging by a peg that carried a Colt and long