Free The Outlaw Josey Wales by Forrest Carter

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 Al 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