The Outlaw Josey Wales

Novel Review

The above edition includes both Gone to Texas & The Vengeance Trail of Josey Wales. This review will cover both. Most have likely seen the Clint Eastwood adaptation by the name of The Outlaw Josey Wales. The movie adapts Gone to Texas and follows it quite faithfully for the most part, even adding a bit of connective tissue into the plot, something that works quite well for the movie.

Regardless, the first novel follows our titular character, Josey Wales on his escape from Missouri and into Texas at the end of the Civil War. Wales is a Missouri bushwhacker, one of the famed pistol men that rode with Bloody Bill Anderson and waged guerrilla war on the Union Army.

As Carter puts it in the preface:

Missouri is called the “Mother of Outlaws.” She acquired her title in the aftermath of the Civil War, when bitter men who had fought without benefit of rules in the Border War (a war within a War) could find no place for themselves in a society of old enmities and Reconstruction government. They rode and lived aimlessly, in the vicious circle of reprisal, robbery, and shoot-out that led to nowhere. The Cause was gone, and all that remained was personal feud, retribution … and survival. Many of them drifted to Texas.

If Missouri was the Mother, then Texas was the Father … the refuge, with boundless terrain and bloody frontier, where a proficient pistolman could find reason for existence and room to ride. The initials “GTT,” hurriedly carved on the doorpost of a Southern shack, was message enough to relatives and friends that the carver was in “law trouble,” and Gone To Texas.

In those days they weren’t called “gunfighters”; that came in the 1880’s from the dime noveleers. They were called “pistolmen,” and they referred to their weapon as a “pistol,” or by the make … a “Colts’ .44.” The Missouri guerrilla was the first expert pistolman. According to U.S. Army dispatches, the guerrillas used this “new” war weapon with devastating results.

This is the story of one of those outlaws.

The outlaws … and the Indians … are real … they lived; lived in a time when the meaning of “good” or “bad” depended mostly on the jasper who was saying it. There were too many wrongs mixed in with what we thought were the “rights”; so we shall not try to judge them here … but simply, to the best of our ability, to “tell it like it is” … or was.

The men … white and red … and the times that produced them … and how they lived it out … to finish the course.

Carter, Forrest; Clayton, Lawrence. Josey Wales: Two Westerns (p. 5). (Function). Kindle Edition.

I think you can see from the bit above, that Carter has a fantastic way with words—a singular and masculine voice. The earnestness and vitality with which he writes remind me of Robert E. Howard, someone who, I would imagine, would have absolutely adored both Carter’s novels and the Eastwood movie.

Carter also has a charming prose tic, in that he is not afraid to use exclamation points. Where Elmore Leonard famously cautioned against using more than one per novel, Carter sprinkles them throughout. And while I tend to side with Leonard in my own writing, the exclamation point serves Carter well! I think most of us tend to read sentences capped by an exclamation point with a somewhat feminine rise in pitch. A sort of giddy or placating falsetto. But with Carter, his prose is already so hardy and broad-chested, it’s almost impossible to read his exclamatory sentences with anything other than a forceful bass. I have since dubbed this as: “say it with your chest” prose.

An example:

As a man had no coin, his coin was his word. His loyalty, his bond. He was the rebel of establishment, born in this environment. To injure one to whom he was obliged was personal; more, it was blasphemy. The Code, a religion without catechism, having no chronicler of words to explain or to offer apologia.

Bone-deep feuds were the result. War to the knife. Seldom if ever over land, or money, or possessions. But injury to the Code meant—WAR!

Marrowed in the bone, singing in the blood, the Code was brought to the mountains of Virginia and Tennessee and the Ozarks of Missouri. Instantaneously it could change a shy farm boy into a vicious killer, like a sailing hawk, quartering its wings in the death dive. It was the Code of the “Boys,” the Missouri guerrillas that shocked a nation.

Carter, Forrest; Clayton, Lawrence. Josey Wales: Two Westerns (p. 214). (Function). Kindle Edition.

Prosody and punctuation aside, Gone to Texas is something of a literary western. The movie turns the novel into something more akin to a revenge thriller by adding Terrill’s Gatling Gun Massacre at the beginning and then sending one of Wale’s former mates, Fletcher, after him at the behest of Senator Lane and Captain Terrill.

Not so in the novel, which is primarily character driven, and much less concerned with any sort of complex story structure or plot. Things happen of course, such as gunfights and rapes and scrapes, but it is much less plotted than the average “stranger comes to town” western. In this way it reads more like an autobiography or a memoir of sorts, something that would be at home if shelved next to The Life Of John Wesley Hardin by Himself. And I get the sense that Carter was trying to evoke this sort of realism with his novel. One can tell that he was steeped in the history of the West and the Civil War, and I would imagine that he’d read many the gunfighter memoir.

With all of that said, there is a plot, a simple one, which could very loosely be described as bad-ass gunfighter goes on a journey while collecting a wacky and oft-bumbling cast of sidekicks. In this way, it’s a little bit Don Quixote if the Don was an actual Knight, even if a deeply jaded one. I didn’t really pick up on this being the plot formula until I read the second novel, which literally does the exact same thing. Wales is a bushwhacking, tobacco-spitting, Colts .44 wielding, Scots-Irish hillbilly, who becomes something of a recalcitrant knight-errant.

While Wales is chivalric to women and horses, he is downright homeric when dealing with his enemies. He is a man who wages war with the two primary tools of the guerrilla: guile and ultra-violence.

Josey Wales had “taken to the brush,” and there he found others. They were guerrilla veterans, these young farmers, by the time the War between the States began. The formalities of governments in conflict only meant an occupying army that drove them deeper into the brush. They already had their War. It was not a formal conflict with rules and courtesy, battles that began and ended … and rest behind the lines. There were no lines. There were no rules. Theirs was a war to the knife, of burned barn and ravaged countryside, of looted home and outraged womenfolk. It was a blood feud. The Black Flag became a flag of honorable warning: “We ask no quarter, we give none.” And they didn’t.

When Union General Ewing issued General Order Eleven to arrest the womenfolk, to burn the homes, to depopulate the Missouri counties along the Border of Kansas, the guerrilla ranks swelled with more riders. Quantrill, Bloody Bill Anderson, whose sister was killed in a Union prison, George Todd, Dave Pool, Fletcher Taylor, Josey Wales; the names grew in infamy in Kansas and Union territory, but they were the “boys” to the folks.

Union raiders launching the infamous “Night of Blood” in Clay County bombed a farmhouse that tore off the arm of a mother, killed her young son, and sent two more sons to the ranks of the guerrillas. They were Frank and Jesse James.

Revolvers were their weapons. They were the first to perfect pistol work. With reins in teeth, a Colts’ pistol in each hand, their charges were a fury in suicidal mania. Where they struck became names in bloody history. Lawrence, Centralia, Fayette, and Pea Ridge. In 1862 Union General Halleck issued General Order Two: “Exterminate the guerrillas of Missouri; shoot them down like animals, hang all prisoners.” And so it was like animals they became, hunted, turning viciously to strike their adversaries when it was to their advantage. Jennison’s Redlegs sacked and burned Dayton, Missouri, and the “boys” retaliated by burning Aubry, Kansas, to the ground, fighting Union patrols all the way back to the Missouri mountains. They slept in their saddles or rolled up under bushes with reins in their hands. With muffled horses’ hooves, they would slip through Union lines to cross the Indian Nations on their way to Texas to lick their wounds and regroup. But always they came back.

As the tide of the Confederacy ebbed toward defeat, the blue uniforms multiplied along the Border. The ranks of the “boys” began to thin. On October 26, 1864, Bloody Bill died with two smoking pistols in his hands. Hop Wood, George Todd, Noah Webster, Frank Shepard, Bill Quantrill … the list grew longer … the ranks thinner. The peace was signed at Appomattox, and word began to filter into the brush that amnesty-pardons were to be granted to the guerrillas.

Carter, Forrest; Clayton, Lawrence. Josey Wales: Two Westerns (pp. 10-11). (Function). Kindle Edition.

As I am sure you can tell by this point, Carter is not afraid of exposition. I think these are really great examples of what exposition looks like when it is done well. I also think it gives Carter’s novel a very idiosyncratic feel. It also helps keep the reader contextually aware of the history going on around him. I can also see the argument against it, and why it would rub many readers the wrong way. Ultimately, I’m a fan of the style, and can’t say that I’ve ever seen it implemented all that often. It’s a tad Michael Crichton-esque in a way. I do think young men, who are typically more oriented towards non-fiction tend to be more interested in these types of history and science asides than the fairer sex. I think that’s something to remember for those looking to write fiction for men, it’s ok to break the “show don’t tell” rule every once in a while and get a little autistic with it.

However, lest you get the wrong idea, it works because he also knows how to execute a scene. He is quite good at atmosphere, writes really great action, and is quite the technician with regards to dialogue, as you’ll see in the bit below.

“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.

Carter, Forrest; Clayton, Lawrence. Josey Wales: Two Westerns (pp. 63-65). (Function). Kindle Edition.

If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll recognize the scene above. In that sense, the movie follows the novel very closely, lifting conversations and scenes whole cloth. The same black humor that soaks the movie, originates in the book. Many parts being laugh out loud.

Her movements woke Josey before dawn, and he smelled cooking but saw no fire. Little Moonlight had dragged a hollow log close to them, carved a hole in its side, and placed a black pot over a captive, hidden fire.

Lone was already eating. “I’m gonna take up tepee livin’ … if it’s like this,” he grinned. And as Josey stepped to feed the horses Lone said, “She’s already grained ’em … and watered ’em … and rubbed ’em down … and cinched the saddles. Might as well set yore bottom down like a chief and eat.”

Josey took a bowl from her and sat cross-legged by the log. “I see the Cherokee Chief is already eatin’,” he said.

“Cherokee Chiefs have big appetites,” Lone grinned, belched, and stretched. The hound growled at the movement … he was chewing on a mangled rabbit. Josey watched the dog as he ate.

“I see ol’ hound gits his own,” he said. “Rec’lects me of a red-bone we had back home in Tennessee. I went with Pa to tradin’. They had pretty blue ticks, julys, and sich, but Pa, he paid fifty cent and a jug o’ white fer a old red-bone that had a broke tail, one eye out, and half a ear bit off. I ast Pa why, and he said minute he saw that ol’ hound, he knowed he had sand … thet he’d been there and knowed what it was all about … made

Carter, Forrest; Clayton, Lawrence. Josey Wales: Two Westerns (pp. 72-73). (Function). Kindle Edition.

Regardless, as you’ve likely gathered, by the time Josey leaves Missouri, and travels through the Indian Territory he has collected an old Cherokee Indian and a squaw that was put out of her tribe for being a “whore.” In Texas, the party will only grow, as they dodge Union Soldiers, bounty hunters, and Comancheros, until Josey is leading a quite comical band of misfits into the heart of Comanche territory.

After a brush with Comanches, and a peace treaty forged out of “words of iron,” the party can at last find peace, settling in what I can only assume is Palo Duro Canyon by the way it is described. Josey takes on a new identity, and the town folk of Santa Rio (that he helps against the Indians) cover for him when the Law and the Army come looking for him. Thus ends Gone to Texas.

The Vengeance Trail of Josey Wales is much the same book as the first, in that it repeats the recipe, but with a completely new cast of assorted characters. In this book, Mexican Bandits ride over the border and raid the small town of Santa Rio. These bandits very cruelly and brutally slaughter his friends from the first book, murdering Kelly, brutally r*ping and killing Rose the saloon girl, and abducting Ten Spot the gambler in order to sell him as a slave across the border.

Rose, with her dying breath, sends Pablo Gonzales to go find Josey so that he may rescue Ten Spot and avenge herself and Kelly. Thus begins Josey’s new odyssey, one that will see him collect a new cast of noble but bumbling characters who assist his one man army. Josey thus pursues the bandits, who’ve also pissed off a band of Apaches, rescues Ten Spot and wipes them out.

Now, fair warning with regards to this second book. It takes everything that the first did and knocks it up about ten notches. It also includes two very graphic r*pe scenes, and a fair amount of Apache bad-assery. While the first novel is R rated, the second is probably a solid NC-17. Not for the faint of heart, and perhaps the most Heavy Metal western I’ve ever read.

Five Bloody Scalps out of Five

Both novels are a must read for the western connoisseur, the first especially. The second is a hard read just due to its graphicness, but I can’t say it would be better with any of that toned down. I think Carter was very much in his own league and was doing something with the western as a genre that very few people have ever really matched or expanded upon.