The Ferguson Rifle (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Low clouds hung threateningly over the mountains, far down the sides and seeming only yards above my head. Thunder rumbled, and as the riders behind me scrambled up the bank, the rain came down in sheets. Starting my horse, I walked forward, my hand on my pistol butt, expecting anything.

  Tufts of grayish cloud hung ghostlike into the space before me; thunder rumbled again. No trail led where we rode and there was no evidence that any living creature had gone before us. We wove single file among the tumbled boulders, isolated trees, or clumps of brush or cedar. What tracks we made would not last long in this downpour, nor was the land over which we rode liable to leave good tracks even without the rain. Yet we had no doubt we would be followed. Without adequate reason, with only an instinctive sense of danger, we had come to realize that he who pursued us was something beyond ordinary, although we had no inkling of who he might be.

  Was it Falvey himself? Was it not a man who resembled Lucinda’s father, but the father? Had he somehow survived? But if so, why not make himself known to his daughter? Or was there some other thing here? Some hatred, some evil, some ugly thing of which we knew nothing? Did Lucinda know more than she told us?

  I think these ideas were reaching all of us. I believe a certain doubt crept into our minds along with apprehension. An unknown enemy is always more of a threat than one known, and this was an enemy whose motives we did not know. Nor could we gauge his strength or his intent.

  Bowed under the pounding rain, we moved steadily on, riding not one directly behind another, but a little scattered to leave less of a trail.

  Davy Shanagan and Solomon Talley lingered behind, bringing up the rear at a distance of more than a mile. When they joined us at the nooning, they had seen nothing.

  Our nooning was where a slide had thrown some logs and brush over a few rocks, making a partial shelter from the rain. Under part of it, we gathered our stock, and under the most solid corner, we ourselves. To anyone less exposed than we, it would not have appeared as shelter, for the great upended slabs of rock had simply caught the debris of a minor earthslide, including the trunks and branches of several trees. Yet it was shelter enough to hunch our shoulders against the few drops of rain and to put together a small fire where we made coffee.

  One thing I had already learned was that exposure to the elements is a relative thing. The shelter a man demands who lives forever out-of-doors is considerably less than he who is used to four walls and a roof. And this I must say for Lucinda Falvey, she made no complaints, nor did she appear to be less comfortable than any one of us.

  We talked less now, chatting a little of the commonplaces of travel, but not going beyond that. I will not say it was only apprehension that sat upon us, although it was there. Each knew we had entered upon a trail whose end must be trouble, serious trouble.

  The nooning past, we wasted no time. Warmed by the coffee and still chewing on the jerky we had lunched upon, we moved out once again. This time it was Bob Sandy who fell back, acting as rear guard. The rest of us moved out, more swiftly for the first hour.

  The scattered boulders had grown less, the trees thicker. We wove through the slender black columns of the pines, climbing higher as we went forward. Once for several miles we rode across a barren place of exposed sheets of rock, dark with rain, and in places running with a thin film of water. Then we dipped down into thicker forest where at times we rode in relative dryness.

  Here we did find a trail, and not a game trail, but one evidently used by Indians. It was narrow, as theirs usually are, and followed the natural contour of the wooded hillside. It led, as naturally as could be, to an overhang where some ancient long-vanished stream had undercut the cliff. And there was shelter, blackened in one corner by many fires.

  The light offered at least another hour of riding, but another such shelter as this was unlikely, so we drew up and swung down. There was some fuel partly protected by the overhang and we found more. Soon a small fire was going. Our horses were stripped and rubbed down, but Bob Sandy had not appeared.

  Suddenly I went to my horse. “I’m going back,” I said, and then changed my mind. “I’ll go afoot,” I said.

  Kemble reached for his rifle.

  “Stay here,” I said. “If he’s in trouble, one of us can handle it. It may be calculated to split us up.”

  Kemble hesitated. “Maybe you’re right.” He was reluctant to remain behind, but one man can often do much, and I had the Ferguson rifle, which they had come to respect.

  My rifle under my slicker to protect it from the rain, I walked out of the overhang and back down the path. Walking has ever been my favorite method of locomotion, and I walked rapidly, my ears attuned for any sound but that of the rain.

  When a mile lay behind me, I began to walk slower, pausing occasionally to listen. Bob had been following at about a mile behind, and although he could have fallen back, I now felt sure that something was wrong. Before me, not a quarter of a mile away, I remembered we had crossed a clearing. Turning from the path, I went up through the woods, moving swiftly and soundlessly. The wetness of the forest helped, my moccasins helped as well, for I could feel any branch that might crack under my feet before I rested my weight upon it.

  My new route took me higher up the side of the hill so the clearing lay below me. Suddenly, across the clearing at the edge of the trees, a good hundred yards away, I saw Bob Sandy’s horse. Closer by thirty yards, and down behind a deadfall, was Bob himself. His rifle was in his hands and he was facing back the way we had come. Suddenly two men came out of the grass up there and started toward him. He swung his rifle to one, and there was no sound…missed fire!

  Without thinking, my Ferguson came to my shoulder and I fired. One man stumbled, then fell.

  Instantly, I reloaded. The other man had ducked behind a tree, mystified, I think, by the shot. It was likely they believed Bob dead or seriously injured, but now, after that shot, they believed his rifle empty, and the second man stepped from behind the tree and ran forward.

  I took aim, held my breath, let it out easily, and squeezed off my shot. He had not seen where my first shot came from, and did not now. The bullet struck him, but not effectively, for he merely drew up in stride, then threw himself into hiding. I was already reloading.

  Probably it was the unexpected shot that stopped the man more than the effect of the bullet, for I was sure it was a scratch at best. But now he was sure he faced two men rather than one. My rifle was loaded, and I moved up through the trees, hoping for a better shot.

  And in that instant, I heard the faintest stir behind me. Turning swiftly, I dropped to one knee, and the suddenness of my move and the drop saved me. A gun roared, at close range, and a tree that was now behind me spat bark from a grazing shot.

  I did not fire. My sudden drop had left me, through no intelligence of my own, in an excellent position. Coming down, I was sheltered by the broken-off stump of a lightning-struck tree. Over my head was the trunk of the tree itself, a portion of it still fastened to the stump.

  Partial protection I had, and complete concealment. The unknown marksman had been too sure of me, silhouetted against the outer light as I was, but now I was hidden, and my drop had been so sudden he was not sure whether I had been hit or not. Above all, my rifle was in my hands, unfired. A pistol was a heavy weight behind my belt.

  All was still. Listening for some sounds of reloading, the possible clink of a ramrod or some such slight noise, I heard nothing. Not far away, a shadow moved silently. I held my fire.

  Someone was there. Despite the coolness, I felt the sweat break out on my brow. My mouth was dry.

  Bob Sandy lay back there in the clearing, possibly in need of help, but the man in the woods wanted to kill me, and if I moved, he would do just that…if he had reloaded.

  The advantage might be mine. A great drop fell from the tree trunk and ran a cold finger down my spine. It was
growing darker.

  “Move in from the other side, Joe.” The voice was calm, having the inflection of an educated man. “We have him.”

  Nor did I move. I did not believe there was a Joe. At least, not here. It was a ruse, a trick, a device to make me move or speak. I did neither.

  At my hand was a dead branch some eight feet long, and slender as a whip. Carefully I closed my left hand upon it, lifting it soundlessly. Now half the art of the ventriloquist is misdirection, so holding my own mouth close to the broken stump behind which I crouched, I moaned ever so gently and at the same time rustled the leaves several feet away with the tip of my branch.

  He fired. I saw the blast of flame, heard the bullet strike, and I fired my Ferguson.

  There was a sharp gasp, then a stumbling fall, but I waited no longer. Back I went through the trees, running swiftly and almost without sound on the soft earth and rain-wet grass and pine needles. I ran swiftly down the hill, circling toward Bob Sandy’s horse.

  As I neared the horse, I spoke. I had cared for him a time or two, and he knew me, pricking his ears and taking a step forward. In an instant, I was in the saddle and racing down into the clearing.

  “Bob!” I yelled.

  He came off the ground like an Indian as I charged up to him, bridle free, my rifle in one hand, the other down to help. He came into the saddle as if he had done the trick a hundred times and we left the clearing at a dead run.

  Behind us, there was a shot. From the second man, I think. But that was all.

  Slowing down, I said, “Are you hurt?”

  “Through the leg. I’ve lost some blood, Scholar.” As an afterthought he said, “Thanks, Scholar. I guess maybe I should read some of them books.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Once away and into the winding woodland trail, I slowed down. Bob Sandy was hanging on with one arm, the other holding his rifle. “You did some shootin’, Scholar. How many did you get?”

  “One,” I said, “and either scared or nicked two more.”

  “The way you was shootin’ they must have figured they’d tackled an army.”

  We rode up to the overhang and Talley reached up to help Bob Sandy down. “The Scholar saved my bacon,” he said. “Had me dead to rights.”

  “We thought we heard shooting,” Kemble commented.

  While Cusbe Ebitt worked over the wound, I explained briefly, with comments from Sandy, what had taken place. Then Bob explained what began it. He had been riding along a good mile behind us, and suddenly they closed in and opened fire without warning. “I don’t know what this outfit is after,” Bob said finally, “but they mean business.”

  We gathered more fuel, cooked our meat, and sat about the fire. Several of us collected boughs for Lucinda’s bed. Isaac and Degory built a crude shelter out in the woods and opposite the cave where a sentry could watch in both comfort and concealment. We had scarcely finished these chores when we heard the sound of a horse walking, and then a voice called out, “Hallooo, the camp!”

  Hastily, I threw a corner of blanket over my Ferguson rifle. There was no sense in letting them know what we had. Isaac had stepped back into the shelter and sat quiet there.

  “Come in with your hands free!” Talley said.

  It was the leader of them, the tall, pale man I had seen in the night. He wore buckskins but a planter’s-style hat and he rode a magnificent black horse.

  He walked his horse into the light, and looked about, his eyes missing nothing. At last they fell upon Lucinda.

  “Well!” He bowed, removing his hat with a sweeping gesture, the perfect cavalier. “My niece! It has taken me a long time, my dear, but now we are together again, and thank God for that!”

  “I…I do not know you,” she said, but her voice was halting and frightened.

  “Not know me? I am your father’s brother, Colonel Rafen Falvey, at your service. I’ve come to negotiate with these…kidnappers for your release.”

  Degory Kemble said quietly, “You’re misinformed, sir. Miss Falvey is with us of her own choice. We’re honored to be her escort to the Ohio towns.”

  “Well, now, that puts a different look on the situation. I was told my niece had been kidnapped, and rushed after you to obtain her release.” He dismounted, somewhat stiffly, I noticed, like a man who might have been wounded slightly.

  He walked up to the fire, and never have I seen a man so cool, so completely in command of himself. Obviously he had chosen to risk everything on a brazen demand for the girl, and I admired the fellow’s nerve. Yet when I looked at Lucinda, I was worried.

  This man who claimed to be her uncle was no more than thirty-five, only a few years older than I, and he was handsome, debonair, and obviously educated. He carried himself with style, and he seemed in no way disturbed that he was among men with whom he had lately exchanged shots.

  “Then, of course, there’s no problem,” he said cheerfully, extending his open hands to the fire. “Lucinda, if you’ll get what you wish to take with you, we can be riding back to our camp. It’s not far and we have a number of men, a much safer escort than this small group, if you don’t mind.”

  For the first time, I spoke. “I’m afraid it’s less simple than you seem to believe,” I said quietly. “Miss Falvey is with us because she wishes to be. We feel ourselves perfectly adequate to escort her where she’s going.”

  He looked at me. Some shadow of the overhang partly concealed my face so he was forced to peer. Yet my comment in no way disturbed him. “It’s quite simple. It’s better for a young lady of Miss Falvey’s years to be with her family. I have nothing against you gentlemen, but of course, her own flesh and blood—”

  “I don’t know you,” Lucinda said quietly. “I’ve heard my father speak of a half brother of his who was a complete scoundrel.”

  Talley chuckled, and Rafen Falvey’s face tightened. Yet a moment later, he smiled. “He was joking, of course. My brother and I often made such jokes. He always laughingly said I was the black sheep of the family, and he was the prodigal son who would sometime return.

  “Come, Lucinda. Let’s go. We’ve talked long enough.”

  She hesitated, and then she said, “I—”

  Her reply was interrupted by Jorge Ulibarri. The boy had suddenly come into the light. Now he pointed his finger. “He murdered your father! He shot Mr. Conway!”

  Rafen Falvey’s face stiffened with anger. “You, is it? Next time you’ll die.”

  Suddenly there was a pistol in his hand. “Lucinda, you’ll come with me…now! And the first one who moves will die.” He produced a second pistol. “And you, Lucinda, will be the next to die.”

  None of us had weapons in our hands. Nor were we within reach of any. My Ferguson was under the edge of the blanket, but I would have to take it out, reverse the muzzle, and then fire…much too late.

  Isaac Heath spoke from the hidden shelter directly behind Falvey. “At thirty feet, with a rifle, Colonel Falvey, I’ll not miss. My bullet will take away the base of your spine, and rip out the front of your belly. I don’t think you want that to happen.”

  He was no gambler, I saw that at once. He was willing, even anxious to kill, but he did not want to die, nor to be left to die. With a rifle at his back, he had no chance and he knew it. I got to my feet and casually reached over to pick up one of my own pistols.

  “I suggest, sir, that you ride out of camp. I further suggest that you keep riding. The next time I shoot I’ll have a better target.”

  “It was you, then? In the woods back there? You’re more of a woodsman than you look.”

  He was staring at me, a strange light in his eyes. “Ah? You very much resemble Ronan Chantry,” he said. “In fact,” he peered into my face, “you are Ronan Chantry.”

  “You have the advantage of me, sir.”

  “You fought a duel with a friend of mine.
I was to have been his second but I was delayed and arrived too late.”

  “A friend of yours was he? You should choose your friends with more care.”

  He smiled at me pleasantly enough. “I only regret his marksmanship. Had I been in his place, I would not have missed.”

  His arrogance angered me. “You had your chance this night, and you did no better.”

  If I have ever seen death in a man’s glance, it was in his then. “On another occasion I’ll do better. I’ll kill you, my friend, and I’ll enjoy it.”

  He turned his attention abruptly from me to Lucinda. “You’d do better to come with me,” he said. “I at least might leave you enough for some gowns. That’s more than you’ll have from this rabble.”

  “They’re gentlemen, sir. Can you say as much?”

  He shrugged. “I care nothing for gentlemen or otherwise. I’ll have you in a day or two, and whatever goes with you. When I’m through with you, the Indians can have what’s left.” He turned sharply, looking from one to the other of us. “As for you, all that live will be staked to anthills, depend upon it.”

  Abruptly he mounted his horse, tucking one pistol behind his belt to do so, and without a backward glance, he rode off down the trail.

  No one of us moved or spoke for several minutes, and then it was Solomon Talley. “We’d best not low rate the man. He’s a scoundrel, no doubt of it, but he’s also a damned brave man. It took nerve to ride in here and speak as he did.”

  I looked over at Lucinda. “He’s your father’s brother?”

  “Half brother, but an enemy to my father from childhood. I remember some word of him now, but I wasn’t often with my father so I knew little of this man.”