He turned sharply to face me, knife ready to kill. Cold sweat broke over me. For the first time I really realized what I was in for. In the turmoil of movement and fighting, somehow there had been no realization that this was a fight to the death. Subconsciously the knowledge had been there, of course. In that moment of looking up at him, his eyes blazing, his face twisted with ferocity, I knew I wanted to live.
He came at me. The point of my blade to him, I dropped my other hand to the earth beside me. How to get up without that terrible moment of rising off-balance and vulnerable. He circled and I turned my feet toward him, turning clockwise, and then he stepped in.
Instantly I hooked my toe behind his ankle and kicked hard with my heel for his kneecap.
It should have broken his leg, but he threw himself backward to the ground and my heel glanced harmlessly off his shin, and then we were both up, facing each other.
There was no contempt now, no fear, only desperation, eagerness for the kill, and the knowledge on his part as on mine that all the chips were down.
There was sudden confidence in me. I had survived this long, I had met him on even terms, and it was he who first resorted to the blade. And the knife I held in my hand had been long in my family. The knife from India…long since…how much history there was to that knife! A history of many Chantrys, and of others, men who had used that blade of the finest steel ever created.
Confidence welled up within me. With this knife, this blade—
He came at me then, and he came to kill.
He was quick. His knife flicked out like a snake’s tongue and I felt the bite of it in my arm. Not deep, but a few more of those…Many knife fighters used just that tactic, flicking slashes with the point of the blade, never getting too close, always difficult to reach, and in a matter of minutes a man might be bleeding from two dozen gashes, and growing steadily weaker.
Yet he was not playing for time. He wished to make me cautious, less of a threat to himself while he sought the opening he wanted. He circled, always ready. His knife blade came again, and my parry was an instant too late. Another tiny slash, blood showing in two places on my knife arm now.
I let my arm shrink back, closer to my body. His eyes flicked to mine and purposely I feigned weakness, circling away. He feinted, and I stepped back so sharply that I stumbled. He was still not sure, but his blade flicked again. That time I parried the blow successfully, yet feigned clumsiness.
Suddenly stepping in, he drove a hard blow at my eyes, which I parried, and for a moment, our knives locked tight by the strength of our muscles, we were face-to-face.
“Now I’m going to kill you, Scholar.” He said it softly, smiling a little.
“Yes?” I said, then gave ground as if weakening, yet keeping my knife tight to his.
He disengaged suddenly, feinted a thrust, and I countered as if my right arm were stiffening or weakening. He circled, still wary, watching for his moment. It came suddenly.
My point fell a little, and then as if fighting weakness, I raised my arm higher and wider to the right, out of line with my body. Trapping him though I was, his attack was so sudden, so swift that he nearly nailed me.
He lunged, thrusting for my abdomen. Only the swift turn of my body saved me and a slight deflecting blow with my left palm against his right arm. The thrust went past, ripping my shirt front. Instantly my own blade cut down. My hand turned thrusting down and in from the thumb side of the hand. Too late he saw it coming and tried to knock down my hand. His blow missed and my blade stabbed home, into the solar plexus and to the hilt.
He gave a grunt as my fist struck his body, my left hand went to his shoulder and pushed him hard away, the knife coming free.
Blood followed, coming through the deep stab wound, reddening his shirt, covering the front of his body. He stepped after me, and I retreated. I had no desire to stab him again, and no wish to be stabbed, and no time was left to him.
“You damned bloody—!” He went to his knees, and I walked to the Ferguson and took it up. Thrusting the knife deep into the soil, I withdrew it and thrust it into its sheath.
My rifle came level at hip height. “Take him,” I told them, “and get out!”
There were other rifles around me, all ready. They looked at their leader, still on his knees and bleeding, and they looked at our guns.
“To hell with him!” one of them said roughly. “There ain’t no treasure anyhow.” The others nodded, talking among themselves. I waited for Falvey to tell them about our find. But he said nothing. Gesturing with my rifle, I motioned them away. They turned in their tracks and walked toward their horses, still talking against Falvey.
Falvey himself had sunk back on his heels, holding the wound with his hand. “Damn you, Scholar,” he spoke calmly now, “you tricked me. What books did you read anyway?”
“I’m sorry. You left me no choice.”
“Thought it would come in a night at sea,” he mumbled, “never like this…not here.”
“Isaac,” I spoke without turning my head, “get Lucinda to the horses. That bunch may change their minds and come back.”
Reluctantly, Heath moved back, and Ebitt and Kemble helped Davy. Solomon Talley said, “I’ll cover you from the rocks. Come when you’re ready.”
Yet I stood there, curiously reluctant to leave. The man was dying, and I did not want to see him go alone, here in the gray light before the dawn.
He looked at me. “You’re a good man, Scholar, a good man. Believe me or not, I’ve known a few.” He jerked his head toward the way his followers had gone. “Rabble,” he said, “a thieving lot. That’s the trouble with crime.” He smiled. “The company’s bad.” He coughed, holding himself against a spasm of pain. “Ah, Scholar! What a team we’d have made!”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“You did it, friend. You did it with that scurvy blade. It’s all you can do for any man.”
He coughed again and I thought for a moment he would fall. “Go on with you, man. I need no pity. Let me die alone…it’s the way I’ve lived.”
Talley called from the scarp above and I backed away and then climbed the rocks. When I stood on the edge, I looked down. The light was graying and I could make him out dimly. He had fallen over on his side…a bad man, but a man of courage for all that.
The men were taking the last of the treasure from the opening through which Davy Shanagan had fallen when I reached the top. Davy had pointed out the way and they had crept down a slanting break in the scarp’s edge to reach the entrance. Sacked up, it made a good load for two horses, although it was bulky in part, ornaments and such, as Talley commented.
“We’ll go then,” I said. “Did you get it all?”
Degory shrugged. “There’s some odds and ends down there, a few coins…maybe a ring or so. We didn’t want to scrabble in the dark for them.”
“I know, Deg. You were thinking of Van Runkle.”
“Well, the man’s looked for a long time. Let him have what he finds, Lucinda won’t miss it.”
We rode away in the breaking dawn, our horses’ hooves and the creak of saddles our only sound.
When from the rise of the pass I glanced back, turning in my saddle to look, it was all merged into one, gray and green and lovely, with a mist on the lowlands.
Somewhere over the horizon were the Mandan villages, and although I had no furs and the treasure we carried was not mine, I rode with hard memories grown softer with time, a new lust for life within me, and the Ferguson rifle over my saddle.
And, of course, there was Lucinda.
WHAT IS LOUIS L’AMOUR’S LOST TREASURES?
Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures is a project created to release some of the author’s more unconventional manuscripts from the family archives.
Currently included in the project are Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasu
res: Volume 1, which published in the fall of 2017, and Volume 2, which published in the fall of 2019. These books contain both finished and unfinished short stories, unfinished novels, literary and motion picture treatments, notes, and outlines. They are a wide selection of the many works Louis was never able to publish during his lifetime.
In 2018 we released No Traveller Returns, L’Amour’s never-before-seen first novel, which was written between 1938 and 1942. In the future, there may be a selection of even more L’Amour titles.
Additionally, many notes and alternate drafts to Louis’s well-known and previously published novels and short stories will now be included as “bonus feature” postscripts within the books that they relate to. For example, the Lost Treasures postscript to Last of the Breed will contain early notes on the story, the short story that was discovered to be a missing piece of the novel, the history of the novel’s inspiration and creation, and information about unproduced motion picture and comic book versions.
An even more complete description of the Lost Treasures project, along with a number of examples of what is in the books, can be found at louislamourslosttreasures.com. The website also contains a good deal of exclusive material, such as even more pieces of unknown stories that were too short or too incomplete to include in the Lost Treasures books, plus personal photos, scans of original documents, and notes.
All of the works that contain Lost Treasures project materials will display the Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures banner and logo.
POSTSCRIPT
By Beau L’Amour
I have almost nothing of interest to tell anyone about the actual writing of The Ferguson Rifle. Dad spent very little time (that I know of) planning it out, we took an extended Easter vacation to research some of its East Coast locations, and the writing of the novel flowed easily and without undue drama. Regardless, there are a number of details related to this book that a reader might find interesting.
Later in life I got a chance to spend some time shooting a Ferguson rifle, and I learned a couple of interesting lessons. First and foremost, shooting a flintlock requires the utmost equanimity. I have prided myself on this quality, but firing a rifle that delivers a minor explosion at the priming pan, about eight inches in front of your right eye, an instant before the main charge goes off is an exercise in self-control and follow-through. The secret to effectively using a Ferguson directly relates to this problem.
The Ferguson breech plug, or loading port, even when screwed firmly shut (as it must be to fire the weapon), can spit additional flame and powder particles. This is because of a combination of imperfect eighteenth-century manufacturing tolerances and the fact that several threads are used to rotate and seal the breech plug, as opposed to a single, tightly wound thread like you might see on a screw. Multiple threads make screwing the breech open a quick and easy affair, and loose tolerances allow the system to work while dirty, but those same loose tolerances also allow a small amount of gas to vent through the top of the breech just a moment after the flint has struck its sparks. In addition to the flash from the pan the effect is disconcerting, to say the least.
The solution to the spitting breech plug (which is even closer to your right eye) is to use fairly heavy grease to lubricate the threads. The first time you shoot the gun after cleaning and adding the grease will result in a bit of a mess. But after that, because the lube has been driven firmly into the screw threads by the explosion, the spitting will be almost nonexistent. As with any rifle, there is a sweet spot between perfectly clean and hopelessly fouled in which the Ferguson performs optimally.
In the grander scheme of things, The Ferguson Rifle takes its place between two unwritten chapters in the Chantry family chronology. The first is a novel about the Revolutionary War in which Dad wanted to use both Chantry and Sackett characters.
CHANTRY: A merchant venturer at an early age, engaged in trade with the West Indies, Canaries, Azores and the coast of Africa, occasionally to South and Central America or Mexico.
A polished gentleman, exceptional swordsman and pistol shot, a noted commander of ships. Urbane, sophisticated, intelligent, he becomes a leader in stating the case against Britain, but with no thought of independence. He wishes for free trade, musters arguments against restrictions.
He has mysterious alliances with Incas who still remain hidden in the interior and with whom he trades. He is descended from an Inca princess through Tatton Chantry, his ancestor. This has become known in Peru and he is approached by traders there, and others. There is in the interior a small city still inhabited by people of the Inca or other ancient tribes.
He is sometimes in London, there voices his antipathy for recent British acts. He finds sympathy from some, enmity from others.
SACKETT: A country boy from the hills, has hunted since earliest childhood; farmed; logged. He has been west to the Mississippi, north to the Ohio. He is a typical Sackett, tough, cynical; he gets into the War because it is something to do, has little sympathy for the Colonies as such. Has more sympathy for the Paxton boys. He has lived with Indians, fought Indians. His feeling for the struggle grows by contact with people, hears Tom Paine speak, comments from Hancock and Chantry, is impressed by Washington. Serves with Dearborn’s rifle-men.
Henry Dearborn was a medical doctor and an Army officer in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. For a time, he was secretary of war under President Thomas Jefferson. He is also a distant L’Amour relative.
In the wake of the French and Indian War and Pontiac’s Rebellion, the Paxton Boys were a group of vigilantes who carried out murderous raids against Native Americans. Both John Penn and Benjamin Franklin were involved in defusing the violence, protecting various members of the Conestoga tribe and attempting to bring the Paxtons to justice. These events, which included the bearing of a list of grievances to Philadelphia by an armed mob, would take on a larger context, serving to demonstrate the political and cultural divide between the eastern part of Pennsylvania and the lawless Western frontier.
It’s interesting to see how Dad’s characters are positioned. My father depicts Chantry as a man who intellectually understands American independence but lacks commitment to the cause. Sackett, on the other hand, likely has a visceral desire for freedom but a near-complete distrust of any sort of government.
My personal theory about creating the dynamics between various characters is that they should be set up so that their conflicts reveal the things a writer needs to express in order to tell the story. So, if two or more characters are aligned in their goals, they should be as different as possible in their methods, personalities, and backgrounds. This creates the sort of tension that moves a plot forward and allows for exposition in a natural manner. I am guessing that this sort of relationship is what Dad had in mind.
CHARACTERS OF REVOLUTIONARY WAR BOOK:
Kevan Chantry, merchant adventurer, swordsman, scholar, master mariner.
Darby Sackett, woodsman, long hunter, Indian fighter.
Chantry owns a brig, the Leprechaun, a merchant ship, but heavily armed with a concealed battery of guns behind blind ports, sixteen guns to a side as well as a heavy stern gun. He has a picked crew and heavy oak hull. He is a trader, but does not wish a cargo to be taken from him.
Open with his vessel about to be attacked by a pirate ship. He lets it come close as he sees she is heavily laden.
“We could out-sail her, Captain.”
“Aye, and lose her.”
“Lose her?”
“Yon’s a good craft…a good craft…an’ I see how low she sits in the water? She’s taken some prizes, that one.”
He lets the pirate come alongside, suddenly drops his ports and lets go at point-blank range. It sweeps the pirate’s deck.
“Load with canister and do it again.” Again the deck is swept.
He finds a girl barricaded in the after cabin wi
th several pistols and muskets. She had been taken the day before and had taken possession of the cabin and held them all off.
[Chantry questions the Captain of the vessel they have just taken.] “A girl? Is she yours?”
“It was my thought, Cap’n, my thought, indeed, for she’s a handsome wench, looks the lady every inch, so I put her in the cabin for my later attention, and what does she do? Breaks open the door of the gun-locker, arms herself, and barricades the door. Dropped one of my best men, she did, and told the lot of us she’d see us in Hell before we laid a hand on her.”
“She has a name?”
“It’s Trelawney, Cap’n.”
A number of Trelawney women have appeared in my father’s Sackett novels. As is the case here, they are typically sexy, wild, and able to look out for themselves. Here are a few more of my father’s notes to round out what is known about this story:
THE REVOLUTION:
Story begins on frontier with a Sackett in the Tennessee mountain country. After story is moving and he is well presented then shift to:
Chantry, in New England, New York or Charleston, a merchant venturer perhaps, trading to the West Indies and Canada, a friend of John Adams, James Otis, etc. One of those involved with Committees of Correspondence.
Chantry will express or discuss much of the basic philosophy of the period, and will be involved also in the financial and diplomatic dealings prior to and during the war.
The Ferguson Rifle (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 17
