the Ferguson Rifle (1973)

by L'amour, Louis - Talon-Chantry

  A trail of greener brush and grass led down from the rocks into a widening fold in the hill.

  Apparently there was a spring or something of the kind there that subirrigated the fold and flowed down to what appeared to be a small, willow-bordered stream below.

  The boy, at least, was canny. It had been no small feat to slip into t camp of wary frontiersmen and escape with loot. Small the boy might be, but he must also be something of a woodsman to achieve what he had without being seen or heard.

  Determined to examine the place, I now gave attention to all the surrounding area. Where were the five mysterious pursuers?

  The coolness of the dawn held on, and the wind stirred the sage, moaning among the cedars with a hint of storm. The sky was clouding over, and I was glad there was a slicker behind my saddle. Did the woman and boy have anything of the kind?

  Warily, I looked around, my rifle easy in my hands, for this was a land of trouble and I was new upon this grass. These brown-turning hills did not know me yet, nor I them, and there was a menace in their silence, their emptiness.

  At the touch of my heel, my horse walked down the long slope, angling across it toward the east. If watchers there were where the rocks crouched upon their hillside, they must see me now.

  Suddenly, I felt good. I could trust myself, and I had something meaningful to do. My horse began to gallop and I found myself singing "The Campbells Are Coming!" Down the long hillside to the thin trail below, down over the grass to the waiting ascent. I should climb the slope to-- They came out of a notch of the hills riding toward me, five hard-faced men with rifles in their hands, who drew up as they saw me coming. I did likewise, my heart thumping but my Ferguson balanced easily in my right hand, my fingers closed around the action.

  Two wore Mexican sombreros although they were not Mexicans, one wore a coonskin cap, the others nondescript felts. Four wore dirty buckskins, one a frock coat. They drew up facing me.

  "Good morning, gentlemen!" My voice was cheerful. "A fine morning for a ride, isn't it?" "Who might you be?" The speaker wore the frock coat. He was a broad-faced man with a black beard and a disagreeable air to him, a burly man who looked likely to have his own way in most cases. I decided I did not like him.

  I smiled. "I might be almost anybody," I said flippantly, "but as a matter of fact, I'm Ronan Chantry, professor of law and literature, student of history, lecturer whenever he's invited. And who might you be?" They stared at me. I knew that if I disliked them, the feeling was mutual. I also realized they possessed an advantage: they would have no hesitation at shooting me if so inclined.

  It was an advantage they had for the moment only, for as soon as I reached that conclusion, I decided I would have no compunctions at shooting them either, one or all.

  Wild country and wilder circumstances can thus render all theoretical ethics a little less than a topic for conversation.

  "It don't make no dif'rence who we are," the man replied roughly. "I want to know just what you're doin' here." My reply was as rough as his. "It makes just as much difference who you are as who I am, and what I'm doing here is obvious. I'm riding. I'm also, if you wish, minding my own damned business!" The man was shocked. He had been so sure he held the strongest position that my reply shook him. He stared at me, unable to make me out, and then I saw his eyes go beyond me, looking for my supporters.

  "Look here!" he said roughly. "I want to know--to " I cut him short. "Whatever you want to know, you've a damned impertinent way of asking. Now I have no business with you. If you have any with me, state it and be damned quick. I want to get on with my riding." One of the men started forward angrily and my rifle twitched only an instant. "Hold it right there!" I said. "I have no idea who you are or what you want, and to be perfectly frank, I don't give a damn. Now if you want trouble, start the music and I'll sing you a tune.

  If you don't, get the hell out of the way. I'm coming through!" They did not believe it. That one man alone would talk so to them. Obviously they fancied themselves of some importance and they could not accept it.

  I slapped the spurs to my horse and leaped him among them. As I did so, I kicked back with my right spur raking the horse nearest me on that side. Instantly he began to pitch, turning the small group into turmoil.

  My horse swung to my bidding and I held my aimed rifle on the head of the leader. "All right, gentlemen!" I said. "Do you ride or do I shoot?" Oh, they did not like it! They did not like it at all! But they rode. Glumly, bitterly, they quieted their mounts and they turned their backs on me. One of them growled, "We'll be meetin' again, mister. This here ain't over." "I sincerely hope not," I replied.

  "You're a surly, impolite, and dirtynecked crowd, and somebody should teach you some manners." They rode off and I watched them go until the shoulder of the hill concealed them, and then I wheeled my horse and ran him down the trail for a good half mile at a dead run, not wanting to open a shooting war with five men out on the shortgrass plains. When I could, I turned up the slope and worked around behind the hill where the outcropping was.

  I had an idea whoever was up there, if it was not all imagination, had witnessed the recent meeting, and would be wondering about it.

  Now I had need of care. The way before me was plain enough, but I wanted neither to be shot by those I wished to help, nor by those searching for them, so I took my way along the reverse slope, angling along toward the crest, hoping to top the ridge somewhere back and to the north of the rocks.

  Several times I drew up to look carefully around. My own position was exposed, but the bulk of the hill lay between myself and my enemies. No one else was within sight. Nearing the crest, I dismounted, and rifle in hand walked slowly forward.

  There was the sort of place I sought right before me. It was a slight break in the crest where erosion had cut out the sandy earth from around the rocks and brush, leaving a gap. I went to it. Trailing the reins of my horse, I crept forward on my belly and looked across the ridge.

  The outcropping looked like a cluster of small stone buildings from here, with broken rock all about, and some brush as well as cedars. Beyond, I could see nothing. If watcher there was upon those hills yonder, he was well hidden, as I was.

  As for the outcropping, if it was not now the refuge of those I sought, it certainly had been, for crossing the ridge right below me and angling toward the rocks was a dim trail, the sort that might have been left by one horse.

  The afternoon was well advanced and there was no time for delay. Nor as far as I could see was there reason for it. Leading my horse, I crossed over the slope and walked into the circle of rocks.

  They stood side by side, facing me, a rather tall young woman of perhaps nineteen or twenty, and a lad of about thirteen. They stood together, their backs against the flat side of a great square block of sandstone. She had auburn hair and hazel eyes and was dressed in what had been a handsome riding outfit of a style much in fashion when I was last in Europe. The boy wore buckskins and a sombrero. He had black hair and black eyes and he carried a rifle much too long for him.

  "How do you do?" I said. "I'm Ronan Chantry, and if I can be of assistance, I'd be pleased." "I'm Lucinda Falvey, and this is my friend, Jorge Ulibarri. He's helping me to reach the Mandan settlements." "The Mandans!" I exclaimed. "But... but the Mandans are far and away to the north!

  Hundreds of miles!" "That's true," she replied quietly, "but that's where I must go. My family have friends in French Canada. If I can reach them, I believe I can arrange to return to my home in Ireland." Frankly, I was disturbed. I had not imagined anything of this sort, and had no particular desire to go riding off to the country of the Mandans.

  Not that I did not know something about them, for I did, indeed. They were a tribe of Indians who lived in well-built mud lodges in the land of the Dakotas, on the Missouri River.

  "We had best get you out of here," I suggested, "before those men come back. They were pursuing you, weren't they?" "They were... and are. They followed us from Santa Fe, but
so far we've given them the slip." She volunteered no further information and I asked for none. She was a lady in distress and I was, I hoped, a gentleman. And she was, obviously, a lady. Moreover, it was equally obvious she was Irish, as was my own family ... not to say that my line was innocent of other blood. My noted ancestor, Tatton Chantry, the first of the name to visit these shores, had set us all an example by wedding a most lovely lady whose family was of Peru. She was the descendant of a Spanish grandee who married an Inca princess.

  "I have friends farther along the way," I said.

  "We'll catch them, and then it'll be time enough to make plans." She looked at me with great severity. "You have evidently misunderstood, Mr. Chantry. My plans are made. I go to the Mandan villages." "Yes. Of course." We mounted, and rode down the long hill toward the trail. They had two excellent riding horses, fine stock with more than a little of the Spanish Barb in them, and a packhorse as well. What the packs contained, I had no idea. But in view of the long journey before them, I hoped it was food. However, looking at the young lady, I would almost have wagered my last cent that it was clothing... and not the clothing of the trail either.

  We rode swiftly. Their animals were in better shape than mine and were in any case better horses, so we made good time while watching the country for the five men.

  Rather hesitantly, I inquired if she knew their identities or motives. She denied knowledge but somehow I only half believed her and warned her we were in danger.

  "Oh, them!" She was scornful. "I saw it all. You sent them packing, and if they come upon us, you'll do so again. I have no doubt of it. They fairly trembled when you spoke to them!" Well, now. That was not exactly the way of it, but how could I use what eloquence I possessed to prove to this lovely lady that I was less fearful than she imagined? They had gone, and I was nice enough to know it was simply because I had a momentary advantage. Had it actually come to a scrimmage, their leader would have been dead... but I would be dead also. It was an event that I did not contemplate with any enthusiasm.

  She rode sidesaddle and she rode it with dash and beauty. She carried her head high, and if there was fear in the world, certainly she was unaware of it.

  Yet there were questions that must be asked.

  "The man who rode with you? Who was he?" She turned her eyes to me. "He was, as my father was, one of the Irish Brigade. It was he who brought me to my father in Mexico, and when my father was killed, he offered to help me escape." "You must tell me about that," I suggested.

  "All in good time," she replied quietly.

  She drew up suddenly, as did the lad and I.

  Seven Indians sat their horses in the trail before us, seven Indians, armed and ready.

  CHAPTER 10

  Suddenly, one of them pushed forward and it was Walks-By-night. "We ride to meet our friend," he said.

  "I am pleased that you have come. Had there been fighting, you could have shared the coups with me. I would be honored to fight beside the dog soldiers of the Cheyenne." They were pleased, although they wanted not to show it.

  They formed around us as a guard of honor and together we rode toward camp.

  Yet a far different camp it was. My friends and their Cheyenne companions had come up with the main body of the Cheyennes for whom they had been looking. The camp was a dozen times larger than before, and there were at least fifty warriors in camp, fine-looking men, all of them.

  It was immediately apparent that Walks-By-night was a considerable personage among them, not a chief, but a warrior, hunter, and orator of prestige.

  The horse herd must have numbered several hundred head, tough little mountain ponies most of them. Many were excellent stock, and I found myself appraising them thoughtfully for my own horse was feeling the effects of hard riding on no other food than grass.

  Lucinda Falvey kept close beside me and I did not find it distasteful. Brave as she was, these were the first wild Indians she had seen at firsthand and she was obviously nervous.

  Davy Shanagan rode out to meet us as we came in, glancing at Lucinda with startled pleasure. "Howdy, ma'am!" he said. "If I were to guess, I'd say you were from the old land itself!" "And you would be right, sir!" she replied pertly.

  We rode to where the others were camped together not far back from a small stream. Degory Kemble looked from Lucinda to me. "Do you have the story yet?" he asked me. "How did a girl like that come to the western plains?" "And why not? Is there something to be afraid of?

  If there is, I'm not!" she declared. "Where can an Irish girl not go?" Beside the fire that night, roasting a small bit of meat over the flames--and a nice flush it brought to her cheeks--she told us her story.

  Her father had been a colonel in the Spanish army, a man who had fled his own country as so many had. He was among those brave Irish lads who were called the "wild geese" and who left their island where there was hope of neither land nor advancement, to join the armies of Spain, Italy, France, and Austria. A good number of them had risen to rank, as General Alexander O'Reilly, in Spain, who had been commandant in New Orleans until sent for to return to lead the Spanish armies against Napoleon.

  He had died on the ship returning, and that had been an end to it, but one of Napoleon's own generals, Macmahon, was another of them, and the bold lad who gave his name to the finest Cognac, Hennessy, was another.

  Colonel Patrick Falvey had come to New Orleans with O'Reilly and then had been sent to Mexico.

  "What happened there?" Kemble asked.

  "My father did well, for he was a brave man, and a leader of men, but he was sent north to put down a fierce tribe who killed a priest and burned a mission church. He did that, too, but in doing it, he saved the life of an old Indian who was being tortured by another officer.

  "From this, some difficulties developed, just why I don't know, but the officer wasn't of my father's command and he made much of the fact that my father was Irish.

  "The Mexicans loved my father, and not at all this other man, but he had powerful friends. They interceded and demanded the old Indian prisoner be taken from my father and given to the torturer.

  "My father had no choice but to obey." The girl hesitated, quite evidently deciding to conceal something. "Almost immediately my father was ordered north.

  Several months passed, and suddenly I received a message from my father telling me to come to him, only to find when I arrived that it was not he who sent the message.

  "He told me they had brought me to Santa Fe to use me against him. When I told him that could never be, he said that a man who must protect others was less strong than one alone, and they would get at him by threatening me.

  "I suggested we escape, and he replied that he was considering just that. He went out that night and returned with Jorge and Lieutenant Conway.

  He would get horses, he said, and some maps from headquarters. When he returned, we would ride north for the Mandan villages, and then into Canada where we had friends.

  "He left then, and Jorge went with him. We waited and waited, but when it was almost daylight, Jorge came running. My father had been killed and with his last words told us to flee... and we did." We debated the question among ourselves. Whatever the cause of the trouble, this was no place for Lucinda Falvey, and it was up to us to get her to Canada where she might find friends.

  "There's no use you leaving what you planned," I said. "I'll take her through to the Mandan villages at least, and farther if need be." Ulibarri squatted near us. "It's a long way, and there are many Indians," he said, "but I promised the colonel that I would go, and I will." He looked around at me. "I was raised by Indians." "Hopis?" "Apaches," he said, "but I speak much Indio... many tongues. I know the Sioux and the Pawnee and Shoshoni. I am young, but I have traveled." "I will ride with you," Davy said suddenly.

  "She's an Irish lady, and far from home, and I'm an Irishman." "I'm not Irish," Kemble said, "but I'll ride along." "There are furs in the north," Solomon Talley said, "as well as here. We can trap as we go. The Huds
on Bay Company will buy our furs." There was no dissenting voice among them, and so the decision was made. Yet that night as I lay staring up at the stars, I considered the question.

  Obviously it was not the girl alone they sought, but what she knew, or what they believed she knew.

  What secret had they attempted to torture from the old Indian? A secret he had told Falvey? Had that secret been passed on to Lucinda? Or to Conway or Ulibarri?

  I remembered the few odds and ends from Conway's pockets. Was there a clue among them?

  I decided I'd have another look at that map.

  And when morning came, I thought, I'll have a long talk with Lucinda Falvey.

  For her to escape was of course essential, but to be penniless upon the world would not be pleasant for a young and lovely girl. Yes, yes of course she was lovely. That her father was one of the wild geese was obvious, that he might have a family to whom she could return was possible, but not too many of the Irish estates were paying well these days. A bit of smuggling on the side always helped, of course. My own family had tried it, too.

  There were still some of my blood remaining in Ireland, although only on my mother's side. How well off they were, I did not know.

  I could think of nothing that would so arouse feelings as gold, and no doubt somewhere in this affair there was treasure involved. Of course, there was no shortage of treasure tales, and according to marketplace gossip, dozens of mule trains had gone north out of Mexico with treasure belonging to the Aztecs. Some of this was reported to have been hidden in western America, although why anyone should go so far to hide it, I could not guess, for the mountains of Mexico were filled with good hiding places.

  There was no need to go more than a day's march from the valley of Mexico to find a thousand places where treasure could be hidden, so why anyone would travel hundreds of miles, risking discovery all the way, was beyond me.

  The Aztecs were reported to have come from somewhere in the north, and many were the stories of just where that had been, but they were not a rich people when they began their long trek to the south, nor for a long time after their arrival in the valley of Mexico. It was unlikely that coming into possession of great treasure they would send it all those many miles back to a land they had themselves abandoned. Yet this was a land where gold had been found, and who could guess what might not have been found... and hidden?