The Ferguson Rifle (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 4

  Looking upon these men, I knew that I, who had attended lectures at the Sorbonne and Heidelberg, who had himself lectured at Cambridge and William and Mary, I who had lunched with President Jefferson, who was a friend to Captain Meriwether Lewis, Henry Dearborn, Dr. William Thornton, Gilbert Stuart, and Count de Volney, I had at last come home. These were my people, this was my country.

  Isaac Heath turned his head to me. “Is that true, Chantry? Is there no border?”

  “None has been defined. That’s one reason for the Lewis and Clark expedition. Not only to see what lies out there, but to establish our presence in the area.”

  Davy Shanagan appeared at the edge of the firelight. “Somebody comin’,” he said softly. “Five or six, maybe.”

  His words were spoken over an empty fire, for each of us vanished ghostlike into the surrounding darkness. I, fortunately, had the presence of mind to retain my coffee. With the Ferguson rifle in my right hand, I drank coffee from the cup in my left.

  A voice called out…in Spanish, and I replied in the same tongue, stepping quickly to the right as I did so. No shot was fired, and we heard the riders coming nearer. Two Spanish men, and four Indians.

  Stepping into the firelight, I invited them to dismount. They did so, striding up to the fire. The man in the lead looked at me coolly. “I’m Captain Luis Fernandez!” he said. “I’m an officer of Spain.”

  I bowed slightly. I could see he was somewhat surprised at my garb. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, señor,” I replied, “so far from home. On behalf of the American people, I welcome you to our country.”

  There was nothing to be lost, I decided, in landing the first blow. That he was shocked was obvious. “Your country?” he exclaimed indignantly. “But this is Spanish territory!”

  The others of my party moved in from the shadows, all except Shanagan and Bob Sandy, who wisely remained on watch.

  “Will you join us in some coffee, captain?” I suggested. Then I added, “I wasn’t aware that your king’s claims extended so far. In any event, the Louisiana Territory has been sold to the United States by the Emperor Napoleon.”

  He stared at me in total disbelief. Yet my assurance left him somewhat uncertain, as he accepted the coffee. Glancing from one to the other of us, he suddenly burst out, “I don’t believe it! It’s impossible!”

  “It’s true,” I replied, and then added, “Under other conditions, captain, I’d resent your disbelief, but I’ll overlook it under the circumstances.”

  Before he could continue, I went on. “By the secret Treaty of San Ildefonso, the territory was returned to France. My government learned of this and began negotiations with the emperor. As you know, the slave revolt in Haiti and impending war with England left him in need of funds. The Senate approved the treaty and on the twentieth of December 1803, my government took formal possession.

  “To repeat, Captain Fernandez, we welcome you as our guest.”

  His face flushed with irritation. Ebitt was grinning openly, and both Kemble and Talley had difficulty in restraining their amusement.

  “Nonsense!” he exploded, then added quickly, “In any event, this isn’t a part of the Louisiana Territory. It’s administered from Santa Fe.”

  “I understand your surprise, captain,” I replied gently. “In such wide open country, one often rides farther than one realizes, but you’re now well within the territory of the United States.”

  The captain was not pleased. He had come, I was sure, to order us out of the country or to place us under arrest. Communication was slow and must come by sailing ship from Spain to Mexico, from Mexico City to Santa Fe, and no doubt Fernandez had been absent several weeks.

  “I believe none of this,” he said sharply, “and in any event, you’re under arrest. You’ll be taken to Santa Fe where your case will be disposed of…in due time.”

  I smiled at him. “Under arrest, captain? I could as easily arrest you, but the offense is trivial. I’m sure the amount of grass your horses have eaten will not cause us to suffer too much, but as for arresting us, you cannot. And captain, we will not be arrested.”

  He threw his cup to the ground. “You’ll surrender, or be taken by force!”

  “Take us, then.” Solomon Talley spoke quietly. “Take us, captain.”

  “I have forty men!” Fernandez threatened. “Surrender at once or we’ll kill you all!”

  I smiled at him, then glanced at Kemble and Talley. “Forty? The number won’t divide evenly, Kemble, so I guess it will be first come, first served.”

  “I’ll get my share,” Ebitt said.

  Fernandez turned abruptly and strode to his horse. The others had said nothing, but as he turned to go, one of them lifted a pistol.

  “I wouldn’t,” Heath warned, his rifle on its target. “I just wouldn’t at all.”

  The pistol was lowered, slowly, carefully. Then they rode away into the darkness.

  “I hate to leave such a good camp,” I said.

  “Leave it? You don’t figure on runnin’?” Ebitt demanded.

  “No, I don’t. Right yonder”—I pointed back of us—“about forty yards back there’s a few big, old cottonwood deadfalls. They fell just right for a breastwork. I ran upon it while I was gathering firewood.

  “There’re several living trees, and there’s room inside for ourselves and our horses, a kind of natural fort. I think it might be wise to leave our fire burning and just pull back.”

  We did just that, and at the lower end of our natural redoubt, we found the ground fell away slightly in an area where the thick branches of two trees met. There was room enough to hide our horses there, out of sight and safe from stray bullets. In a matter of minutes, we had moved, added fresh fuel to our fire, and settled down behind our breastwork.

  “Better get some sleep,” Talley advised. “I’ll stand watch.”

  The advice was good and we accepted it, stretching out on the ground. It was thickly bedded with leaves from the fallen trees and those that leaned above us, and we were soon asleep.

  Just before I fell finally asleep, I heard Ebitt saying to Kemble, “I never knowed all that about treaties and such. I heard about the purchase…that’s why I left Illinois to come west. How’d he know all that?”

  “Comes of being a scholar,” Kemble said.

  And we all went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Awakening in the chill of the hour before dawn, I lay quite still looking up at the stars. At this hour, the sky seems unnaturally clear, and the stars close above. For a moment, lying there, I thought about all that I had seen and much that I had learned from the talk of the men with whom I traveled.

  The mind that is geared to learning, that is endlessly curious, cannot cease from contemplating and comparing. To many the grasslands over which we had been riding were simply that, but for me there was much to see, much to learn. No doubt the Indian knew all I was learning, and accepted it as a simple facet of his world.

  The tall grass we had left needed moisture, and no doubt during dry years it fell back toward the east with its rivers and its greater rainfall. Then the low-growing grasses invaded, took over, and retained a hold on the earth until once more the wet years brought back the tall bluestem and its companions of the soil.

  The buffalo grazed wherever there was grass, into Georgia, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Tennessee, but they seemed to like the open country best, out where the long wind blew and the sun was hot upon the low rolling hills.

  A whisper snapped me to attention. It was Shanagan. “I believe we’re to have comp’ny,” he said softly.

  Rolling out, I swiftly brought my blankets together, tied them into a neat bundle, and took them to my saddle. My Ferguson was under my arm, but I hastily completed dressing by pulling on my boots and hitching my knife into its proper place.

  Our fire had burned l
ow. I could see the red glow of the coals lying just over there. Around me there were furtive stirrings as the others took their places.

  Yet when it came we were startled, for they came with a rush and wild war whoops intended to frighten and demoralize. That such an attack out of the night would have that effect was beyond question, for ready as we were, it was a shock to hear them.

  They rushed into the camp, and as one man, we fired. At least two Indians dropped. I think there were more, but in the vague light and with surrounding trees and brush, it was difficult to see.

  My own rifle was almost instantly loaded, yet I held my fire a moment to give the others a start on reloading, not wanting all to be empty at once. Shanagan fired his pistol, and then I fired and instantly reloaded…and then there were no targets.

  The attackers had vanished as swiftly as they had come.

  A body or two lay sprawled near our fire, but that was all, and there was no sound.

  The sky was turning gray, with a faint touch of lemon light along the eastern horizon, and far above us a wisp of cloud blushed faintly.

  We waited behind our fallen timber, watching the light grow. Slowly the blackness took on shape and form, the shapes became trees, bushes, and rocks, and on the ground a dead Indian. From under the bushes, I saw the feet of another.

  Still we waited, and as the light grew, we could see the plain was empty of life. At last Degory Kemble came out from the redoubt and went to the nearest of the fallen Indians.

  “Ute,” he said. “This is far north for them. Mostly they’re mountain Indians.”

  “From Spanish country?” I asked.

  “They claim it, but so did the French. I figure it for Louisiana Territory. The border should be south of there.”

  “It will need some time to decide that,” I said.

  “And meanwhile?”

  “We’ll hunt there, and trap for beaver, although it would be better for all of us if we could establish relations with Santa Fe. They need the trade and so do we.”

  “They’re a long way from Mexico City,” Talley agreed. “Saint Louis is closer.”

  One by one we emerged and scouted our small patch of woods. No Indians were left. We found a spot of blood or two that seemed to indicate a wound, and a dropped rifle of Spanish make. One of the dead Indians had an old musket; the other had been armed with a bow and arrows.

  We wasted no time, but packed our horses and moved out, leaving the Indians as they were. Bob Sandy took the scalps for himself. Talley rode point, Kemble twenty yards to the left, and I an equal distance to the right. Ebitt and Sandy followed Kemble and me at about ten yards’ distance, with Heath and Shanagan to bring up the rear.

  We presented no good target, yet had a chance to scout the country as we rode. We started at a walk, moving to a trot after a few hundred yards, holding it for some distance.

  Except for my own, our horses were prairie-bred mustangs and they held the pace easily. My horse was of better breed but lacked the staying quality of the once wild horses, and was accustomed to better feed.

  It was obvious that my horse must adjust to the change in diet and traveling conditions or I must find another one. In time, if allowed to run free, he might fit himself to the country…as I must do also.

  Physically my condition had never been bad, and my muscles and skin were hardening to the work. Mentally it was another story. I had fought when attacked, acquitting myself well, and I believe those with whom I traveled believed me adequate for the journey before us. Such was not the case.

  As a matter of fact, I had no stomach for killing. I considered myself a reasonably civilized man, and killing was wrong. Nor did I decide this by simple biblical standards, for the Bible, Hebrew scholars had assured me, did not say, “Thou shalt not kill,” but strictly interpreted it says, “Thou shalt not commit murder,” which is quite another thing.

  Yet it was not the Mosaic law that guided me, but my own intelligence. I had no right to deprive another human being of his life, nor had I the intention of adding to the violence that was around me. On the other hand, the Indians I had killed would surely have killed me had I not been more fortunate than they.

  Nevertheless, the destruction of the Indians did not please me, and I hoped to avoid it in the future.

  The problem was that I was a civilized man, but I now existed in an uncivilized world. The standards by which I thought were standards of the ordered world I had left behind. Much had been said in both England and our own eastern states about how we treated the “poor” Indian.

  The few I had seen on the plains did not look poor. They were strong, able men…warriors.

  Warriors.

  That was the key word. These men did not consider themselves poor. They were proud men, carrying their heads high, walking tall, the equal of any man. What they demanded was not pity, but respect. The problem was that two kinds of men had now come face-to-face, two kinds of men with two kinds of standards, different scruples, different responses.

  Being a civilized, cultured human being was all very well, but I must hedge my bets a little or I would be a dead civilized, cultured human being.

  It needs two to make a peace, but only one to make an attack.

  Humanity, I decided, must be tempered with reason, and reason with reality.

  I said as much to Solomon Talley. He glanced at me and I am afraid he was amused. “I’m no scholar, Chantry, and I’ve done no reasoning on the question. The first time an Indian notched an arrow at me, I shot him, and I’m almighty pleased that I hit him.”

  And so it was they began calling me by the name that was to stick through many years. I was no longer Ronan Chantry except at intervals. I became known as Scholar.

  Part of it was gentle derision, but another part was, I think, respect.

  One thing I learned quickly, in those following weeks. The university of the wilderness that I now attended had simple tests but they came often. One lived if one passed the tests, but to get a failing grade was to leave one’s scalp on some brave’s belt.

  On Talley’s advice we deviated from our planned course and angled off to the north, taking us farther from the disputed territory, and we held to low ground, trying to keep our route unknown to the enemy. For we had no doubt that Captain Fernandez and his Indian allies would be observing us and planning another attack. Nor could we hope to be so successful again. The captain, although our enemy, was no fool. Any officer in his situation might easily have overrated his strength and our cunning. Both he and his Indian friends now knew us better.

  Where were the mountains? They lay somewhere to the westward, but not one of us had seen them, and the endlessness of the plains was beyond belief. The land was higher now, and much drier. We had come into the shortgrass country, and the prickly pear we had originally come upon from time to time now were frequent.

  Water was scarce. Many of the streams were dry, the water holes only trampled mud. Then suddenly we saw the buffalo.

  First there was the sound of them, a low, shuffling sound that we thought was the wind, yet a strange, muffled muttering as well. We topped the rise, and they were before us, thousands upon thousands of them, grazing and moving.

  “Hold your fire,” I suggested to the others. “I can reload and we’ll kill just two.”

  “What about the hides? Ain’t they worth something?”

  “A buffalo hide, at least the hide of a bull, will weigh nigh to fifty pounds. We’re in no shape to pack them.”

  While the others held their fire in the event our enemies were near, I rode forward, dismounted near a rock, and using a shoulder of it for a rest, killed two buffalo.

  The others seemed not to notice, yet when we rode down to cut up our kill, they moved off.

  And then I saw the Indians.

  They were several hundred yards off and had been approachi
ng the buffalo from the other flank, the wind, light as it was, being due out of the north. I saw an Indian rise suddenly from the ground and throw off a buffalo robe. Using it as cover, he had been slowly creeping up to the herd to make a kill, and our moving up had caused him to lose his chance. His disgust was obvious.

  Heath and Sandy were on the ground, making the cuts to skin the buffalo and cut out the meat.

  “Somethin’ odd here,” Talley muttered. “There’s ten to twelve women there, and a bunch of kids, but there don’t seem to be more than one or two braves…and no ponies.”

  “They’ve been raided,” Shanagan said. “Bet my shirt on it. Somebody drove off their stock and either killed the menfolk or the braves are off tryin’ to get back their horses.”

  “What are they? Can you make them out?”

  “Cheyennes,” Davy said positively. “I’d swear they were Cheyennes, some of the bravest and best fighters on the plains.”

  “Talley,” I said, “if we’re going to live in this country, we’ll need friends, and if we’re going to have friends, now’s a chance to meet them.”

  “I can talk a little sign language,” Shanagan said. “What’s your idea?”

  “Give them the hides,” I said, “and half the meat.”

  “We can take our cuts,” Talley said. “They’ll eat everything but the horns.”

  Hand high, palm outward, I rode toward them, with Davy beside me. The hunter had returned to the others, and as we drew near, they waited. There was only one warrior among them able to stand. Two young boys and an old man were all that was left aside from the women and children.

  “I come as a friend,” I said, and Davy translated, using sign talk. “We are strong in war, and we have hunted. We would share our meat with our friends.”

  Now that we were closer we could see the hunger among them. Another brave, whom we had not seen, was stretched on a travois, obviously badly wounded.