The Ferguson Rifle (14 page)

The shooting down below had ceased. Soon they would be coming for us, and we had no place to hide.

CHAPTER 18
______________

Y
ET I WAITED. I was tired of running and hiding. Slowly but steadily, anger had been building within me. Contemplation fits me better than rage. I am prone to consider before acting, and to take decisive action only when there is no other course. So far I had been guided by some instinct, some atavistic memory from warlike ancestors who had preceded me.

Now I no longer wished to escape. I wanted to fight. But beside me I had a girl to consider. Lovely as she was, intelligent as she was—and I have always preferred intelligent women—I wished for the moment she was elsewhere. A man going into a fight for his life should have to think of nothing else; his attention should not be for the minute averted.

There had been a lot of shooting below and I could only guess that my friends had appeared … my friends, or some Indians. If the former, I should join them; if the latter, I had another reason for hiding.

Van Runkle had mentioned a cave … but how to find it in the dark?

Turning to Lucinda, I asked, “Can you be still? As a ghost?”

“Ghosts rattle chains. Is that what you mean?”

“This is no time for levity. I want you to be still, to sit down in those trees yonder, and if somebody comes within inches, you are not to move … do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. Into the trees with you.”

There was a good stand of spruce, dark and close growing, and the log on which we sat was a good landmark, smooth as it was and white in the moonlight, and the moon would soon be up.

“What are you going to do?”

“Your uncle had some twenty men with him. He has fewer now … I think no more than sixteen or so. I'm going out to clip the odds a little more.”

“You'll be killed. You're a scholar. Those men are vicious … unprincipled.”

“And I'm principled. That, I suspect, places me at a disadvantage, and yet I'm not so sure that it does. At the moment I'm very much guided by several principles, and the first one is the desire to survive. The second one my family has used with some success. They believe in attack.”

“You'll be killed. You're no match for such men.”

It irritated me. Why do pretty women have the faculty of irritating? Almost as if they were trained for it. And, of course, they are. When one is irritated, one is not blasé. One must be interested or involved.

“You're mistaken. Socrates was a soldier, and a good one. So was Julius Caesar, and the playwright, Ben Jonson. There have been many.”

She stood straight, looking into my eyes. “Sir, I do not want you hurt. I do not want you killed.”

“Of course not. How could I help you obtain your treasure if I was dead? But I shall not be. Sit in those trees, and for God's sake, be still!”

Abruptly, I moved away from her. The moon was rising, and already it was growing lighter. Her doubt of my ability irritated me even more. I did not know who had attacked them after the horses were stampeded, but I knew that I had to carry the fight to them. Moreover, I must, if possible, free Davy and Jorge … if they yet lived.

There was silence upon the land. The aspen stood sentinel still in the moonlight, their golden coiffures shimmering slightly, gently, under the most delicate touch of the night air.

Down in the bottom, no fire glowed. No sound arose to meet me. There was a faint smell of woodsmoke from the extinguished fires, a dampness rising from the stream, and no other thing to disturb or impress itself upon the night.

Not only Lucinda's doubt rankled. There was also the quite obvious contempt of Rafen Falvey to spur me on. She doubted me capable of meeting him face-to-face, and he would have laughed at the idea.

When I had gone some three hundred yards, I squatted on my heels and listened. The stream rustled over its rocks, the aspens danced and whispered golden secrets to the moon. I heard nothing … and then I did.

Breathing. Someone breathing quite hard, a hoarse, rasping kind of breathing as someone after running. No. Someone hurt … someone wounded.

Listening, I placed the sound. Moved ever so gently. The breath caught … gasped. I edged closer. I could smell wet buckskin … then a low moan.

Was the sound familiar? I started to move, then some instinct brought my eyes up. The dark figure of a man was standing not four feet from me, and as I glimpsed him, I saw the spark leap as he pulled the trigger. Throwing myself aside, I shoved up the Ferguson and fired … not two inches from his body. The flash of his gun blinded me, and bits of powder stung my cheek, and then he was falling, falling right at me.

Almost automatically my fingers were fumbling with the reloading of my rifle. Dark as it was under the trees, my fingers felt true, and the gun was loaded, ready.

Again there was a low moan, then a whisper, “Scholar?”

It was Davy Shanagan.

Quickly, I moved to him. “Davy! Who did I shoot?”

“Don't … know.”

“Are you hit hard?”

He took my hand and guided it to his side. There was a lot of blood. A lot too much. And nothing to do with. There was my kerchief. Taking that off I packed some damp moss into the wound, then my kerchief, and tied it in place with his thick leather belt.

“Lie still,” I whispered. “Are you armed?”

“Knife. Rifle … empty.”

Charging his Kentucky, I placed it beside him, then edged over to the man I had shot. Moonlight had reached his side. He wore a beaded belt that I did not know. I found his pistol and loaded it, then his rifle. The rifle I left with Davy, and tucking the extra pistol into my belt, I eased myself away into the brush.

The two shots could not have gone unnoticed. Obviously two men had fired, and somebody was probably dead. Whoever else was out there had no way of knowing who.

Working closer and closer to the camp, I soon saw my efforts were wasted. It was deserted. One lone horse stood out on the meadow, cropping grass, but the others had scattered, as had the people. The woods would be full of them, and somewhere Jorge Ulibarri was also, perhaps safe, perhaps dead, perhaps wounded, and needing help as Davy had.

Yet the futility of my efforts became obvious. In the darkness I could not tell friend from enemy, nor could I hope to find them, scattered as they were. Slowly, I worked my way back to Davy. He was still there, sleeping now.

Edging back beside him, I waited, listening. To stay with him or return to Lucinda? Reason told me she was safe, but it also told me Davy was sleeping and there was no more I could do to help him for the time. I decided to return.

Fifteen minutes it must have taken me to go the last hundred yards, and I am a good judge of time. The log with the bark scaled away lay white like a fallen temple column in the moonlight. I went into the trees. No Lucinda.

I could not believe it.

I listened, and heard no breathing. I spoke softly, and had no answer. I felt about, and touched nothing.

Lucinda was gone.

I had told her to stay where she was, and she had not done so. My irritation changed to anger, then to fear. Suppose she had been taken? Suppose Rafen Falvey had found her, or some of his men?

Crawling to where I had left her sitting, I felt all around … nothing.

And then my hand touched a knife. My fingers explored it in the darkness. Almost no guard … single edge. She had no knife that I had ever seen, and this was a skinning knife.

Someone had been here. She had been taken … but where?

There had been no outcry. In the silence of the night I could have heard it for a great distance.

Easing back into deeper shadow, I settled myself to wait for daybreak. To crawl around now would only disturb what sign was left, and there was nothing I could do, either to fight or run, until the day came again.

I thought of deliberately building a fire. It would probably call some of them to me, friends or enemies … but the problem was to know one from the other in the darkness. So I huddled tight against the bole of a spruce, under the dark, down-bending branches, and waited.

It was very still. The small sounds of the night seemed only to make greater the silence. Somewhere an owl spoke mournfully across the moonlit meadow, a bird ruffled its feathers nearby, a pine cone dropped, whispering through the needles, then falling to the ground.

Under the spruces it was very dark. I sat, rifle across my knees, listening and waiting. Alone in the night there are many sounds to hear, sounds always present but only heard in moments of stillness and waiting. How often, I thought, men had waited like this. The Greeks, concealed in their wooden horse outside the walls of Troy, must have heard such sounds as they waited. Would the Trojans accept the bait? Would they leave the horse where it was? Draw it inside as booty? Would they destroy it? Set it afire? The Greek soldiers had only to wait, to hope, and to remain absolutely silent.

Now I could see the fires down below were not as cold and dead as I believed. I could see red coals, like the eyes of beasts, waiting.

Not far away was Davy Shanagan. Had my quick treatment helped him? Had the bleeding stopped? Long ago Irish soldiers at the Battle of Clontarf had used moss to stop the bleeding of their wounds, so perhaps my reading of history had taught me something after all.

What had happened to Lucinda? Why had she not stayed where I left her?

Dawn was going to bring many things to a climax with so many armed men in so brief a space. I must sleep. Even if only a little. And if I was inclined to snore, I hoped on this night I would not.

When tomorrow came, there would be much to do. Get those of our group that survived together again. Find Lucinda, get the treasure, if treasure there was, then escape.

To achieve this we must have some freedom of action, which meant freedom from attack. Hence, I must locate the enemy and move against him in such a way that he must defend himself. I must immobilize him for a time, at least.

He had lost his horses by my first action. If he had recovered them, or some of them, I must act to disperse them once more. What was it Sun Tzu had said in 496
B
.
C
.?
Speed is the essence of war. Take advantage of your enemy's unreadiness, move by unexpected routes, and attack unguarded spots
.

Well … if possible. And in the morning.

I went to sleep.

W
ITHIN ME WAS wariness … fear, if you like. My eyes opened upon a cold light, the gray, dim light before the sunrise. Lying still, I listened and heard nothing. Slowly, group by group I began to flex my muscles, pumping blood into them that my actions upon rising would be quicker. Carefully, I sat up.

A quail called … another answered.

Wiping the Ferguson clean of dew, I crept away from the bole of the tree to a better view. First I swept the area with a quick glance, then a more searching one. Then I directed my attention toward where Davy lay, but could see nothing of him, which was as it should be.

Rafen Falvey would try to assemble those men who remained with him. I believed he had lost at least four, but there had been further shooting, and the numbers might have been trimmed still more.

First, Lucinda.

Easing from my cover after a careful study of my surroundings, I went back toward the place I had left her. The log where we had rested was there.

Getting to my feet, I looked all around. Our tracks were plain enough, but she was gone.

A stir in the brush across from me and my Ferguson came level at waist height. Then a man emerged from the brush and it was Cusbe Ebitt. Behind him was Heath.

“They're movin',” Ebitt said. “Falvey has a skirmish line started up the slope … maybe two hundred yards back. Looks like they're aimin' to sweep the woods clean.”

“Where are the others?”

“Search me. Ain't seen anybody but Isaac in hours. Where's she?”

My explanation was brief. Turning suddenly, the log came into my range of vision again. What was it Van Runkle had said? Something about a bare log, the bark fallen off … the cave was behind it, up the hill somewhat.

Beckoning them, I went into the trees. We worked our way up, and in low tones I explained what we were looking for. If we could hide in the cave, and then attack after they had passed.
There
! Under an aspen, clearly cut into the earth, the right side of a heel print—the corner of the heel, the line of the side, and a slight bit of the curve at back. A small sign, but sufficient. Lucinda had come up the slope then, and through the trees in the darkness. Why?

Looking ahead, I saw nothing but the slim columns of the aspen, a few young spruce growing in their shelter, and a crisscrossing of fallen trees. The slope was steep. The light was better now.

A camp-robber jay was keeping us company on the lower branches. Once we heard a faint sound and saw an elk moving away, just vanishing.

The trees thinned out. Before us was a rocky face, some broken, fallen rock on the ground, and in the sandy soil near the cliff face another track, a moccasin track of a wide foot, toeing out somewhat.

Van Runkle!
We followed on and found Lucinda's track, well defined, again.

Van Runkle had Lucinda. I said it aloud and Isaac looked over at me. “Who is he?”

Explaining, I added, “He's been looking for the treasure, too. And he means to have it.”

“We'd better find 'em then, an' almighty quick. You can't tell about a man like that.”

We started again, searching for the cave, following the tracks.

And startled by this discovery, we forgot what we should have remembered.

Rafen Falvey and his men were coming up behind us.

CHAPTER 19
______________

I
T WAS A moment of carelessness that saved us. They were still a good thirty yards off and most of them were among the trees when one of them stepped on a dry branch. It cracked, and I turned more swiftly than I have ever turned, and dropping to one knee, I fired.

The bullet took the first man high in the chest. Ebitt was a dozen feet to my right, and at the crack of the dead branch, he dove into the brush. Isaac, only an instant behind me, fired also.

It was point-blank range and I believe they had not seen us for they were slow in returning our fire. Isaac went into the trees only a step behind me, and the crack of Ebitt's rifle from the brush caused another man to reel and fall. He scrambled up and ran, however, injured but not seriously. But our fire made them all take to the brush.

Once under cover, we scrambled to find the cave, which must be within a few yards of us. Oddly enough we passed its opening several times before we saw it, and then it was Isaac who glimpsed it first. One after another we crawled in. The opening was large enough for one man only, and nobody was going to try to enter there with armed men waiting inside. That would not preclude them firing into the cave, however.

We looked around, straining our eyes against the gloom. The rear wall of the cavern was no more than thirty feet from the opening, but there was a wide gap to the left and several openings led off from it. Ebitt crouched, studying the sandy floor in the dim light.

“There's tracks,” he said, “and they go into that one!”

We walked to the opening. There was a faint stir of cool air from the opening. “We'll need a torch,” Heath commented. “Back from the opening, a body can't see nothing.”

“Wait,” I said, loading my Ferguson. One hand felt for my pistol, and it was there.

We could hear shouts and yells from outside, the sounds of men crashing in the brush. Heath moved closer to me. “Seen some small boot-tracks. Likely to be Lucinda's.”

“All right,” I said. “Look around, Isaac. You might find something for a torch. Others have come this way and they'd need light.”

Suddenly I remembered. “Be careful! There may be a drop off!”

Their voices receded, and for the moment I was alone. The temperature of the cave was cool, but not unpleasant. Rifle in hand, I sat watching the circle of light that was the entrance. I was tired. For days I had been riding, running, climbing, and now it was reaching me. No sound came from outside. Had they gone away? Or were they sitting outside, waiting for us to appear? And where were the others? Where were Solomon, Bob, Degory and Jorge?

Isaac returned. For several minutes I heard his feet coming along the passage before I saw him. “We've found some pine knots. Quite a store of them.”

“Then we'll go.”

He turned and I straightened up, stretching a little. The butt of the Ferguson touched the rock wall and I turned to look.

A Maltese Cross
…

Chipped into the wall, and not recently, by the look of it. A Maltese Cross with one side of a cross bar longer than the other. Accident? Or intent?

No footprints in the sand led into that tunnel. I hesitated, staring into the blackness. From down the other passage, Heath called, “You comin'?”

“In a minute.”

Van Runkle had warned of deep wells within this cave. Was it true? Or merely a means to prevent my wandering and searching?

I took a step into the blackness. The air was cool. It seemed to be dead air … or did I feel a ghost of movement? Another step, my hand upon the wall, my rifle point probing ahead of me.

Nothing. I took another step, and my foot kicked a small fragment fallen from the wall, or carried in on the mud of a boot. The stone hit something, then fell. A long time later I heard it hit, something far down below me, and then again, still farther. A still longer time, then a splash.

Very carefully, I stepped back, then turned and retreated into the dim light of the entrance cave. Was that where the treasure was? Or was it a deathtrap deliberately planned for the curious or the searcher after gold?

Enough for now. Somewhere Lucinda might need us, and her life was more precious than whatever gold there might be. I walked swiftly along the passage until I saw a glow of light ahead.

Isaac and Cusbe waited, both with lighted pine knots. Taking another from the goodly pile, I lighted it also and we started along the tunnel at a good clip. A hundred feet of slowly enlarging tunnel, then a vast room. But an opening was directly opposite and we crossed the room, seeing the scar of a footprint in the dripping from the rocks above.

When we had gone some distance, we saw light ahead. We smothered our torches, and stepping into the lead, I walked on.

We found ourselves in a roomy, pleasant cave. There were several bearskins about, one of them on a bench with other furs. And the first thing we saw was Van Runkle. He was seated on a skin-covered seat of some sort, with a shotgun in his hands, and he was watching us. Lucinda sat on the bearskin against the wall.

“Thank you for taking care of Miss Falvey,” I said quietly. “It was good of you, sir.”

His shrewd eyes appraised us. “Ain't said as I was,” he replied. “Mebbe I'm a-holdin' her. Right nice filly, that one. Better'n a squaw.”

“I agree. She's a handsome lass. And we, my friends and I, have taken it upon ourselves to find what she came here to get, and then to escort her to a place in civilization where she can live as a young lady should.”

“Nice of you.” He took his pipe from his mouth with his left hand. “Right nice. If'n I decide to let her go.”

“And as one gentleman to another, I know you will. The young lady is far from home and relatives. Naturally she's frightened—”

“I am not!” She held her head proudly, her chin lifted a little. “I'm not afraid of him. He brought me here when I was cold and tired, and he's been very kind.”

“Of course. Mr. Van Runkle and I have met before, and he is kind, and a gentleman, as I suggested.

“Now, sir, I think we had better think of getting out of here and continuing on our way. We must round up our horses, as we have far to go.”

“You just stand right there where you be. You ain't goin' to cut much figger with a belly full of buckshot, and I got it to give you. Hayl bullets, some calls 'em. Well, whatever they call 'em, they're just as good at tearin' a man up.”

“You might shoot,” I said, “but we'd kill you. I have a rifle, as have these gentlemen with me. And no matter how much buckshot you throw my way, I'll still manage a shot. Believe me, I will.

“The mind is a powerful thing, my friend, and the will can complete a movement even when a man's dying. If you shoot, I'll kill you as well.”

“Mebbe. An' mebbe you ain't got the guts for it.”

I smiled at him. “Mr. Van Runkle, you may wonder why a man of my attainments has come west. I came west to die, sir. My wife and my child died back there in a fire. There are many fires in a land where candlelight and open fireplaces exist, and I lost all I loved.

“So you see, Mr. Van Runkle, I have the edge. I just don't give a damn!”

Lucinda was staring at me as if she had never seen me before.

Van Runkle scowled. There was a difference between facing a man who might be controlled by fear and one who was utterly careless, and my story had just enough truth in it for him to believe me. He had no wish to die, but you cannot bluff a man who simply does not care … and he was not prepared to gamble on the fact that I might be lying.

“Put the gun down, Van Runkle,” I said quietly, “or shoot, but when your finger tightens on that trigger, you're going to take a slug right through the belly!”

Ebitt, who had entered the room with his gun muzzle lowered, now tilted his, as did Isaac Heath.

“Hell,” Van Runkle said with disgust, “you just ain't got no humor! I didn't mean to shoot nobody! I got as much reason for stoppin' that Falvey feller as you uns have!” He put his shotgun down and stood up.

His gaze leveled at me. “You got nerve, young feller.”

“It's not hard to be brave,” I said, “when you just don't care.”

Lucinda came over to us. I gestured with my gun muzzle. “Lead us out of here, Van Runkle, and you walk ahead.” He started to pick up the shotgun. “No … we've guns enough. You walk on.”

I picked up the shotgun. I still did not believe him a bad man. A dangerous one, yes. A man who might seek to take advantage of an opportunity that seemed to offer itself, but not a genuinely bad man. Nevertheless, while believing that, I was quite sure I was going to keep my eyes open and my gun handy so that no such opportunity should come upon him again. It was my job to see that he was not tempted.

The mountain was honeycombed with caves, as was the scarp where we now were. A thought occurred to me, and I mentioned it.

“Are the caves connected under the valley?”

“I figure so,” he admitted, “although I never found a way. Mebbe it's under water. More'n likely it's all one big cave. Miles of passages nobody ever looked into, not even me, and I seen more of these caves than even them old-time Injuns.”

We emerged on a ledge, higher up on the mountain and among some cedars, wind-barbered spruce, and the like. Just above us was the shelf of the plateau of which the escarpment was the edge, and below the country was laid out as on a map, a clear view of a magnificent stretch of country.

How to locate our people? Neither Ebitt nor Heath had any suggestions. All we could do was explore, carefully, and hope we came upon them.

“The key to the situation is Rafen Falvey,” I commented, to no one in particular. “If he was out of the way, I think the rest of them would break up and scatter out.”

“You're dead right,” Heath said grimly, “but how do you figure to be rid of him?”

“If he were whipped, decisively whipped, I think he'd lose most of his men. I propose to challenge him.”

They stared at me, and I am quite sure they thought whatever good sense I'd had had abandoned me. Isaac Heath cleared his throat. “Now see here,” he spoke reasonably, “you've been doing well out here. For a scholar, you're an almighty good rifle shot, and you've stood up well to the life, but have you ever really
looked
at Rafen Falvey?”

“That's quite a man,” Cusbe commented. “He'll outweigh you forty pounds, he's a couple of inches taller, and I figure he's a whole lot meaner than you be.”

Lucinda was watching me, and it irritated me to be considered less than Falvey before her. She was nothing to me … simply a girl I was helping through a bad time … nonetheless I liked not the belittling.

“He's somewhat taller, but I'm more solid than I look, and I doubt if he's more than twenty pounds heavier. As for being meaner … I'm not at all sure about that.”

“Lay off him,” Cusbe advised. “He'll kill you. The man moves like a cat. You've seen him in action. He's swift, sure, and never at a loss. He's a dead shot and good with a knife. How do you figure you could match him?”

“Knives, pistols, or fists,” I said. “He can choose the weapons.” I touched the knife at my side. “This is the finest steel ever made.”

The fact that I was a bookish man led them to believe I might be less physical than they, but as a matter of fact I have always been uncommonly strong and agile. Strength of body was an inherited quality in my family, and my life had been an active one since boyhood. In Europe I had hiked, fenced, wrestled, and boxed, and had been considered an unusually skillful swordsman.

It was true that I had had few fights of any kind, but I came of a fighting stock, professional soldiers and fighting men, adventurers and seafaring men. If one is to judge from racehorses and hunting dogs, breeding counts for much.

“No use talkin' of it,” Cusbe said. “Even if you two fit an' you whopped him, there's no reason to believe he'd hold to his word. That's a dangerous, treacherous man yonder, and nobody for a schoolteacher to face up to.”

I was nettled … angry. “Many scholars have been men of uncommon strength,” I said irritably. “Socrates, for example. He once threw Alcibiades and held him down, and Alcibiades was not only very strong, a noted athlete, but a young rowdy.

“Leonardo da Vinci could bend iron horseshoes with his hands, and Plato was a noted athlete before he became a teacher. Plato was actually a nickname, given him because of his broad shoulders.”

“We ain't talkin' of them,” Cusbe replied. “You just forget any such nonsense. That's a dangerous man, yonder. A fighter from wayback.”

Perhaps I was a fool, but their objections only made me angrier. To meet Falvey and destroy him seemed the only immediate answer.

How long we had been underground I had not realized, but the morning sun was bright, dancing on the ripples of the stream far below. No man could have dreamed a scene more lovely or more peaceful. Looking up at the peaks, my heart felt good.

“You goin' down yonder?” Van Runkle asked.

“We are.”

“You got no call to take me. I got no use for them down there, but I surely ain't goin' to 'em without me a
wee
-pon.”

“You've weapons enough in those caves,” I said. “Go get one of them. I've no wish to take a load of buckshot in the back.”

“I'd not shoot you,” Van Runkle protested, “but I set store by that gun. That's a gen-you-ine Henry Nock scattergun. They don't make them no better.”

“You're right, sir. I had the good fortune to meet Mr. Nock in England when he was developing this gun. I'll care for it, and with luck, I'll return it to you. Now crawl into your hole and be off.”

The Ferguson I slung on my back. For the moment the shotgun might be more useful. It was a powerful, double-barreled weapon, much superior to the long-barreled fowling pieces that preceded shotguns, some with barrels as much as six and one-half feet long, and cumbersome to handle.