The Ferguson Rifle

Above us there was light filtering down and we emerged on a steep hillside among several spruce trees that grew where there was scarce room for a man to stand. But just outside the entrance, which was under a shelf of rock and no more than three by four feet, was a flat rock.

Van Runkle seated himself. "A body can set here an' see whatever's in the bottom yonder. We're almost directly above the crack where you came into the cave, an' that there's the only blind spot for more'n a mile except for under the trees yonder." I looked, and although I saw nothing of my friends, the first thing I did see was a jagged streak of white quartz on the rock wall opposite, just across the bottom and beyond the creek. From here I could see that creek, sunlight on its ripples. Hastily, I averted my eyes, not to seem too curious.

The wall along which I had run while following the dry watercourse that led to this cave had been of bluish stone, the jagged streak of quartz was opposite, and somewhere nearby Van Runkle had found a Maltese cross on the rock.

Somewhere here, perhaps within a few yards, the treasure was buried or hidden.

"Nobody in sight," Van Runkle said, "and I surely can't hear anything. She's quiet as can be." Suddenly something stirred up the valley, and then a deer appeared. Behind it were two others.

Tentatively they walked out on the grass and began to nibble.

Nothing happened; nothing disturbed them.

Down the valley I could see the bustling brown bodies of the marmots.

Across the way the slim white trunks of the aspen, under golden clouds of leaves, caught the sunlight. The grass of the meadow was green with patches of golden coneflower, the reds and pinks of wild rose and geranium.

"I'd like to own five thousand acres of this," I told him.

"What would you do with it?" "Keep it. Keep it just as it is. I would not change it for anything under the sun. But it wouldn't have to be five thousand acres, just a piece of it that I could keep as it is now, fresh, clean, beautiful.

"There's no finer land than this before man puts a hand on it." "You against men?" "Of course not. Only men must do. It's in their nature to do, and much of what they've done is for the best, only sometimes they start doing before they understand that what they'll get won't be nearly as wonderful as what they had." He grabbed my arm. "Look! An' be quiet!" The marmots were scuttling. The deer turned their behinds to us and vanished into the brush; and there was for a moment stillness.

And into t stillness rode Rafen Falvey, and beside him was Lucinda. Behind them rode four men, armed and ready, and behind them Davy Shanagan and Jorge Ulibarri, hands and feet tied.

"Looks like he done taken the pot," Van Runkle said.

"No," I replied, "he has not. Not by a damned sight. I'm still holding cards in this game. Show me how to get down there, will you?"

CHAPTER 17

Yet for all my bold talk, when we reached the meadow, I had no idea of what to do or which way to go. Only that I must do something, and at once.

Where were the others? Had they been wiped out while I was in the deepest part of the cave and could not hear the shooting? Or had Falvey somehow captured Lucinda, Davy, and Jorge while they were separated from the group?

A moment only it required for decision. I could, of course, try to round up Degory, Solomon, and the others, yet in the meantime Davy, Jorge, and Lucinda might be put to the torture. I had no doubt that was intended, and no doubt that the reason Ulibarri and Davy were alive was simply to use them to compel Lucinda to tell what she knew... and they would never believe she knew so little.

Van Runkle stood beside me and I turned to him. "Is there a good camping place up the draw?" He shrugged. "I reckon. Depends on judgment. The whole draw is a good place to camp. There's grass, fuel, and water. I don't figure they'll go far. If they reckon this is where it's at, they'll stay by." True enough. And it was up to me to get my friends away, somehow to free them. If the others were alive, they would appear. If they were not, I would be foolish to waste time searching, especially as I was afoot. The fact that I was basically a walking man was a help. I was a rider, of course, but I always thought better and worked better on my feet.

"What d'you figure to do?" Van Runkle asked. His calm blue eyes studied me with curiosity.

"To get them away. I'll have to get close, see what the situation is, and then move.

"It's been a tradition in my family, when faced by enemies, to attack. No matter how many, no matter where. I had an ancestor named Tatton Chantry. He was a soldier in his time, and a fighting man always. He always said, "Never let them get set. Think, look around, there's always someplace where they're vulnerable.

Attack, always attack... and keep moving." "Good advice, if a body can do it." "Well, I got nothin' to gain, but I'll sort of traipse along an' see what happens, but don't you go to dependin' on me.

I'm like as not to disappear into the bresh come fightin' time." We started off, walking fast toward the north.

We kept along the edge of the woods, under the trees when a route offered itself, out at their edge when there was none.

My heart and lungs were acclimated to the altitude by now, and my condition was good. I moved out fast, keeping the Ferguson ready for a quick shot. The afternoon was well along and I had no doubt that in the leisure provided by a campfire they would try to learn whatever Lucinda knew.

Yet warily as I moved, my mind was busy with what could be done. To attack them head-on was out of the question. There were too many men and too many skilled woodsmen. So I must attack them where they were vulnerable, create confusion, and then somehow get their prisoners away. It was rather too much to expect of myself, but when one begins there is a certain impetus given by the fact of begi

Possibly because I had no idea of what else to do.

Being the man I was, eternally questioning not only my motives but those of others, even as I moved forward my mind asked questions and sought answers.

I suspect what I was doing would be called courageous. If I rescued them, it might even be considered an heroic action, but was it? Was I not conditioned by reading, by hearing, by understanding what I should do?

To simply sit by was worse than to do, for then I should have no idea of what was happening, of how my destiny was being influenced by people over whom I had no control.

The sunset was spectacular. The sky streaked itself with rose and the region of the sun became an indescribable glory. All my life I have used words, and yet I find times when they are totally inadequate.

So it was now, and not only because of the backlight left by the sun, which had vanished beyond the mountains, but because I had come upon Rafen Falvey's camp.

There was no attempt at concealment.

Obviously he was not worried about Indians, which indicated he was rather a fool. It was, I assumed, an instance of his arrogance. One hates Indians or loves them, tries to understand them or simply guards against them, but one never takes them for granted.

Of course, he had a motive for display.

He wanted me, and he wanted whoever he did not have. His idea was to lure us to approach... which meant he probably had pickets posted rather well out.

I stopped, Van Runkle still trailing me at a little distance.

Falvey had not one fire going, but three.

Men moved in the vicinity of the fires. I was a hundred yards or so from the camp, and that I could see.