The Ferguson Rifle

The mountain here sloped steeply down, the side covered with trees. Undoubtedly at least one man was stationed there where he could see anyone approaching the camp as the interloper came between the watcher and the fires. It was likely that one or more men would be stationed in the bottom itself, one out in the grass, another in the creek bed.

My eyes grew accustomed to the deeper darkness, and I could see that there was nothing in the next twenty feet, so I moved up. A few more discreet moves and I was able to distinguish faces in the company about the fire, and see where the horses were kept in a rope corral beyond it.

A part of my problem was solved. I had to create confusion and hit them where it would hurt most, and the answer was obvious--their horses.

Without horses, existence in this country was virtually impossible. And without their horses they could carry no treasure, nor could they escape.

If their horses were scattered, they must scatter in search of them.

Van Runkle now edged close. "What you aimin' to do?" "Stampede their horses." "Uh-huh. If'n you can get clost enough, and if'n you can cut that rope." Crouched among the rocks, we watched the camp. The fires were high, and they were cooking. The smell of food reminded me of how hungry I was, but there would be no time for that now. The camp was in a scattered grove of trees near the stream, a poor place for defense, yet a good place to hold the horses. From their disposition, they must believe no Indians were in the vicinity.

"Is there a cave? Somewhere I can hide? I mean if I get her away from them, we'll have to run." Van Runkle hesitated. Obviously he had no desire to surrender his secrets, and he alone knew where the entrances of the caves were hidden.

But by some good fortune I had won him at least partially to my side. "There's a cave up yonder." He pointed up the slope and behind the camp. "It ain't part of my lot so far's I know, but she's deep. There's some holes back in yonder, so I'd not get too far in, if I was you. You'll find it right behind some spruce with a half-peeled log lyin' in front." Well, it was a help. I disliked the idea of using an escape hatch I had not tested, but there was no remedy for it. If I was fortunate enough to get the rope cut and the horses stampeded, I would have to get away at once before they scattered out and found me.

The night was growing cold. I watched the fire with longing, and then began my furtive crossing of the meadow between my position and the belt of trees along the creek.

Somewhere out in the open there would be a picket, a man sitting or lying down and waiting just for me.

With luck I could pass far behind him. With no luck, I would be heard and shot without a chance.

Fortunately, the wind was picking up, and with leaves stirring and branches rustling, my movements might pass u

Kneeling at the edge of the grass, I peered off in the direction I must travel. Roughly three hundred feet, but during all of that time I would be exposed. I felt strangely naked and alone.

I had no experience of war, and at an age when many young men had encounters with Indians, I had been studying in Europe or America. What in God's name was I doing here, anyway? Why had I ever left the east? And why was I taking such risks for a girl whom I scarcely knew?

Easing out to full length, my rifle across my upper arms, I squirmed out upon the grass, walking myself forward with my elbows. On my left I could hear the murmur of voices at the fires but could distinguish no words.

My body length... again... I crawled on. Sweat beaded my brow despite the chill wind. The earth was cold beneath me; the grass felt stiff and old. Leaves in the trees rustled, and I crawled on. Glancing back, I saw I was at least a third of the way out... at any moment I could come upon a sentry.

The thought occurred to me that I was in no position to defend myself if attacked, nor to attack myself. To accomplish anything I must rise, then strike, and it might be too late. Sliding my left hand down, I slipped off the thong that held my knife in its scabbard and drew it, then I took it in my teeth, the haft toward my right side.

It seemed silly and melodramatic, for I had seen old pen drawings of pirates carrying their knives so when boarding ships and using both hands in the process. But with the knife in my teeth, I had no need to rise, only to seize it and strike. I think it saved my life.

Inching forward, I fought down an impulse to rise and run for the trees, and held to my original pace, moving as silently as possible.

Holding my head down, I suddenly felt the need to look up, and did.

Not three feet from me was a guard sitting cross-legged on the grass. At the instant I saw him, he saw me.

A moment we stared. He started to move, opening his mouth to yell, and in that instant I grabbed my knife by the hilt and swung it left to right, a wicked slash.

He had leaned slightly forward as one will do when starting to rise, and my backward slash was with all my strength. I held a knife of the finest steel, with an edge like a razor, and it cut deep and back.

The knife finished its cut and he was still trying to rise and draw his own knife when my hand came back. Making no effort to reverse the knife, I swung my arm in a mighty blow and struck him on the temple with the end of the hilt. He grunted and collapsed forward onto the ground, and then, in a panic, I was up and gripping rifle in one hand, bloody knife in the other, I ran.

At the trees, I drew up, not wanting to smash into them, and skidded to a halt.

All was quiet. Looking back, I could see nothing at all. Crouching, I slid my knife hilt deep into the earth and withdrew it, to cleanse it of blood. Rising, I slid into the trees and began working my way toward the corral.

There was little time. What I would do must be done at once, for soon they would change guards or call out to them and the missing one would be discovered.

Soundlessly, I moved through the trees toward the fire.

Twenty feet back from the rope, I stopped.

The horses had sensed me and were restless. I could see past their ears, for I was on somewhat higher ground, and in the camp I could see men eating, lying around, one man cleaning a rifle.

At first I saw nothing of Davy, Jorge, or Lucinda, and then I did. Lucinda was near to me, seated at the base of a tree, tied hand and foot. Falvey was near her. Beyond, and across the fire, I could see Shanagan. His hands appeared to be tied behind him. I couldn't spot Jorge.

No chance to get to Davy, but she was close.

So were the horses. So far nobody had noticed their uneasiness. Stepping down through the trees, my hand found the encircling rope. A quick slash of the knife and it fell apart.

One of the horses jumped and snorted; the others bunched quickly. I ran at them, cutting the rope in another place and suddenly letting out a wild whoop.

They started to mill, then lunged and ran. A few of them hit the loosened rope and went through it and into the camp on a dead run. Men scattered.

I saw one knocked down. The ru

I was within a dozen feet of Lucinda.

Grabbing her by the collar, I lifted her bodily to her feet, and risking cutting her, I made a quick slash at the ropes at her ankles, then at her wrists.

A gun roared, almost in my ear it seemed, and a bullet struck the aspen near me and spat bark and stinging slivers into my face. Turning quickly, I shot from the hip, aiming at Falvey who had been knocked down by a horse as he started to rise. My shot missed, hitting a man just beyond him.