The Ferguson Rifle

There's a spring, and a scattering of trees, good grass. Bob Sandy was to stay with our stock, him being in no shape to traipse over the country." We backed off from the camp area. It was unlikely a horse would remain in an abandoned camp without reason. That it was picketed or somehow kept there seemed obvious.

We went back from the edge of the scarp and worked our way by game trails through stunted oaks, oak brush, and a few pines. Stopping from time to time to listen, we heard nothing. At the copse where the horses had been left, all was quiet. The horses were there, cropping grass or standing head to tail to swish flies from each other's noses.

For some minutes we lay still, studying the situation.

There was no sign of life, but there easily could be somebody in the shadows at several points. And Bob should be there.

The shotgun I carried was growing heavy, and I wanted nothing so much as a chance to put it down, to drink some coffee, eat something, and then saddle up and pull out.

After a few minutes of observation when we saw no one, we descended into the hollow and saddled our mounts and the others as well.

It was an eerie feeling, and all of us had a sense of foreboding. Falvey was in the area, he had a good-sized force, and without doubt some at least had recaptured their horses. Undoubtedly they were expecting a move from us, just as we were from them.

To the east of the hollow, there was a thick stand of pines, and we led the horses into ^the and through them to a smaller but more easily defended hollow on the far side. There was fuel in plenty, and risking discovery, we made coffee and a meal.

Fitfully, we napped, taking turns at watching. As darkness came nearer, we knew a move must be made. I had been thinking about the Maltese Cross in the cave. Presumably there was another one outside as well, the one Van Runkle had found, but I could not be certain.

On the ground near me, I traced out a line showing the edge of the scarp and the mountain opposite, the location of the cave with the cross, and our own position. If I was not mistaken, we were not more than three hundred yards back of that cave in a southeasterly direction.

Choosing a tall, ragged pine standing on the rim of the scarp for a landmark, I sighted along a line from our position to that tree. About halfway to the pine was an outcropping of rock. Between there and here a small pine was a deadfall. I should be able to hold a true course even in darkness. I found a couple of pine knots loaded with pitch and put them in a convenient place.

Lucinda came over to me. "What do you plan to do?" "Get the treasure and get out," I replied.

"Good!" she said quickly. "I want to go.

even without it. Let's just go!" She was silent for a moment, and then she said, "I'm afraid of him. I believe he'd willingly kill us all... every one!" Despite my bold wish to challenge him, I was not unafraid myself. That Rafen Falvey was a fighting man almost without peer was something we accepted. He was a bold, daring man who kept his crew of roughs in submission partly through fear and partly through sheer personality. Yet, stubbornly, I refused to admit defeat. I would have the treasure... then we would go.

The country around was deceptively calm.

Nobody moved wherever we looked.

For the moment, we seemed secure, which is a dangerous feeling. At such times one becomes vulnerable, and we had no wish to be attacked.

As I studied the terrain, looking not only for movement but for any suggestion of past movement, it seemed to me that the thing to do was to make one quick attempt to obtain the treasure, and then to get out of the country as swiftly as possible. Our main object was to protect Lucinda, on this all would agree, and that meant getting away. Sandy, Talley, Kemble, Shanagan, and Jorge knew our destination and could follow, if they lived, and if we did.

Ebitt moved over to me, studying the country as I did. "Have you got an idea where the stuff is?" "I think I know where it is." "Well, you're one up on me. I surely don't." Then I explained about the Maltese Cross in the cave. "I think the long arm of the cross was a deception... intended as a trap. I think the stuff is buried below it." "Could be." Cusbe lighted his pipe. "I wished those boys would get to us. I fear for them... and for us." "And I do. Shanagan was in bad shape." We waited out the day, snatching bits of rest, letting the horses crop grass and store strength for the coming race across the plains.

The shadows lengthened. They were waiting as well as we, but with darkness there would be renewed activity, and suddenly I decided that now was the time to move, now in the last moments of light.

We mounted, and moved out, pointing across the grass toward the outcropping. Somewhere a quail called inquiringly into the stillness, but there was no other sound but our horses' hooves in the grass.

At the outcropping, we drew up, merging our outline into the grayness of the rocks.

My rifle was over my shoulder on a sling, but the shotgun I carried in my hands. For a moment we were still, studying the edge of the woods, listening, waiting. There was no sound, yet I was worried.

"I believe they're waiting for us," I whispered to Heath. "I think they know where we are." "Then there'll be a fight." At the ragged pine leaning over the edge of the scarp, we drew rein. Swinging from the saddle, I handed the shotgun to Heath. "I'll go down alone.

Do you stand by with Lucinda." Before us lay the edge of the scarp, behind the open country we had crossed. Cusbe Ebitt swung to the ground, followed by Lucinda and Isaac. The position was not good, but there were a few low rocks, some brush, and a fallen tree. None were advantageously placed, but they offered slight shelter.

At this point, the scarp was all of sixty feet high, and I could but dimly make out what lay below. There were several possible routes down, and I chose what seemed the most simple.

Careful to dislodge no stone, I worked my way down, taking my time. There was no sound from above.

At the bottom, all remained still. It was too good, and I did not like it. A broken tree I had taken as a marker was close by the opening, but I did not immediately move that way. Something was now stirring down on the bottom but I could make out nothing. It sounded like horses... several of them.

Carefully, I edged along, looking for the mark.

The cave was near. Taking the Ferguson from my back, and checking the position of my pistol, I moved toward it.

Suddenly I was there, and I paused, drawing deeper into the shadows. All was at stake. I acted upon no knowledge, only a hunch, a feeling.

Nor would I be permitted much time for searching.

Even now my friends atop the scarp might be in danger of their lives. Indeed, they were at every minute they remained in this place.

The dark mouth of the cave yawned near me.

What awaited within? Van Runkle? It was possible. He, at least, knew this spot, and the others could have discovered it. Scholarship would help me not at all, only muscle, nerve, swiftness of action, and luck.

How much had I changed in the weeks since I rode away from the Mississippi and started west?

Or had the change not begun before that, when my wife died, and my son?

There were fires enough. Each year families died, homes were destroyed. Sparks from a fireplace, overturned candlesticks... there were many such accidents, and mine had been but one of these.

My tragedy was but one among many, but to me it was the only one. To me my wife and son were not statistics, but the heartbeat of my life.

Had the change begun then? Or was there, actually, any change at all? Had not these feelings, these instincts, been lying deep within me?