The Ferguson Rifle (16 page)

CHAPTER 21
______________

H
E FELL BACK, out of the cave, and we came up together. His men were waiting outside and I prayed they had heard nothing. They started to close in, but the click of a rifle hammer stopped them.

“We got some rifles out here”—it was Solomon Talley speaking—“and we don't much mind who we shoot. You men just step back and let them be. If they've something to settle, let them have at it.”

Falvey laughed. “You'd fight
me
?” His amusement was obvious. “Schoolteacher, you're more of a fool than I suspected.”

“Possibly. But that's something we'll have to discover, isn't it?”

“What weapons then, schoolmaster, do you choose?”

“Whatever you like. I'd prefer to whip you with a weapon you've chosen. Shall it be hand-to-hand?”

He laughed again. “Scholar, in my pirate days I was considered the greatest hand-to-hand fighter among all who flew the black flag. Why not choose again?”

“Afraid?”

His laughter wiped out on the instant. “Afraid? Of
you
? Why, you contemptible—!”

“What is it then? Are you choosing name-calling, Falvey? Is that your weapon? Only a loud mouth?”

“Hand-to-hand, then. Fists and as you will. Take to the knife when it pleases us.”

“And no interruptions, gentlemen!” That was Heath speaking, so they were here, too. All of us, I hoped.

He struck, suddenly, savagely. An inch or two lower and he might have knocked me out, but there was a quick, partial move to evade on my part and the fist took me on the cheekbone, a wicked blow that staggered me, shook me to my heels, and all I could do was duck my head and close with him.

He threw me promptly, over his hip and into the dust, and then he dropped, a knee ready for my belly, but I rolled over swiftly, unexpectedly for him, and we both came up fast. But that time I was first to land. A stiff, straight punch to the teeth, that shook him to his heels and then we were fairly at it.

He was the taller man, with the longer arms, and he was heavier, but since a boy I had hiked and rambled in the woods, had swung an axe, and growing older had tumbled and wrestled with other lads. In Europe I had fenced and boxed. Often I had sparred with Daniel Mendoza, one of the greatest pugilists of the time, hence I was not quite the innocent they believed me to be.

He smashed me in the face with both fists, and I put a solid one to his ribs. He struck me again, on the ear, then on the chest, but I put another one under his heart. We sparred briefly, and then were at it, hammer and tongs, both fists flying. He landed more punches, and for a time the harder ones, but I put three more stiff ones into his midsection, and one to the face.

He backheeled me and we both fell. Again he tried for my groin with the knee, but I smashed up with both feet as he came down and kicked him off. He hit the ground on his backside, but we both came to our feet together.

“So, Scholar, you can fight, too?”

“A little,” I said, “but I am not the greatest hand-to-hand fighter under the black flag.”

He came in swiftly, struck at my face with a jab of his left that I parried, hitting him again over the heart.

He laughed at me. “Nothing but ribs there, you'll do no good. They're iron.”

I feinted toward his face, stepped in and smashed another one to the same place, and then as we clinched, I hit him twice more in the same spot. He threw me off, angry now. Struck me in the face. I went under his next blow with a straight, hard right to the body.

The blow caught him coming in and I knew I had hurt him. He smashed me in the face with an elbow, over and back, and I butted him under the chin, not minding the rough stuff, stamped on his instep, and butted him again. He broke free, cut my face with a right, and took two solid ones to the belly, and they hurt. He backed away, circling, trying to decide what to do with me. Finally he came in, I ducked one punch, but the second caught me fairly on the chin and I was knocked down. Dazed, I started to get up. He kicked at my face and I had barely the chance to turn my head. The kick cut the side of my head and knocked me over into the dust. He jumped to come down on my stomach with both heels, but I jerked both knees up and kicked out. My double kick caught him coming down and spilled him. He fell near me, grabbing at my face with his clawed hand, reaching for my eyes.

Panic-stricken, wild with fear, I struck his hand away and scrambled up. He was wild now, and he came at me swinging both fists. I was driven back and back, his fists hammering at my face, and there was no chance to get set, no chance to ward off the blows. I went to my knees and his own eagerness carried him on. He half fell and we both got up, but he was on me like a tiger. I could not get a blow into him, only keep my elbows in close and my hands close to my face. Had he taken a bit more time he might have had me then, for the very ferocity of his attack swept me back. I had boxed much, but had never fought anyone like him, and he was relentless. Finally in sheer desperation I ducked my head against his chest and smashed both hands to the body.

He shoved me off, chopped a short one to my chin, and I shook it off and went in, swinging both fists to his body, and then lifting a right in a furious uppercut that caught him on the chin. He staggered, and his knees buckled, and as he started to fall, his hand went to his knife.

It caught the haft and he swung the blade in a wicked slice at my belly that had it reached me would surely have ripped me open from side to side. My own blade came out, but this was something at which I had my own skill. He came in, but I was ready, my knife held low for the soft parts of the body. He slashed again but I parried it with my own knife and his blade slid off it and away. I stepped in to cut him, and his knife came back and up. Too late I saw it coming, tried to evade the trap he had set for me. The knife was coming up hard for my groin, and there was but one thing I could do. Using his shoulder as a balance point, I turned sharply on the ball of my left foot, spinning clear around. The blade missed … or seemed to … and I fell backward to the ground.

He turned sharply to face me, knife ready to kill. Cold sweat broke over me. For the first time I really realized what I was in for. In the turmoil of movement and fighting, somehow there had been no realization that this was a fight to the death. Subconsciously the knowledge had been there, of course. In that moment of looking up at him, his eyes blazing, his face twisted with ferocity, I knew I wanted to live.

He came at me. The point of my blade to him, I dropped my other hand to the earth beside me. How to get up without that terrible moment of rising off-balance and vulnerable. He circled and I turned my feet toward him, turning clockwise, and then he stepped in.

Instantly I hooked my toe behind his ankle and kicked hard with my heel for his kneecap.

It should have broken his leg, but he threw himself backward to the ground and my heel glanced harmlessly off his shin, and then we were both up, facing each other.

There was no contempt now, no fear, only desperation, eagerness for the kill, and the knowledge on his part as on mine that all the chips were down.

There was sudden confidence in me. I had survived this long, I had met him on even terms, and it was he who first resorted to the blade. And the knife I held in my hand had been long in my family. The knife from India … long since … how much history there was to that knife! A history of many Chantrys, and of others, men who had used that blade of the finest steel ever created.

Confidence welled up within me. With this knife, this blade—

He came at me then, and he came to kill.

He was quick. His knife flicked out like a snake's tongue and I felt the bite of it in my arm. Not deep, but a few more of those … Many knife fighters used just that tactic, flicking slashes with the point of the blade, never getting too close, always difficult to reach, and in a matter of minutes a man might be bleeding from two dozen gashes, and growing steadily weaker.

Yet he was not playing for time. He wished to make me cautious, less of a threat to himself while he sought the opening he wanted. He circled, always ready. His knife blade came again, and my parry was an instant too late. Another tiny slash, blood showing in two places on my knife arm now.

I let my arm shrink back, closer to my body. His eyes flicked to mine and purposely I feigned weakness, circling away. He feinted, and I stepped back so sharply that I stumbled. He was still not sure, but his blade flicked again. That time I parried the blow successfully, yet feigned clumsiness.

Suddenly stepping in, he drove a hard blow at my eyes, which I parried, and for a moment, our knives locked tight by the strength of our muscles, we were face-to-face.

“Now I'm going to kill you, Scholar.” He said it softly, smiling a little.

“Yes?” I said, then gave ground as if weakening, yet keeping my knife tight to his.

He disengaged suddenly, feinted a thrust, and I countered as if my right arm were stiffening or weakening. He circled, still wary, watching for his moment. It came suddenly.

My point fell a little, and then as if fighting weakness, I raised my arm higher and wider to the right, out of line with my body. Trapping him though I was, his attack was so sudden, so swift that he nearly nailed me.

He lunged, thrusting for my abdomen. Only the swift turn of my body saved me and a slight deflecting blow with my left palm against his right arm. The thrust went past, ripping my shirt front. Instantly my own blade cut down. My hand turned thrusting down and in from the thumb side of the hand. Too late he saw it coming and tried to knock down my hand. His blow missed and my blade stabbed home, into the solar plexus and to the hilt.

He gave a grunt as my fist struck his body, my left hand went to his shoulder and pushed him hard away, the knife coming free.

Blood followed, coming through the deep stab wound, reddening his shirt, covering the front of his body. He stepped after me, and I retreated. I had no desire to stab him again, and no wish to be stabbed, and no time was left to him.

“You damned bloody—!” He went to his knees, and I walked to the Ferguson and took it up. Thrusting the knife deep into the soil, I withdrew it and thrust it into its sheath.

My rifle came level at hip height. “Take him,” I told them, “and get out!”

There were other rifles around me, all ready. They looked at their leader, still on his knees and bleeding, and they looked at our guns.

“To hell with him!” one of them said roughly. “There ain't no treasure anyhow.” The others nodded, talking among themselves. I waited for Falvey to tell them about our find. But he said nothing. Gesturing with my rifle, I motioned them away. They turned in their tracks and walked toward their horses, still talking against Falvey.

Falvey himself had sunk back on his heels, holding the wound with his hand. “Damn you, Scholar,” he spoke calmly now, “you tricked me. What books did you read anyway?”

“I'm sorry. You left me no choice.”

“Thought it would come in a night at sea,” he mumbled “never like this … not here.”

“Isaac,” I spoke without turning my head, “get Lucinda to the horses. That bunch may change their minds and come back.”

Reluctantly, Heath moved back, and Ebitt and Kemble helped Davy. Solomon Talley said, “I'll cover you from the rocks. Come when you're ready.”

Yet I stood there, curiously reluctant to leave. The man was dying, and I did not want to see him go alone, here in the gray light before the dawn.

He looked at me. “You're a good man, Scholar, a good man. Believe me or not, I've known a few.” He jerked his head toward the way his followers had gone. “Rabble,” he said, “a thieving lot. That's the trouble with crime.” He smiled. “The company's bad.” He coughed, holding himself against a spasm of pain. “Ah, Scholar! What a team we'd have made!”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“You did it, friend. You did it with that scurvy blade. It's all you can do for any man.”

He coughed again and I thought for a moment he would fall. “Go on with you, man. I need no pity. Let me die alone … it's the way I've lived.”

Talley called from the scarp above and I backed away and then climbed the rocks. When I stood on the edge, I looked down. The light was graying and I could make him out dimly. He had fallen over on his side … a bad man, but a man of courage for all that.

The men were taking the last of the treasure from the opening through which Davy Shanagan had fallen when I reached the top. Davy had pointed out the way and they had crept down a slanting break in the scarp's edge to reach the entrance. Sacked up, it made a good load for two horses, althoughit was bulky in part, ornaments and such, as Talley commented.

“We'll go then,” I said. “Did you get it all?”

Degory shrugged. “There's some odds and ends down there, a few coins … maybe a ring or so. We didn't want to scrabble in the dark for them.”

“I know, Deg. You were thinking of Van Runkle.”

“Well, the man's looked for a long time. Let him have what he finds, Lucinda won't miss it.”

We rode away in the breaking dawn, our horses' hooves and the creak of saddles our only sound.

When from the rise of the pass I glanced back, turning in my saddle to look, it was all merged into one, gray and green and lovely, with a mist on the lowlands.

Somewhere over the horizon were the Mandan villages, and although I had no furs and the treasure we carried was not mine, I rode with hard memories grown softer with time, a new lust for life within me, and the Ferguson rifle over my saddle.

And, of course, there was Lucinda.

About Louis L'Amour
_____________________

“I think of myself in the oral tradition— as a troubadour, a village tale-teller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That's the way
I'd like to be remembered—as a storyteller.
A good storyteller.”

I
T IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L'Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L'Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.

Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L'Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family's frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.

Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L'Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.

Mr. L'Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L'Amour published his first full-length novel,
Hondo
, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 120 books is in print; there are nearly 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.

His hardcover bestsellers include
The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum
(his twelfth-century historical novel),
Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed
, and
The Haunted Mesa
. His memoir,
Education of a Wandering Man
, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L'Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam Audio publishing.

The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L'Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life's work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.

Louis L'Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, Beau and Angelique, carry the L'Amour publishing tradition forward.