Read Online The Ferguson Rifle by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online Page A

“Let’s clear off from these Cheyennes and head for the mountains. They move slow, and it’ll be dead cold before we make it.”
    â€œYou’re forgetting those Cheyennes up ahead. If we leave these people, they won’t know we’re friendly.”
    â€œI don’t know that I am,” Sandy replied coolly. “An Injun is an Injun. If we leave this lot, they’ll kill us first time they see their chance.”
    â€œI don’t believe that, Bob,” I said. “If we were strangers to them, it might be true, but now we know them. We have ridden with them.”
    â€œYou think like you want, Scholar. Them books will teach you plenty but they’ll surely not help you savvy Injun ways. You got to learn them firsthand.”
    â€œI appreciate that, Bob, but I still believe this party of Cheyennes are our friends.”
    Sandy shrugged. “Maybe. But I notice you don’t leave that Ferguson rifle lyin’ around. You’re in more trouble than the rest of us, Scholar. There ain’t an Injun in America who wouldn’t give ever’ horse he owns for that rifle. It ain’t only the way it shoots, but all that silver foofaraw you got on the stock. To an Injun that’s prime.”
    No doubt what he said was true. Certainly the weapon I carried was a beautiful specimen of the gunmaker’s art, and such a weapon was rarely seen on the western plains, although occasionally some trapper or Indian would decorate his gun with brass studs. Sometimes this was a design, more often his name or initials in the rifle stock.
    Few of the Indians had seen my weapon fired, almost none of them at close range, and so far as I knew, none of them realized the rapidity with which it could be loaded and fired. Yet I knew enough of Indians not to underrate them.
    There had been a time in the eastern areas when a group of Indians approached a number of white soldiers and asked them if they would not extinguish the matches with which they fired their guns. They protested that the sight of the flaming matches frightened their women and children. Obligingly, the soldiers did so, and then the Indians promptly attacked and killed all but one man, who fled into the woods and escaped.
    The Indians had been shrewd enough to see that the musket of the white man had to be fired by a lighted match, although supposedly the Indian knew little of such weapons. The Indian was endlessly curious, quick to observe and to comprehend, and quite able to make minor repairs on damaged weapons. To underrate either their intelligence or their skill would be dangerous.
    Over our campfires and when riding, we discussed the question from all aspects. We did wish to be about the business of trapping, but there was even more to be gained by trading. Alone of all our party, I possessed no trade goods, so whatever I had would be from trapping alone.
    The hunting jacket and leggings begun back along the trail had been completed, and I now wore them, packing my other clothing away for state occasions.
    The country grew increasingly rough. The ridges were often topped by thick brush or trees.
    There were thousands of antelope, and twice we saw herds of wild horses that fled at our approach. Once we came down to a muddy spot, almost an acre in extent, trampled by wild horses. There were wolves about. We counted two dozen in the last hour of our march, and once we were in camp they lurked nearby.
    During the night, I was awakened by something tugging at my pillow and sprang up to find myself facing a large wolf. Our bacon was wrapped in burlap, several sides of it together, and then placed in canvas bags for ease in packing. I usually used one of these bags as a pillow, and it was this the wolf had smelled.
    Rifle in hand, I glared at him and he glared right back, growling. He stood over the bacon and seemed of no mind to give it up. On the other hand, bacon was a delicacy out here and all too little remained.