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

Indians.
    â€œUte,” he said. “This is far north for them. Mostly they’re mountain Indians.”
    â€œFrom Spanish country?” I asked.
    â€œThey claim it, but so did the French. I figure it for Louisiana Territory. The border should be south of there.”
    â€œIt will need some time to decide that,” I said.
    â€œAnd meanwhile?”
    â€œWe’ll hunt there, and trap for beaver, although it would be better for all of us if we could establish relations with Santa Fe. They need the trade and so do we.”
    â€œThey’re a long way from Mexico City,” Talley agreed. “Saint Louis is closer.”
    One by one we emerged and scouted our small patch of woods. No Indians were left. We found a spot of blood or two that seemed to indicate a wound, and a dropped rifle of Spanish make. One of the dead Indians had an old musket; the other had been armed with a bow and arrows.
    We wasted no time, but packed our horses and moved out, leaving the Indians as they were. Bob Sandy took the scalps for himself. Talley rode point, Kemble twenty yards to the left, and I an equal distance to the right. Ebitt and Sandy followed Kemble and me at about ten yards’ distance, with Heath and Shanagan to bring up the rear.
    We presented no good target, yet had a chance to scout the country as we rode. We started at a walk, moving to a trot after a few hundred yards, holding it for some distance.
    Except for my own, our horses were prairie-bred mustangs and they held the pace easily. My horse was of better breed but lacked the staying quality of the once wild horses, and was accustomed to better feed.
    It was obvious that my horse must adjust to the change in diet and traveling conditions or I must find another one. In time, if allowed to run free, he might fit himself to the country … as I must do also.
    Physically my condition had never been bad, and my muscles and skin were hardening to the work. Mentally it was another story. I had fought when attacked, acquitting myself well, and I believe those with whom I traveled believed me adequate for the journey before us. Such was not the case.
    As a matter of fact, I had no stomach for killing. I considered myself a reasonably civilized man, and killing was wrong. Nor did I decide this by simple biblical standards, for the Bible, Hebrew scholars had assured me, did not say, “Thou shalt not kill,” but strictly interpreted it says, “Thou shalt not commit murder,” which is quite another thing.
    Yet it was not the Mosaic law that guided me, but my own intelligence. I had no right to deprive another human being of his life, nor had I the intention of adding to the violence that was around me. On the other hand, the Indians I had killed would surely have killed me had I not been more fortunate than they.
    Nevertheless, the destruction of the Indians did not please me, and I hoped to avoid it in the future.
    The problem was that I was a civilized man, but I now existed in an uncivilized world. The standards by which I thought were standards of the ordered world I had left behind. Much had been said in both England and our own eastern states about how we treated the “poor” Indian.
    The few I had seen on the plains did not look poor. They were strong, able men … warriors.
    Warriors
.
    That was the key word. These men did not consider themselves
poor
. They were proud men, carrying their heads high, walking tall, the equal of any man. What they demanded was not pity, but respect. The problem was that two kinds of men had now come face-to-face, two kinds of men with two kinds of standards, different scruples, different responses.
    Being a civilized, cultured human being was all very well, but I must hedge my bets a little or I would be a dead civilized, cultured human being.
    It needs two to make a peace, but only one to make an attack.
    Humanity, I decided, must be tempered with reason, and reason with reality.
    I said as