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

much to Solomon Talley. He glanced at me and I am afraid he was amused. “I’m no scholar, Chantry, and I’ve done no reasoning on the question. The first time an Indian notched an arrow at me, I shot him, and I’m almighty pleased that I hit him.”
    And so it was they began calling me by the name that was to stick through many years. I was no longer Ronan Chantry except at intervals. I became known as Scholar.
    Part of it was gentle derision, but another part was, I think, respect.
    One thing I learned quickly, in those following weeks. The university of the wilderness that I now attended had simple tests but they came often. One lived if one passed the tests, but to get a failing grade was to leave one’s scalp on some brave’s belt.
    On Talley’s advice we deviated from our planned course and angled off to the north, taking us farther from the disputed territory, and we held to low ground, trying to keep our route unknown to the enemy. For we had no doubt that Captain Fernandez and his Indian allies would be observing us and planning another attack. Nor could we hope to be so successful again. The captain, although our enemy, was no fool. Any officer in his situation might easily have overrated his strength and our cunning. Both he and his Indian friends now knew us better.
    Where
were
the mountains? They lay somewhere to the westward, but not one of us had seen them, and the endlessness of the plains was beyond belief. The land was higher now, and much drier. We had come into the shortgrass country, and the prickly pear we had originally come upon from time to time now were frequent.
    Water was scarce. Many of the streams were dry, the waterholes only trampled mud. Then suddenly we saw the buffalo.
    First there was the sound of them, a low, shuffling sound that we thought was the wind, yet a strange, muffled muttering as well. We topped the rise, and they were before us, thousands upon thousands of them, grazing and moving.
    â€œHold your fire,” I suggested to the others. “I can reload and we’ll kill just two.”
    â€œWhat about the hides? Ain’t they worth something?”
    â€œA buffalo hide, at least the hide of a bull, will weigh nigh to fifty pounds. We’re in no shape to pack them.”
    While the others held their fire in the event our enemies were near, I rode forward, dismounted near a rock, and using a shoulder of it for a rest, killed two buffalo.
    The others seemed not to notice, yet when we rode down to cut up our kill, they moved off.
    And then I saw the Indians.
    They were several hundred yards off and had been approaching the buffalo from the other flank, the wind, light as it was, being due out of the north. I saw an Indian rise suddenly from the ground and throw off a buffalo robe. Using it as cover, he had been slowly creeping up to the herd to make a kill, and our moving up had caused him to lose his chance. His disgust was obvious.
    Heath and Sandy were on the ground, making the cuts to skin the buffalo and cut out the meat.
    â€œSomethin’ odd here,” Talley muttered. “There’s ten to twelve women there, and a bunch of kids, but there don’t seem to be more than one or two braves … and no ponies.”
    â€œThey’ve been raided,” Shanagan said. “Bet my shirt on it. Somebody drove off their stock and either killed the menfolk or the braves are off tryin’ to get back their horses.”
    â€œWhat are they? Can you make them out?”
    â€œCheyennes,” Davy said positively. “I’d swear they were Cheyennes, some of the bravest and best fighters on the plains.”
    â€œTalley,” I said, “if we’re going to live in this country, we’ll need friends, and if we’re going to have friends, now’s a chance to meet them.”
    â€œI can talk a little sign language,” Shanagan said. “What’s your idea?”
    â€œGive them the