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 these 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? Holding myself still here beside a yawning black hole into which soon I must go, I found myself ready to enter, ready and even anxious for what awaited within.
There had never been any of the cowardice in me that makes men move in gangs to hunt other men. What fighting I had to do I wanted to do with equal weapons, with even terms. Yet the new wisdom I had acquired told me the enemy had no such scruples.
Suddenly, duc
king my head, I went through the entrance into the dark coolness of the cavern. Flattened against the wall, my back protected, I listened.
A moment I waited, holding my breath. The cave was cool, still. I heard no sound, no breathing, no chafe of clothing against a cave wall. I edged along, took a step, then another. No light now…I must work in darkness. I had counted the steps from the Maltese Cross to the cave mouth. Now I counted them back…found the branch cave I sought. A few steps too far now and I would plunge into that abyss…perhaps hundreds of feet deep.
There had been a round rock on the floor within inches of the cross. My toe touched it. Kneeling I felt of it, then felt along the wall for the cross.
The long arm of the cross pointed toward the abyss, but I was sure that was a trap or perhaps pure accident. I believed the treasure was buried beneath the cross. With my fingers, I probed the dust at the base of the cross.
Solid! My fingers felt for edges, and there were none, felt for softness, and all was hard. The cave floor had been undisturbed for years.
So there it was then. I had failed. It only remained for me to return, to go back the way I had come, get Lucinda and ride, trusting to my good companions to come when they could. Heath and Ebitt agreed it was the thing to do.
But empty-handed?
My hands felt the wall, searching for cracks my touch might find that sight had failed to perceive. There was nothing.
A Maltese Cross has two arms, either of which could point at something, a bottom that could also be a pointer. But the top? Suddenly I felt upward, reaching as high as I could…nothing.
And I was a tall man, taller than most.
Yet my fingers did not reach the cave ceiling. Somehow I had believed it was low, just above my head. Now I knew that was an illusion of the darkness, as the cave went higher still. Crouching by the wall, I considered that.
I was well back into the cave, yet to see what lay above I must have a torch. They were close at hand, some pine knots that would burn well and throw a good light. It was unlikely that such a light could be seen outside the cave, yet from the mountain opposite, it was possible.
Minutes were passing. How long had I been gone?
Feeling for the pine chunks, I found them, also a section of log from which pine slivers had been broken. Suddenly I realized it would make a good footstool. I could stand upon it and reach higher. Edging it into position, I stood on it, balancing with my hands against the wall, then reached up.
My fingers encountered some sticky strings. A shiver went through me. I touched my fingers, which I had hastily jerked back. Not pitch, something slippery, wet. Moisture from a stalactite? No…there were no grains, no powdery-wet feeling.
What then?
Blood?…Blood!…But whose blood?
My hand went up again, again the wet finger, then buckskin…an arm, a fringed sleeve.
I must have a light. Feeling for flint and steel, I was stopped by a low moan.
Lighting a small sliver of the pitch pine, I stepped back on the log and held it up.
As my small light flared, the injured man’s head turned.
“Davy! Davy Shanagan! How in God’s world did you—?”
“Had to…hide. They were comin’. I crawled, found a hole up above. I crawled, and fell…maybe six, seven feet. Started bleedin’ again. I tucked your moss in, finally got her stopped.”
Holding up my hands, I got him under the armpits while he held the pine sliver. Then I eased him down to the floor of the cave.
“I’m better. Slept some.”
“I was hunting the treasure, Davy. Had no idea you were up there.”
“Figured as much. Well, you needn’t hunt no longer. It’s there.”
I stood up. “Davy…you mean it?”
“Sure. When I crawled in the crack up there, I fell right atop of it. She’s there, all right. At least there’s four hide cases up there…rotted some. One of them busted when I fell.”
“Davy, the treasure will have to wait. I’ve got to get you to Ebitt and Heath. They’re just—”
“You don’t need to do that, Chantry. A bullet will take care of him, and another for you!”
It was Rafen Falvey.
I left the cave floor in a plunging dive with all the thrust of my legs behind it, and I hit him just below the knees.
CHAPTER 21
He 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.
The Ferguson Rifle (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 16