The Ferguson Rifle by Louis L’Amour

provided, they were prepared to continue their move to the west.
    The travois that had been drawn by a squaw was now hitched to one of our packhorses.
    Davy Shanagan and the brave, whose name was Buffalo Dog, rode together, carrying on a conversation in sign talk with a word thrown in here or there. Listening to their conversation and to the other Indians, I soon picked up several words of the Cheyenne language.
    One of the old men knew of a camping place, and keeping scouts out to warn of danger, we moved toward it. After a while, Shanagan joined me at the point. “They’re ridin’ to join their people,” he said. “There’s a plenty of Cheyennes up yonder. These Injuns figure to take after the Utes. Get their ponies back.”
    â€œLet’s stay out of it. No use to make more enemies than we have.”
    â€œNow that may not be just that easy,” Shanagan said. “They’ll be wanting our help.”
    The Cheyennes preferred a camp on the open prairie but not too far from woods. The old man’s choice was a good one, and just before sundown Cusbe Ebitt killed a buffalo cow. We gave most of the meat to the Indians.
    Shanagan explained that the Cheyennes were convinced by my clothing that I was a great chief. “Let ’em think it,” he added. “It makes us big men in their eyes. Prestige … that’s the key word with Injuns.”
    We made our own camp closer to the woods than the Cheyennes, but within a hundred yards of them. Firewood was plentiful and the stand of trees offered some shelter from the increasing wind. Moreover we liked the background of trees against which our bodies merged and blended. Our fire we placed in a hollow behind the stump of a broken-off tree where it was perfectly masked.
    After collecting sufficient fuel for the night to come and the preparation of supper and breakfast, I moved to the point of the woods overlooking the plains. The position provided an excellent view in all directions, and sitting down just inside the belt of trees, I gave some thought to the situation.
    The government of the Spanish colonies was a jealous one, permitting no trade with anyone but the Indians, and guarding against trespass. Captain Fernandez, as a diligent soldier, would have orders to resist any encroachment upon what was believed to be Spanish territory. From him, we could expect nothing but trouble.
    Since I’d joined the mountain men, no plan of action had been discussed. We were riding toward the western mountains for a season of trapping and exploration. If all went as we hoped, we would find a favorable location and build winter quarters before snow fell, and if our trapping was successful, we could expect to return to Saint Louis in the spring with a bundle of furs.
    Riding in company with the Cheyennes, who by virtue of our contribution of meat accepted us as part of their group, we could avoid trouble with at least one tribe of Indians. If a large party of Cheyennes were waiting ahead of us, we might easily have been ambushed because any unattached party was fair game, but now that we had joined this group, we would be accepted.
    Faint sounds from the camps behind me only served to emphasize the stillness of the plain before me. The sun was gone but light remained, and a sky shot with crimson arrows from beyond the horizon. Shadows gathered in the hollows among the low hills … a wind stirred the grass, then the trees … there had been a lull, a moment of stillness. In the east there was a mutter of thunder … still far off.
    For the first time, I found myself wondering what I had done. Behind me lay the career I might have had, a career as a teacher, an author … perhaps even in politics, for my friends were well situated in all these areas.
    Few men had better educations, few had read so widely in so many fields, and now I had left it all behind. With the sudden death of my wife and son, my life had begun to seem empty