The Ferguson Rifle (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel

by Louis L'Amour

Overview

The classic Western, now newly repackaged as part of Bantam's Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures program—with never-before-seen material from Louis and his son, Beau L'Amour.

It began with gold that had once belonged to Montezuma. Stolen and cached in a church in Mexico, it was recovered by two army officers who fled north for the French settlements. Along the way one stabbed the other to death. The remaining officer was eventually killed by Plains Indians, but he buried the treasure just before he died.

Now Ronan Chantry, a handful of trappers, and an Irish girl whose father was killed after telling her a few vague landmarks are searching for the lost treasure. But they are not alone. The girl's uncle, Rafen Falvey, wants it, too. Like Chantry, he is well educated, bold, and determined. Under different circumstances the two men might have been friends. But in all likelihood it wouldn't have made any difference. When it comes to gold, even friendship doesn't keep men from killing each other.

Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures is a project created to release some of the author’s more unconventional manuscripts from the family archives.
 
In Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures: Volumes 1, Beau L’Amour takes the reader on a guided tour through many of the finished and unfinished short stories, novels, and treatments that his father was never able to publish during his lifetime. L’Amour’s never-before-seen first novel, No Traveller Returns, faithfully completed for this program, is a voyage into danger and violence on the high seas. These exciting publications will be followed by Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures: Volume 2.
 
Additionally, many beloved classics will be rereleased with an exclusive Lost Treasures postscript featuring previously unpublished material, including outlines, plot notes, and alternate drafts. These postscripts tell the story behind the stories that millions of readers have come to know and cherish.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780593158623
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	05/26/2020
Series:	Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures
Pages:	256
Sales rank:	162,684
Product dimensions:	4.10(w) x 6.80(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Our foremost storyteller of the American West, Louis L’Amour has thrilled a nation by chronicling the adventures of the brave men and woman who settled the frontier. There are more than three hundred million copies of his books in print around the world.

Date of Birth:

March 22, 1908

Date of Death:

June 10, 1988

Place of Birth:

Jamestown, North Dakota

Education:

Self-educated

Website:

http://www.louislamour.com/

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

My name is Ronan Chantry, and I am alone upon this land. I have long since crossed the Mississippi. No other rides with me, and the plains lie vast about. My eyes are toward the horizon where the sun sets in gold and crimson, an enormous sun like none my eyes have seen in the thirty years that have been mine.

What I loved is gone. What I lived for, vanished. I ride westward into an unknown land, toward what destiny I know not. It has ever been our way, we Chantrys, to turn westward when faced with grief and desolation.

I ride to lose myself, but can a man ever lose that which is in him? That which is blood and bone to him? That which has been his life?

Men have told me that I am a fool, that I ride only to my death, but if it is to be, then let it be.

My wife, my dearly beloved, is dead. My son, who was to grow tall and sire yet another generation of our family, is also gone, done to death by the flames from which he tried to rescue his mother.

Within me is emptiness; the studies to which I had given my life, abandoned.

I have a good horse, a small pack, an excellent knife, and I have the Ferguson rifle. That rifle, my constant companion since childhood, is all that remains of my past, that and a few precious books to stimulate my thoughts until . . . ?

The rifle was given to me when I was a small boy, presented by the man who simplified the loading mechanism and put into action the most efficient weapon of the century.

Major Patrick Ferguson demonstrated the weapon at Woolwich in June 1776. Four years later, he was killed at the Battle of King’s Mountain, North Carolina.

The rifle was given me only a few weeks before his death, a truly marvelous weapon made and engraved by his own hand. It was one of the first to be loaded at the breech, and could be loaded and fired six times to the minute. In the almost twenty-­five years since it came into my hands, I have seen no rifle to compare.

Ours was a poor cabin, and I stood by the gate holding the heavy musket with which I had barked a squirrel, watching a red-­coated officer riding up the path from the road.

He looked at me sharply, then at my musket. “Lad, I am fair done in. Could I be having a drink from your well?”

He had a good face, a strong face. “Sir,” I said, “you men of England have been my enemies, but I will refuse no man a drink. Will you come in, then?”

He glanced toward the house, wary of a trap. I had no idea of it then, but he was a much hated man, and a man known for his harsh opinions of the colonists.

“There’s nought to fear,” I said, and there was scorn in my tone. “My ma is ill within, and I must be about fixing her supper.” I held up the squirrel, and not without pride.

He glanced at it, then at me. Riding through the open gate to the well, he dismounted to accept the water-­filled gourd dipper from my hand. “Thanks, lad.” He drank the cold water from the dipper, then refilled it to drink again. “There’s no finer drink than this, lad. Hear it from a thirsty man.”

He noticed the puzzled expression in my eyes as I looked at his horse. It was a fine animal, but it was his weapons that puzzled me. He wore a saber, and there were two horse pistols in scabbards, which was not unexpected, but he also carried two rifles, one of them carefully wrapped in an oiled cloth.

“What is it, lad?”

“Two rifles?” I said.

He chuckled, but his eyes were on my ancient musket. “If you can bark a squirrel with that,” he said, “you must be an uncommonly good shot.”

“I daren’t miss,” I admitted honestly. “When our powder and shot are gone, we must live on greens.”

He finished his water, then led his horse to the trough. “May I pay my respects to your mother, lad? If you say no, I shall not intrude.”

“She would enjoy it, sir. We have few visitors here, and my mother pines for them. Until she came here, she lived always among people.”

My mother was a woman of rare beauty. It took me years and the viewing of many women before I really grasped how truly rare. She was pale now, and thin, lying in the old, high bed, but her hair was done on this day as upon every day of her life. She was ever groomed and neat, and much to my disgust, required that I be the same. The habit was well formed, and is with me still.

The major stepped into our cabin, removed his hat, and bowed. “I am Major Ferguson, ma’am, of His Majesty’s Second Battalion, Light Infantry Highlanders. Your son was kind enough to provide me with a drink, and I wished to pay my respects.”

“Will you be seated, major? I’m afraid we have little to offer, but if you would join me in a cup of tea?”

“I would be honored, ma’am. Honored, indeed. It is little we see of the ladies these days. Times are hard for a soldier, ma’am.”

“And I would they were harder, major.” Even as she said it, she smiled, taking the sting from the words. “You come unbidden to our country as you came unbidden to my other country.”

“Your other country, ma’am?”

“I was born in Ireland, major, and grew up there. I came over the sea to marry my husband, whose family was known to ours.”

“I am a Scotsman. Many of us, ma’am, did not approve of the manner in which affairs were handled in Ireland. We do not make policy. That is the king’s business.”

“And a poor business he makes of it. But here, now! This is not fit conversation for a guest in my house. Ronan, would you pour tea for us, please?”

My mother’s hair was red gold, and the silken bed jacket she wore had come from France, in a better day than this.

“If you will permit, ma’am”—the major accepted his tea—“I had not expected to find a gentlewoman in such a place. Not a woman of such obvious—”

“Breeding, major? There is no latitude or longitude for breeding. We who migrated from Ireland left much behind, often including the O or the Mac that preceded our names, but we did not leave our pride, nor I hope, our good manners.”

She smoothed the rough blanket with her hands as though it were satin or whatever she’d known in her younger years. “You travel far, major?”

“To join my command. It is twenty miles, I believe.” As if reminded, he got to his feet. “I should prefer to remain, but the ride is long.” He hesitated, and then said, “We shall not trouble your land much longer, ma’am. You have resisted us strongly, and at home there’s a distaste for it.”

“As well there might be,” she said quickly, but smiling. “If you pass this way again, will you stop?” She smiled impudently. “The good Lord commands us to forgive our enemies, major, and I forgive you.”

“Of course.” He glanced at me. “The boy’s father? Will he soon be home?”

“He was killed in the war, major.”

“If there is anything I can do?”

“No, major. My son does very well. He is a skillful hunter and we shall do splendidly.” She extended a slender hand. “Do stop by, major. You will be most welcome.”

He took her hand, bowing gracefully, brushing her fingertips with his lips. “It was my pleasure,” he said, stepping back, then another step, and turning he went out the door, putting on his hat as he did so.

There was a moment when he kissed her hand that I could only stare, for I believed such things happened only in palaces or among great ladies and kings.

“See him to the gate, Ronan. He is a fine gentleman, and conducts himself as one.”

Major Ferguson had gathered his reins and was stepping into the saddle when I came to open the gate. “Your mother is a great lady, lad, a great lady. She should not be living here, in this manner.”

From his saddle he took the wrapped rifle, unwrapping it slowly. It was utterly new, unused, silver mounted, and engraved. I gasped.

“Handsome, is it not? I made it myself, for myself.” He showed me how it was loaded for I had not seen a breechloader before, nor the mechanism he had invented, for he told me that as he showed me the rifle. “Lad, I have a notion I shall not have long to use it, and there’s no telling into whose hands it might fall. A fine lad such as you, who appreciates a good weapon and must provide for his mother . . . well, lad, you need a rifle, not a musket.”