The Gun of Joseph Smith
Page 3
Unlike the boom of his father's old musket, the rifle's report was a flat crack and through the smoke cloud he saw the wood chunk spin aside from a solid hit.
Old Tim's shrill whoop beat Tucker's enthusiastic yip and over at the wagon Mark Morgan shaded his eyes, looking in their direction.
Wiping her hands, Rebecca Morgan came to stand beside him. "Are they all right, Mark?"
"Yep, just having a good time, Becky. It's good learning for Tucker."
"I've never seen him as excited as he is over this gun."
"A gun is a tool, Becky. Just like an ax or an adz." He grinned and placed an arm around her trim waist. "Don't let the noise bother you. Once he has it figured out the shooting will wear down, and he'll be saving his powder for game taking."
"Well, I hope he'll be careful."
"He's a good boy, Beck'. That's why Tim picked him. The lessons will teach him some and he'll pick up more. Where we're going, shooting is important and natural. It's good that he will be ready."
There were two evenings left before the Morgans' departure and old Tim spent some of the time explaining finer points of good shooting.
"I can't do all the things I'm telling you about, Tuck, but that don't make 'em less right. Mountain men and long hunters have told me the ways that I'm passing on to you, so take heed and practice them when you can.
"For instance, once you see your target, don't take your eyes off it. Let the gun come up and the sights settle into place. Soon as they're right, take your shot. Waitin' and waitin' won't steady your aim and your target might move." He hesitated, "Or even shoot first, if that were the case."
That kind of talk sent tingles through Tucker's hands, but he knew Tim wasn't just saying it to try to scare him. On the great western path things could happen and it was best to face up to them ahead of time, he figured. Still made his knees a little shaky, though.
"If you're in a powerful hurry you can learn to just guess at the right powder charge, dump her down, and drop a ball loose on top. Keep the barrel up so the ball doesn't roll out and fire as she points. Won't be as accurate, but if a bear or something was onto you it could be important.
"Finally, Tucker, this is a proud little rifle. See to it that you use it right. You do that and old Tim Selman will be mighty pleased wherever he's watching from."
He saw them roll out, just as he had a hundred others. It always left him half envious and a little sad. Ahead lay adventures and great expectations—there lay the envy. The sadness came with knowing that for many the expectations would prove hollow. Some would die and others would never regain the standards they had left behind.
Still, some would find it all. He prayed that the Morgans would be among those.
Walking strong beside the wagon, Tucker raised the rifle overhead in a last good-bye, and with eyes rheumy, old Tim raised a hand high for his final wave.
Chapter 4
Because it was spring, the sea of grass grew short and only rustled against Mark Morgan's boots. Later it would grow tall, head high in places. He could tell from old growth that had withstood the winter storms.
From the higher undulation on which he stood, Mark could see only grass. The horizon ran unbroken by hill or tree. He did not complete the circle because he knew that behind lay days of travel across a vast plain identical to the land he now looked across.
Somewhere to the south the Platte flowed, but they had left it to travel more directly. Grant Holloway could be a hurrying man and right now he begrudged every moment wasted. As the train's captain and guide, he made the decisions, and although he was often peremptory, he was usually right. Water was where he predicted, and grazing was rich or poor about as he expected.
Except when wagons were left behind, Mark Morgan agreed with Holloway's haste. A train's ultimate danger lay in being caught in the great mountains by early snows. With the air crisp in spring thaw that threat seemed small, but the miles were many and the summer would wear itself away until what now appeared distant would loom as immediate danger.
Leaving wagons behind was another matter. When the train had formed at the Missouri, Holloway had warned them that the good of the train lay before the convenience or safety of an individual or a wagon. If you broke down you would repair and catch up, or you would not, but the train would roll on.
At the time the threat had appeared small, but Holloway's shortcuts made abandonment more serious. They were off the usual routes and no trains could be expected to follow. If a wheel rim came loose or a hub threatened to seize, the speed of repair was remarkable, but wagons had failed to reappear and they could only hope that the drivers had headed for the Platte as Holloway had advised.
It was not wise to be a lone wagon north of the Platte River. Indians roamed more frequently to the north, and a single wagon could offer temptation. But Holloway did not hesitate. Ahead lay a thousand obstacles and delay would not be tolerated.
Still, it seemed to Mark Morgan that they could help each other more and not delay the train unduly. At a private moment he approached the guide.
Holloway seemed a thin man until you got close and bothered to look. Then you saw that he was ropey muscled with all the fat burned away. Such a man, with his insistence on hurry, could have been glittery-eyed and wound tight like a spring, but beneath his wide-brimmed beaver, Grant Holloway's eyes were crinkly with smile lines and their bright blue looked out at the world with a familiar tolerance.
Holloway sat his saddle with a relaxed indifference, as though his rump had grown to the horse. Dismounted, he walked light and wary but somehow still easy, as if storing energy.
Until it was orders time, the guide was a good listener, but to delay or question his command was to draw him tight as a coiled snake and just about as amenable. Grant Holloway knew who he was and what he wanted. He did not brook interference.
Mark Morgan found him currying his horse before staking it out close beside his bedroll. In bad weather Holloway crawled under a wagon or even inside, but given a clear sky he stayed out where he could smell the night and keep track of goings and comings.
"Evening, Grant." Morgan sank to a knee so his head would be about even with Holloway's as he worked under the horse's belly.
"Howdy, Morgan." Holloway grunted annoyance. "This miserable critter keeps winter hair even after the bears are rubbed clean. Worst animal I ever owned. Ought to put him out for wolf bait."
Mark paid no attention. The guide's horse was a fine animal and Holloway cared at least as much for it as he did the heavy Hawken rifle he kept handy.
"Came over for a serious word or two, Grant, if you've time to listen."
Holloway straightened, stretching his back loose, and Morgan rose with him. "Good time for serious discussing, Morgan. Too many want to palaver just when it's time to move out or right after I've had to decide something. Get comfortable and we'll counsel." He gestured toward a grass hummock and settled his back against another.
Holloway busied himself selecting a straw to suck on while Mark began his talk. "It's about leaving wagons behind, Grant. It just can't be right to leave them sitting out here without help. Seems to me we owe them just like they were neighbors back home. Fact is, it's getting worse all the time because we know each other now and bonds are building between families. There is already resentment and it will surely get worse."
Holloway said nothing and Mark had to go on. "Seems to me that a man with your experience would know ways of avoiding just letting whole families disappear behind us. Maybe we could hold up while we all pitched in to fix whatever was needed, or at least we could slow a little to give them time to catch up. Thinking just of ourselves can't be the right way, Grant."
Grant Holloway liked young Mark Morgan. He figured him as one who would make out in life. Some places, failing didn't matter much and a man just started over, but beyond the Missouri it could be different. Failure could mean dying. Trying to prop up a loser could cause other deaths as well. He'd seen it too often to doubt.
"Well, Morgan, when you say there ought to be ways to spare these folks grief you really mean that you wish there was. Well, I wish it, too, but I've never found a way." He spit to the side as though ridding himself of a bad taste.
"Look, Morgan, we're rolling free and easy across this flat country. There's rough places, but nothing any old farmer should worry over. Later the going gets brutal hard and the further you go the rougher it gets.
"Just think about the people that've already fallen out. Some of their wagons weren't fit for Main Street. Others couldn't repair a broken hame and some hadn't the hearts of bam mice.
"Now, there was no way to keep 'em from starting out and no easy way to winnow out the misfits, so the trail is doing it for us. Since we turned north of the Platte we've lost three wagons, and I was pleased to see them go. There's three more I'd like to see turn back and you can probably name 'em.
"In short—here, they've got a chance. Later, they might not have one."
Holloway grinned, his teeth shining through a week's scratchy beard. "Figure this train like a horse that's been grain fed and kept in a yard. He's fat and soft, but put him on the trail and the miles will lean and toughen him. In a month he'll be a better horse. In a season he'll be the best he'll ever get. Right now we're shedding our fat. Later we'll pull like a team. Then we won't let anyone fall out. We'll share and we'll fight it through.
"It ain't easy crossing the plains, but whole families have walked it so those left behind this early aren't facing something impossible."
He paused before adding a last thought. "Tell you what, when we're double and triple-teaming through them mountains and snow is starting to spit in our faces, let me know how you'd feel being maybe two weeks or even a month behind, 'cause that'd be the case if we tried dragging along the lame and the lazy."
Mark couldn't argue, though it still bothered him. Holloway proved his worth daily, and it would probably turn out that he was right in this matter as well.
Of course, Tucker thought the lean guide was about the greatest man that ever lived. He had taken to imitating Holloway's panther-like walk and he carried his rifle, as the guide did, across a forearm with his right hand ready around the grip. Holloway was flattered by the boy's obvious admiration and singled him out for special attentions.
A distant man, Grant Holloway did not often invite familiarities. The men of the train called him Grant, perhaps to demonstrate their independence, but with the adults, Holloway returned only last names. Tucker addressed the guide as Mr. Holloway, but if they were off by themselves, the lean frontiersman broke his habit of calling him only "boy" enough to sometimes speak to "Tucker," or even "Tuck."
Holloway had three horses and changed mounts so that none wore down. He ranged ahead of the train seeking the easiest or most direct route and sometimes he mounted Tucker on a spare horse and took him along.
It would be Tucker's task to ride within sight of the train, and by waving his hat, direct the lead wagon toward the route Holloway had chosen. Then he would ride ahead and the guide would place him at the next point that was important to reach.
Holloway used other methods of directing his train. He had sticks with bits of bunting tied on. Riding ahead, he would place them within sight of each other and the wagons would follow. Tuck Morgan got the job of recovering the sticks and returning them to Holloway when he came in. Soon he had also cornered the chore of seeing to the guide's extra stock. Holloway could not miss the attention and, as a fair man, he had ways of paying back.
On occasion the guide gave the boy a coin to formalize payment. More often he gave advice and information. Those were the gifts of value and they lay like treasures in the mind of Tucker Morgan.
Early in their association Holloway had said, "Where'd you get that rifle, boy? Don't recall one-wagon movers having boys' guns around."
Often asked about his rifle, Tucker was ready with his answer. "It was a gift from a man back in Nauvoo and it might have belonged to Joseph Smith, the one who saw angels and started the Mormon church."
Holloway appeared interested and held out rein-hardened fingers for the gun. One-handed, he held the rifle to his cheek so that it lay steady as a ledge with his finger just touching the trigger.
"Nice feel to it." He studied the bedding and the flat iron wedges that held the barrel to the stock. "Made strong, too. You know how to shoot it?"
"Been too powder-short to practice much, Mister Holloway, but missing is my fault. The rifle shoots true."
Holloway liked that kind of an answer. No big claims or poor excuses.
"You come by my fire early tonight and bring your bullet mold. We'll cast for my Hawken and your Joseph Smith gun. We'll talk more then." He concluded and touched his mount's ribs. He liked knowing that the boy's eyes were on him when he rode away. Gave him cause to think he might be more than a worn-down old mountain rat at that.
Holloway had a lead pot in his fire coals when Tuck Morgan arrived. Tucker stopped courteously just within the fire's light, the way the guide always did, and waited until he was invited.
Holloway knew how to camp, all right. He was backed up to a low cut-bank that protected him from the prairie wind. He had placed his fire downwind and built up a low earth reflector that helped keep the fire heat from blowing away with the smoke.
The guide didn't use much small talk. "You know how to cast bullets, boy?"
"I've seen it done, but I never tried it my ownself."
"More'n likely you've picked up bad ways already, so I'll show you what's right. Then you can cast and I'll cut off the sprues."
So thrilled was Tucker to be with the train's leader that he would have done just about anything to fit in. He positioned his rifle across a grass hump, the way Holloway had, with the muzzle and lock up out of the dirt. The guide sat cross-legged, close to the fire, so he did the same.
"Two things to get hot, Tucker, your lead and your mold. A mold won't throw good bullets until it's hot. Two ways to heat a mold; you can stick it in the melted lead or you can lay it close to the coals for a while, like mine. Put yours there alongside.
"Two things to be real careful of. First is hot mold handles. Burn your palms to the bone if you ain't watchful. Second is, don't ever let water get around molten lead. Stuff'll explode like a cannon and spread lead all over you.
"Next thing is to lift out the dross that forms on top of the molten lead. Use a flattened stick like this." The guide spooned out the slaggy ash until the lead appeared clean.
"Now we just hold our ladle and our mold in cloth or leather protectors and pour the mold clean full in one steady pour. After it quits bubbling, count to ten and open 'er up. If the bullet sticks, knock it loose by tapping the mold a little."
They studied the shiny lead balls as Holloway rolled them around. He grunted satisfaction.
"Seein' we're in a water camp I'll drop these in a water bucket to cool quicker. You'll notice I've got the water way back out of the way."
He cast a few more before turning the ladle over to Tucker. After a few tries the boy got the measure of it and the balls began to pile up.
Holloway turned to sprue cutting, using a long, heavy-bladed knife that he called Green River Sally.
"Got this blade from Jim Bridger; you heard of him, Tuck?" The boy hadn't but the guide continued. "It's a Green River knife that they used to trade at the rendezvous. Cuts about anything, including live meat, if that's necessary." Holloway rolled the blade so that it glittered and Tucker Morgan's nape hairs tingled as he wondered if the guide referred to real knife fighting, maybe hand to hand with hostile Indians.
"When you cut a sprue do a careful job of it, Tucker. Trim the ball as near perfect as you can and when you load always leave the sprue mark
up against the ramrod. That way each ball will be loaded the same and your gun will shoot true."
As his bullet pile grew Tucker became nervous and had to speak up.
"Mister Holloway, there's an awful lot of balls in my pile and I don't have any way to pay you for them."
The guide nodded seriously as though thinking about it. "Well, two ways to look at it. Each one of yours weighs about half a Hawken ball, so you aren't pouring that much lead. Or, we could just drop a handful or two back into the pot and melt 'em down." He appeared to ponder.
"On the other hand, it might be that later on you could be a help bringing in camp meat—if you learn to shoot straight, that is." The boy glowed with excitement but Holloway didn't appear to notice.
"So, I reckon what we'll do is, I'll bring along extra powder and caps while we're out where we won't stampede the stock or start the babies squalling. I'll give you pointers so's you and this Joseph Smith gun'll be some use."
Tucker Morgan didn't remember much of returning to the wagon. He told his father and his mother, spinning from one to the other in his enthusiasm and missing completely their amused glances.
When he finished up, his father sat him down and got him thinking right. "Now, Tucker, it's a generous thing Captain Holloway is doing, so you appreciate what he says and plan out ways to make it up to him. You keep in mind that Grant Holloway is the only man in this whole train that truly knows this country, and take to heart what he tells you."
Long after the boy had fallen asleep, his bullet bag clutched tightly and his rifle close by, his parents worked by their fire.
Rebecca raised her eyes to her husband bent above his harness mending.
"You are a good man, Mark."
Startled, Morgan appeared a trifle blank. "Thank you, Becky, and you are a fine woman." He grinned across the fire, wondering at the exchange.
"No, I mean special, Mark Morgan." She chose careful words. "You could be jealous of Tucker's admiration for Grant Holloway and you could hold him back or be unfriendly to the man. More than a few would act that way, Mark."