If Washington was bad, with its unpaved streets and half-finished building, its acres of mud, New York City was much worse. Samuel Morse had only perfected his telegraph two years earlier, but already wires were tangling over the rooftops. A pall of coal smoke always hung over the city, and the air was thick with the stench of dung left by thousands of dray animals. The streets were choked with the huge wagons and the throngs of people.
Walker sat with his moccasins’ propped on the rungs of a straightbacked wooden kitchen chair. The only other furniture in the office were the chairs he and Sam Colt were sitting on and the scarred old desk. In his pocket Walker carried the letter that Colt had written him in desperation two months before.
I have heard so much of Colonel Hayse and your exployets with the Arms of my invention that I have long desired to know you personally and get from you the true narrative of the vareous instances where my arms have proved of more than ordinary utility.
Such is the prijudice of old officers in our Army against aney invasions upon old and well known implimants of Warfare that as yet I have not been able to introduce my arms in the servis to an extant that has proved proffitable.
The last sentence was a masterful understatement. Sam Colt wasn’t making a profit. He was bankrupt. His armory was closed, and the few pistols in existence had been snapped up by men going to Texas. Sam Walker had written Colt of their success with his repeaters at the battle of the Pedernales, when they had routed seventy Comanche. And he had offered some suggestions for changes that would make the gun better.
Colt had searched everywhere for a model of the Paterson that Walker referred to. He needed it to demonstrate the changes that were suggested. But there was none to be had, not even for its inventor. Finally he had commissioned an armorer to make one. It lay between them now, next to Sam’s dragoon cap. Walker picked up the small pistol and hefted it in his hand.
“It needs to be heavier, so we can use it as a club if need be. And it could stand to be a bigger caliber, forty-four at least. Can you put a trigger guard on it?”
“Certainly. No trouble.” Colt leaned forward, all business. His popping brown eyes were almost fanatical when he talked about his invention. His bushy hair was as unruly as his spelling.
“And simplify the lock so the trigger’s visible even when the gun’s uncocked.”
Colt nodded and hunched over to see better.
“Also, why not make it a six-shooter instead of five? And the breech mechanism should be simpler for loading on horseback.”
“We can do it.”
“Taylor wants a thousand of them. Immediately. For the troops in Mexico. When can you get them to us?”
“Well, Sam.” Colt slouched back in his chair and ran his fingers through the tangle of his hair. “That’s a problem.”
“What is?”
“I don’t have an armory anymore. No place to make them. But I can work something out. There’s a man making Jaeger rifles, has an armory in Connecticut. Does real fine work. All the parts on his guns are standard, interchangeable, and he puts them together in stages. It’s a brilliant concept. Wish I’d thought of it. In other words, his people make all the barrels, then all the triggers. Finishes them all at once, rather than working on one gun at a time.”
“Sounds good. Do you think he’ll let you retool for the pistols?”
“I can talk him into it. Whitney’s his name. Eli Whitney. I’ll write him today.”
“I like the idea of interchangeable parts. We’ll write it into the’ contract. And we’ll need spare parts too. And tools. And ammunition. Cones, screws, molds, flasks, screwdrivers, nipple wrenches, levers, that sort of thing.”
Colt slapped the desk top with the palm of his hand.
“Damn it, man, I’m in business again!” Then he sank back in his chair. “Maybe.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The army.”
“But Zachary Taylor’s the one who wants them.”
“Zachary Taylor’s word isn’t worth a hill of horseshit to the politicians in charge here in the east.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Walker went to President Polk with the order for the pistols, his persuasive tongue, and the tight uniform jacket he detested. It showed the sacrifices he was willing to make to see his men supplied with the repeaters. The order went through.
Then he headed for Baltimore and Fort McHenry to carry out the second part of his mission, recruiting troops for the Mexican conflict. While he was there, he sketched a picture of the battle of the Pedernales, with himself on a black horse and El Diablo Hays on a white one. He sent the drawing to Colt, who had a die made of it. The scene became part of the cylinder on each nine-inch long, four-and-a-half pound six-shooter, the Walker Colt.
Finally he returned to the frontier to lead his Texans into Mexico. They were a savage-looking bunch, with huge shaggy beards and ragged clothes. The only thing uniform about them was the dust that coated them and the Colt revolvers at their waists. Sam was thirty years old when he died, impaled on a lance while leading a charge at Huamantla.
CHAPTER 43
Time had taken its toll of the men in Old Owl’s group of friends. He looked around at those who were left, and he thought of the ones who had died. Many Battles, Snake, Spirit Talker in the smoke and treachery of the Council House massacre. White Robe, his face rotted by the white man’s pox. Even dignified White Horse had died under a buffalo’s hooves when his pony stumbled in a prairie dog hole.
The talk flowed over Old Owl’s head, and he was content to let it do so. As he smoked, he listened and thought. Since his return from Washington there was much to think about. He knew his people didn’t believe him when he told them about the white men’s towns. And he felt terribly lonely sometimes. Like a man who has seen a great vision of paradise and yet must remain chained to a dreary world. Sometimes he himself doubted what he had seen. And he wondered if he had really taken that wonderful trip, or if he had only dreamed it.
He wanted to go back, to see more of the wonders of the white men. He and the other chiefs who had gone with him from other bands and other tribes had watched a metal key tap out messages. Soon, the white men assured him, they would be talking over many days’ journeys, in an instant. No wonder his people didn’t believe him. How could anyone believe such a thing? And he had seen it with his own eyes.
There was a stir at the door, and a horse’s broad rear end appeared, backing into the smoking lodge. The old men leaped up, yelling and pushing the animal out before it soiled the floor. The boys would never leave them in peace. Just when one group outgrew such jokes, another came of age. There was no end to it. Old Owl crowded around the horse, which was kicking nervously in the confusion, and looked outside. He didn’t expect to see anyone, of course. Most of the village was asleep. And the boys never stayed long enough to be caught.
But the culprit was still there, laughing in the darkness. Old Owl squinted to see better. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the white outline of a chest that seemed to glow softly in the pale moonlight. The prankster wasn’t a boy, but a man, and he was leaning on a shiny new Springfield rifle. “Good evening. Grandfather.”
“Wee-lah!” Old Owl began to weep, his lips trembling and tears rolling down his cheeks. He grabbed Cub around the waist and pressed his head to his grandson’s chest. “Bear Cub, you’ve come back.” Then he stood back and circled him, inspecting him.
The other men filed out, each of them embracing Cub and slapping him on the back. Many of them had to stand on tiptoe to hug him. At seventeen, John Parker was over six feet tall and broad in the shoulders. He had split hundreds of cords of wood in the past five years. And while he’d hated every splinter of it, cursing it for the women’s work it was, it had been good for him. His muscles rippled under the golden down on his arms and chest and back. He reached out to poke Santa Ana’s bulging belly.
“We’re going to have a hard winter. Santa Ana has stored up a lot of fat.”
Santa Ana grabbed a handful of the hair on Cub’s chest.
“And you’re growing an extra thick pelt, like your namesake, Bear Cub. It’ll be a cold winter indeed.”
“This looks like Sanaco’s horse, Cub.”
“It is,” grumbled Sanaco.
“He was easy to steal,” said Cub modestly.
Sanaco gathered up the tether line and led his pony away. The other men called good night and left too, turning off to their own lodges and sleep. Cub followed Old Owl inside, ducking to clear the low doorway. He remembered to turn to the left and circle the fire. He sat across from it and waited while his grandfather reached for his pipe case. Santa Ana had carefully put the pipe away before he left the lodge.
“Let me do it, Grandfather.” Cub took the heavily fringed case, smiling at the almost forgotten tinkling its metal bells made. He pulled the three-foot-long cottonwood stem from its slender pocket sewn on the outside of the bag. He pushed it into the hole at the projecting base of the soapstone bowl. Then he shook out the smaller pouches in the bag and the turtle shell that Old Owl had used since he was Cub’s age.
Cub reached into one of the pouches and greased his fingers with buffalo fat. Then he shook some dried willow bark into the turtle shell and crushed it with his fingers, mixing the buffalo fat into it to make it burn better. He added an equal part of Arikara twist tobacco from Mexico and a small amount of fragrant sage. The large tobacco leaves had already been cut into long strips and pounded to shreds. He sifted all the ingredients together until they were well blended. Alone, the willow had a bitter taste, and his grandfather would know if Cub were careless with his mixing.
He tamped the tobacco down and passed the pipe back to Old Owl. Then he lit it with an ember held between two green sticks. Old Owl sucked deeply, his cheeks caving in. A tendril of smoke curled around his large nose, then upward. The old man sighed and watched the smoke float toward the stars in the smoke hole.
“You have a new pipe, Grandfather.”
“Yes. The old one finally cracked. This is a good one, though.” Old Owl took it out of his mouth and looked at it, as though seeing it for the first time. “Something Good made it for me. The stem is one piece, not split and hollowed and glued back together. She put a grub into a hole drilled in one end of it. Then she blocked up the hole and held that end near the fire. The grub bored through the pith all the way to the other end to escape the heat. Very clever girl, Something Good.” Old Owl passed the pipe back to Cub and surrendered to one of his huge, gaping yawns. He kneaded his fingers and wrists, swollen with arthritis.
“To think I have seen you before I die.”
“You’ve talked of dying for years. You look the same as you did the day I was taken from you.”
“That was the worst day of my life, my son. To know that you were going and that there was nothing I could do about it. I still hear your cries for help. I wept for months. I still weep. I’m weeping now.” He sniffed loudly and searched in the litter around him for a rag. Old Owl wasn’t much of a housekeeper, and he discouraged his wife and niece from coming into his smoking lodge.
“They put things away and I can never Find them again,” he grumbled. He didn’t find the rag and finally just held one cavernous nostril closed and blew the other, discharging a wad of mucus onto the ground. He did the same for the other side, and kicked dirt over the puddle. “How did you get here? And where did you get the rifle? Are there any more? You didn’t bring any coffee, did you?”
“One question at a time. I brought you many presents. I wish I could have seen my white uncle’s face when he discovered his rifle and food and kitchen ware and his three best horses gone.” Cub hesitated slightly as he spoke, searching for the word he hadn’t used in five years. “I pretended to cooperate with my uncle. He’s a powerful holy man among his own people. But their religion is all wrong. Grandfather, if I told you what the white people made me do, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Yes, I would. Cub. I have traveled too. All the way to the Great White Father’s lodge in Wah-sin-tone. But continue. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“They cut my hair. That’s one reason why I waited until late at night to find you. I’m ashamed to ride through the village with my hair as short as a woman’s.” He tossed the tumble of yellow curls contemptuously. “Last year I refused to let anyone cut it. I told my uncle I’d kill him if he touched it. And last year I was finally big enough to do it.
“They made me desecrate our Mother, the Earth. When I go to Medicine Mounds for my vision quest, I’ll seek forgiveness. I’ll do whatever I have to do to be one of the People again.”
“You’re still one of the People, but you’ll have to prove yourself a warrior. Just like every other young man.”
“I know. And I’ve lost so much time.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“I’ve tried to keep in practice, but it’s been difficult. Your pipe, for instance. My uncle calls holy tobacco the devil’s weed. He won’t allow it in his lodge. And I didn’t see a bow or arrow for five years.
“For five years I’ve felt as though I were breathing and smelling and seeing through a heavy layer of dust. Their life chokes me, smothers me. I won’t ever go back. I’m big enough to fight them this time.”
Cub brooded, his hair gleaming, tipped with points of flame in the fire’s light. He had stripped down to his heavy, soft woolen homespun pantaloons. And he had cut the seat out of them, so he’d be more comfortable riding. He had discarded his shoes, preferring to enter camp barefoot. His chest and shoulders and back were pale. The deep tan of his arms and neck stopped in a ring where his collar and rolled-up shirtsleeves had been.
“I didn’t see my father’s lodge when I came through the village.”
“Arrow Point left. He’s gone to live with the Quohadi. It seems so natural to have you back, I forget how long you’ve been gone. There’s so much you don’t know. Your sister married Wanderer. They have a son. I suppose he must be almost three years old now. The seasons rush by as you get older, Cub. And for me they’re starting to stampede like a herd of buffalo.”
“I heard about my sister’s marriage from a man who tried to ransom her. He lives near my white uncle.”
“Many of the young men have taken their families to live with Wanderer and his band. They’re called Noconi. Your old friend, Upstream, is there. He’s called Wolf Road now. The northern bands roam and raid and cause trouble for us all.”
“Then you don’t approve of them?”
“Approve? Who am I to approve or disapprove? They do what they have to do. I understand how they feel. But we of the Penateka often pay for their raids. Our bands are large, although not half as large as they once were. Our lands are shrinking, like leaves in the hot sun. Each season they shrivel and grow more barren of game. Other tribes are being crowded into our hunting grounds, and we war with them constantly.
“And we have become used to the white traders’ goods. Our children cry for sugar and our women want the bright dyes and cloths. We can no longer avoid the white men. And they are too powerful to defeat. The young men don’t know that, but I do. I have seen their cities and their numbers and their medicine.” Old Owl’s sight might be failing, but his vision of the future was terribly clear. It kept him awake at night.
“Wanderer’s band is small,” he continued. “They move constantly. They refuse all contact with the whites. No one can catch them. Most of the time even we don’t know where they are. And to the white people we are all the same. They punish us for the raids of others, even though we try to follow the white man’s road.” Old Owl yawned again.
“You’re tired, Grandfather. We can talk tomorrow. We have a lot of time to talk.”
“All right, my son. Sleep here with me.” Old Owl began rummaging through his belongings for extra buffalo robes. He threw them over his shoulder and onto the ground for Cub to make a bed of. “My other lodge is full of women and children. I sleep he
re most of the time for peace. Where are the presents you brought?”
“I left them piled outside.” Cub knew they’d be safe there.
“Did you bring any of the round yellow disks white men use to buy things?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m saving them to pay for another trip to Wah-sin-tone.”
Cub smothered the fire, and the two of them slid into their robes.
“Grandson, I’m glad you’re back.”
“Not as glad as I am to be back, Grandfather.” Cub paused, listening to the sound of insects, the howl of a distant coyote, a war pony’s whicker, and a cough from a lodge nearby. “It’s good to be home. I’ve missed you very much.” He hadn’t finished speaking before he heard his grandfather’s deep breathing and a few light snores. He knew the snores would build in volume until they almost vibrated the taut hide wall next to his head.
It didn’t take Cub long to establish his reputation in the village again. He was bigger than everyone else. And although the men of the People made up in ferocity what they lacked in size. Cub was both big and ferocious. He had the graceful, catlike walk of a large, dangerous animal. He wore a neutral expression on his face, a look that didn’t allow an opponent to guess what his reaction would be to attack or harassment. He had been fooling the white eyes for years, and he was a master at bluffing. Without a word being said, he was given a place in the life of the band and plenty of room when he walked down its streets.
He wisely kept out of archery contests, but he could outshoot anyone with his rifle. He had had ammunition to practice with, while the men of Old Owl’s band had none to spare. But most of the boys he had grown up with had gone on their vision quests and become braves. Some of them even counted coups and were warriors. He had already heard the story of Wolf Road’s heroic ride during the raid on the wagon train the winter before. He knew he wouldn’t feel like one of the People again until he had spoken with the spirits that would guide him through life.
Robson, Lucia St. Clair Page 53