"Tim needs a gun like old Deathgiver here." Elan laid his black rifle on the bench. "We told him you're the only smith to see."
Shell held the rifle, his huge fingers making the gun appear small. "Huh, why don't you give him this one, Jack? You don't need a gun anymore anyway."
Elan fairly sputtered. "Where I go, that rifle goes. Don't need a gun? What was it only four or five years ago that Pontiac had you hustling south to Fort Manada hollerin' for shelter? A man'll need his gun for a long, long time around here."
"Well, I don't make guns much anymore."
"John, you said that when I came years ago."
"You didn't have any money, Jack, and I quit doing charity work then and there."
Rob interrupted their banter. "Tim's a deadly shot, John. He needs a real candlesnuffer gun. I claim he should get a regular long gun and forget the second barrel. If a double rifle was all that good you'd see more of 'em."
Elan said, "They're around."
"Not one man in a hundred uses one."
"Not one man in a hundred deserves one."
Shell, said, "I don't make 'em like Jack's anymore. We've found better ways. Fact is, I can make a double gun that will shoot into one hole at one hundred steps."
"Tim will be most interested in having one barrel shoot about perfect out to three hundred steps."
"It'll do that, too."
Elan asked, "When'll you start, John?"
"Dang it, Jack, I didn't say I'd do it. I just said I knew how." He pretended to frown. "It was a sad day when Martha picked you. You're an annoying man, Jack. Remind me of a mosquito."
Elan grinned happily, "I'm taking that horse load of presents Martha brought back home where I'm appreciated."
Shell said, "You and Rob go somewhere while Tim and I talk this over a bit."
John Shell had to hear it all. The sun changed position before Tim got to his shooting plan. Then it went swiftly because there wasn't much to explain.
"So you want a rifle for match shooting."
"Well, yes, but it's got to be a practical hunting gun as well."
"So we are talking an ordinary looking swivel barrel that just happens to shoot like fury."
"That's it, Mister Shell."
John Shell was intrigued by the young man who spoke handsome English. Mostly Shell encountered louts who needed spring repairs in their old muskets and tried to barter chickens for the work.
Shell said, "Rob is right in that a swivel barrel rifle is not for most shooters, Tim. The idea of having a second barrel has appeal, but swivels do not come up as smooth and natural as a long rifle. You have to learn to shoot your swivel, and you have to adapt yourself to the gun. My son-in-law spent a lot of time adjusting to his. Finally it all became instinctive, and the rifle proved its worth. Did you know that Jack killed in personal combat the Indian that did in his family? Jack got the murderous animal with his second barrel, which is one reason he believes in double rifles."
Tim had heard how Jack Elan had lured Toquisson, the heart eater, onto familiar ground and how in a terrible fight had managed to kill the Shawnee. It had been a close thing, and the two-barrel had made it possible.
Tim said, "I figure some will get overconfident about out shooting a young man with a swivel gun."
Shell chuckled, "Well, that'll work once around, but the word'll go out to watch out for the swivel shooter."
"That will mean more will just have to try the swivel shooter themselves."
"By damn, you're confident about it." Shell reached for a longrifle hung on nearby pegs. "It's time you showed me some of this shooting. You can use my old gun. It shoots as good as any."
Tim was willing, "Maybe Jack will let me shoot old Deathgiver. Then you can see how I'll do with a swivel."
Shell shot from just outside his door. When the others saw Tim putting out shingles they came over.
"Tim'd like to use your gun, Jack."
"Good, Deathgiver needs to breathe deep once in a while."
"Can Tim really shoot?"
Jack said, "A lot betterin' me."
Rob added, "He is natural at it, John. Yes, he is good now, and as his strength increases he will be hard to beat."
They shot, and John Shell was impressed. Rob Shatto was considered as good as they came, yet shooting an almost strange rifle, Tim Murphy matched him shot for shot. Only at the longest ranges did Tim begin to falter.
Rob said, "There's a trick or two to hitting way out, Tim. I'll explain 'em and you'll do better, but I'd hate to have you shooting at me right now."
John Shell said, "You'll do, Tim. Come into the shop, there's something I want to show you." He led the way.
"You know that a gun barrel' is often made up of a lot of iron strips heated and hammered around a mandrel until they weld into a seamless tube. Or, sometimes I heat and fold a flat iron plate around a round mandrel until the edges join. Then I hammer weld the edges together making a long tube. Well, every once in a while a barrel maker stumbles onto just the right combination of heat, iron and hammering to produce a tube that feels just right. If he's smart, he takes special care rifling such a barrel, taking his time and using the sharpest cutters.
"Now, it happens I've got such a barrel." Shell removed a greasily wrapped tube from storage.
"Of course, you never know for sure until you shoot, but I think this gun barrel is as good a one as I ever made. Too good to put on some farmer's deer gun, I've been saving it for a long time.
"If we go ahead with this swivel rifle you want, I'll use this barrel. The other one may be ordinary, but you'll do your target work with one barrel. Could be we'll build a rifle that'll make eyes pop."
Even Quehana liked the new gun, although he admitted it only begrudgingly.
"Good feel for a two barrel."
Elan said, "Shoots as true as anything I've tried."
Rob said, "It doesn't give up at two hundred yards or so, the way some rifles do. You'll make some real long shots with this gun, Tim."
Rob was already teaching Tim about the competition he would encounter.
"Now, they'll try to get you to shoot one hundred yard matches, Tim. Avoid 'em if you can. A lot of people can shoot well at shorter ranges, and at those distances anyone can get lucky now and then. Every time somebody does, you lose money. Make 'em shoot long—at least if you've got serious competition. If you're just taking money off a bunch of farmers it won't matter, you'll win anyway.
"Another thing is try for shoots where a lot of shots count. Again, a man can get lucky for a shot or two and dead center 'em. Luck don't hold long though. The difference between you and most is not that you can hit a bull's eye. It's that you can hit more of them than the other man.
"Have you heard of squirrel shoots? Well, they've gotten popular in the last few years. Way it goes is two men face a grove full of squirrels—that'd be nut trees of course. Each has a follower to pick up the downed squirrels. On signal the shooters go in and start knocking over squirrels until a horn tells that the time is up. Shooter with the most squirrels wins.
"Now the way you shoot on moving game makes a squirrel shoot inviting, but there's things to know. For instance, you've got to have a few dozen powder and ball loads all measured into containers. You just dump, ram, and shoot. No time to waste. Use priming powder so it'll trickle into your pan—no time for separate priming. Load light, only just enough to kill—recoil from full charges wastes time. Finally, if the woods look about equal, choose the right side. You'll swing left quickest, and you'll probably get shots over in the other shooter's trees. Of course you'll have to have your bottom barrel plugged, unless you meet someone else with a double gun."
Rob had other wisdoms. "Most shots that fly wide are due to the patch burning through. Ticking, which is what most use, will do that now and then. If you get a flyer find the patch. You'll likely find it burned. When I get real serious I double patch, of course you've got to know your gun to do that.
"You'd be wise to weigh your
balls to make sure they're the same, and roll 'em on a flat surface to see that they're round. Never use a ball with an ugly sprue. When you load, the sprue goes in first—every time—or you'll shoot to different spots.
Tim had thought he knew something about shooting, but Rob Shatto opened his eyes. He learned to load lying down and on the run. Rob had him shooting left handed, so an enemy could not know which side of a tree he might shoot from.
Tim learned about blacking sights with a candle or fat lamp, or with soot from a dead fire. That was for shooting in sunlight. In the deep woods the polished arc of the brass front sight blade caught light and was easier seen.
As he learned, Tim's thoughts often turned to Caraway, who had taught him the basics. Did the English long hunter also possess Rob Shatto's many wisdoms? Tim had to doubt it. Yet, Caraway was a remarkable shot and a renowned killer in war. Where was Caraway now? No word filtered in. Perhaps the hunter's luck had run out and Caraway was dead. Tim continued to wonder.
Thinking of John Caraway made Tim talk about the man's skill with knives. He demonstrated his own lesser abilities and Quehana was impressed.
"The Indian has no tradition with a knife, Tim. Until whites arrived, weapons were all of flint or bone. A knife as we know it did not exist. At best a sharp pointed dagger could be chipped out—fine for stabbing, but lacking a cutting edge.
"Because they were familiar with stone clubs and flint axes, warriors preferred the iron tomahawk. It was a wise choice. Actually, a knife is rarely the best weapon." Rob drew his long handled tomahawk.
"In these times of peace I carry my hatchet only when traveling. It is good for chopping firewood. Of course its blade can be used as a knife, and it should be kept as sharp.
"In hand to hand fighting a hatchet is murderous. The technique is to simply wade in, knock the other's weapon aside if you can, and chop him to death. It's brutal but decisive. Such combat appeals to a warrior's heart. It is savage with little finesse. A knife or sword is likely to wound, but the tomahawk kills."
Rob smiled grimly. "As you have shown, a thrown knife is not often effective, but a hatchet . . ." Rob's tomahawk flew, the weight of his powerful body behind it. The weapon's thud as it buried its blade in a sycamore was memorable. Tim knew it would be difficult to work loose.
Quehana chuckled, "Of course, the best method of managing such combat is to fake a throw and while your enemy is cringing, run like the devil was after you. Fight another day when your rifle is loaded or your enemy is asleep."
— — —
The older brother who had inherited died suddenly, and the outcast, John Caraway, was rediscovered and hastily returned to his unexpected legacy.
Again in England, Caraway mixed with landed gentry. He wore silks and rich brocades. Managers cared for the Caraway business interests while the new owner attempted social responsibilities.
In his middle forties, whip lean, and financially sound, John Caraway appeared to be a matron's dream. Daughters and young widows were thrust upon him—to little avail. Caraway remained courteous but distant. His landsmen encountered him prowling woods and fields with his long American gun. Its whiplash crack, distinctive against the bellow of an English gun, invariably announced game taken, but Caraway did not become a familiar to his help.
In private Caraway brooded. He had used up the hungers to roam, and he would not trade his luxuries for the American wilderness. Yet, when the black tides rose he hungered for the killing grounds where he had slaughtered as he wished. The blinding rages were not as they had once been. Perhaps age had softened them and liquor could dull their edges.
When the mood was right, Caraway would review in his mind the many kills, the scalpings, and the burnings. He did not regret them. He often wished to again experience the surging rush of ultimate power that had made him scream aloud or whine in gratification. Never again, he supposed.
On occasion Caraway thought of Tim Murphy. How that boy could shoot! No doubt he had found his way back to his Huron family, and without Sir William Johnson's interest, he had likely returned to Indian ways. The knife fighting skills Caraway had taught might prove handy and the English language would make him special, but Tear of the Huron would never have a rifle of his own. A musket? Almost certainly, but that clumsy weapon could never demonstrate the special abilities Caraway had seen. Unfortunate, and Caraway's thoughts would move on.
Chapter 11
Tom Pollop
For some of the marksmen that gathered regularly at old Fort Loudon, Tom Pollop ruined the shooting. It wasn't because Pollop won everything. It was because Pollop was arrogant and greedy; a man who baited poorer marksmen into betting more than they should, then ridiculed their weak shooting was hard to stomach.
Tom Pollop was heavy-legged, thick-waisted and short-armed. When his longrifle dropped into line it held rock steady, and the bullet went close. If Pollop had not been such a human hog about winning, the locals could have been proud to have such a fine shot among them. But Pollop took the fun away, and many were pleased when he was absent.
Because the day was crisp under a cloudless sky the assembly at the decaying old fort was large. Families picnicked and visited. Most men came over for the shooting, and old timers too shaky or eye-dulled to compete soaked in the sun and offered comment and criticism. Jugs were passed, but this was not a hard drinking crowd and there was no deliberate rowdiness.
Among the spectators was a young man who had introduced himself as Tim Murphy. He had not stepped up to shoot. Most agreed that his two barreled rifle, while interesting to examine, was not a gun to compete with, but Murphy watched— almost as if he were waiting and really was anxious to try his luck.
As expected, Tom Pollop was winning. By mid-afternoon no one was willing to shoot against him.
Pollop said, "Holy hell, here I am with money to risk and there ain't one shooter willing to stand up." He thunked a heavy purse on a sawed stump for emphasis.
An unfamiliar voice asked, "How much do you have there, Mister Pollop? Might all be brass washers." Heads swiveled. It was Tim Murphy speaking
Pollop puffed a little, "There's more than you could cover, stranger-boy."
Murphy appeared uncertain, "Well, I expect I could produce enough silver to match anything you'd be showing. I'm just not sure you are serious about betting it all. A lot of men don't follow through when it gets down to toeing the line."
"That so?" Pollop did not sense the hook being set. A youth with a swivel gun, why should he?
Pollop called the bluff. "I suppose you're talkin' about you again' me. You using that two barrel?"
Murphy flourished the rifle. "Only gun I've got." Then as if suddenly worried, "I'm talking a decent range. Two hundred steps and at least a three shot string shoot. I can't chance you getting a lucky one close in."
Pollop had been thinking the same. He dumped his pouch saying, "Twenty-five dollars, boy. Let's see yours."
Murphy appeared to blanch, as though trapped by the large bet. He visibly rallied and bluffed saying, "Oh, I thought you had more."
Coldly confident, Pollop produced more coins. "Call that thirty-five, then. That enough for you?"
It was a huge bet. Men labored dawn to dusk for fifty cents and thought themselves decently paid. Men shook heads and looked to Tim Murphy. One added, "You don't have to shoot ag'in him, boy." Pollop's glare withered the speaker.
"Well . . . ," clearly Murphy had doubts. He fumbled in a pouch and dutifully, if reluctantly, laid out his money. "Somebody honest has to hold this. I don't want it disappearing if . . . when . . . I win." Pollop nearly laughed. The stranger-boy was already half licked.
Both loaded carefully, but Murphy appeared all thumbs. Their shingles were placed and each could fire when ready.
Pollop's rifle cracked, and after long assessing, Tim's gun barked. The hits were carried back. About even, Pollop three fingers low left, Murphy, about the same measure high.
Both were good shots. But Murphy appeared surprise
d by his.
Pollop again shot first. Murphy waited a moment before shouldering his own rifle. If Pollop wondered where his ball had struck, Tim did not; he could see the hole.
Murphy's gun fired almost as it touched his shoulder. He lowered it, shaking his head, "Dang thing went off early. I probably missed."
Pollop glowed satisfaction, "Knew you didn't have it, boy." An excited whoop came from the targets. "Murphy dead center," Stunned, Pollop barely heard his own scoring.
Men howled and slapped in glee. Pollop swore loudly, "Even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then, Murphy."
What luck, Tom Pollop bore down for the last shot, still confident it couldn't happen again, but he had to shoot close for his string to be shorter. The blackened cross did not really count; in a string shoot it was just an aiming point. What counted was how tight together the three shots grouped on the shingle.
An old timer leaned close to his friend. "That boy's suckerin' Tom Pollop. That Tim Murphy can shoot. He'll win but make it look lucky. Wish I had money on him."
It did no good to wait. No announcing was done until both had fired. Pollop loaded with care and held his best. It was a fine shot very close to the cross, but Pollop could not yet know. Tim Murphy did.
Tim aimed and Pollop cleared his throat loudly. The rifle fired and Murphy turned angrily toward his opponent. A voice said, "That was dirty." Tom Pollop only grinned.
Murphy said, "I don't know where in hell it went." He appeared chagrined.
The old man said softly, "Like hell he don't. Pollop's licked."
The shingles were brought on a run. Murphy's last ball had struck between his earlier shots. Murphy won easily.
The boy was obviously astounded. His mouth hung and his hands began to shake. Men were cheering and backslapping. Pollop, his head red with frustration started away. Tim Murphy saw him, and his voice was apologetic, "Sure sorry about that, but like you said, a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then."
Pollop couldn't take it. He came stomping back. The old men giggled and one said, "My God, he's going to get him again."
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