The Spook

By Joel Carl

The setting for my novel, The Spook, is Nebraska Territory in MarchMay 1861, centered on Fort Laramie. The central character, J. D. Davis, is a guard for an inspector from the general land office who is investigating a fraudulent eighteen-township survey in the vicinity of the Niobrara River. A romance with and marriage to a widow with three children is weaved in the story. The inspector determines the fraud and undertakes to perform the contract and pursue the guilty party. The guilty fight back, attempting murder to stop the report. Davis kills the assassin among the defrauders, known as the Spook, and takes his horse. Davis possesses both a Spencer repeating rifle and a Whitworth sharpshooting rifle through the effort of his wealthy father. A dead shot from an early age with muzzle loaders, Davis has the first repeating rifle seen by the Brule Sioux Indians who are a threat to the surveying. A survivor of the destroyed defrauders sets the Brule Sioux Indians on the surveyors by shooting into the Brule village from a horse that is identified as the Spook horse. The Brule are divided partly because the Spook horse is seen in different places at the same times. A battle takes place in which Davis destroys an entire Brule force and has the army bury all the bodies in a mysterious place and way. The Sioux elders eventually confront Davis with their demand for the bodies, and an interesting finish to the novel takes place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483694160

Joel Carl

I am Joel Siler, writing under the name Joel Carl. I graduated from Oklahoma University College of Law in 1954, but practiced law only seven years. I worked as a landman or right-of-way agent most of my life. I have worked in Colorado and Wyoming. My writing has been legal and business style.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Two fine-looking horses, both well groomed and harnessed, stood on top of a hillock in Nebraska Territory near nine in the morning, their riders quietly in conversation. The young woman, dressed well in riding attire befitting a woman of affluence for the year 1861, wore a blue bonnet with a wide brim, wore little cosmetics, and sat easily side saddle on a quiet mare. The man with her was equally well dressed in the uniform of the U.S. Army, wearing the bar of a first lieutenant, a campaign hat pinned at the front, and a manly full mustache. He also displayed a weak chin, sharp but merry blue eyes, and a predominant Adam’s apple.

Yes, this is a pretty area, he was saying, but I feel a little guilty being out this far from the fort.

Look at that! she exclaimed suddenly, raising her arm to point to their right.

A fully saddled big black horse had come in view without a rider aboard, trotting slowly, its joined reins over its neck. It was followed some forty yards or so behind by a bare-chested running man, with perspiration glistening in the morning sun on a well-muscled body.

The lieutenant squinted quickly to make sure. That is JD.

JD? she repeated as a question. He seems to have been unhorsed, she added.

Yes, JD, and he has not been unhorsed. The lieutenant replied with a decidedly dull tone in his voice. He reached down to his saddlebag to get his binoculars.

I can see that now, she mused, her eyes on the running figure as her companion brought out his binoculars. He set them to his eyes and adjusted the range. The figures were about two hundred yards away, passing from their right to their left. Both man and horse were running easily, swinging little, with the man’s pace measured to stay the same distance behind the horse. The man did not seem to notice his audience of two.

Yes, that’s JD all right, said the lieutenant with the same dull tone.

May I? she asked, reaching for the binoculars. The lieutenant saw the avid interest of the pretty girl and glumly handed over the glasses. She clapped them on her head and found the figures in them. They were running through thick grass, but both were powerful enough to stay smooth through it. She could not see below his knees. He was wearing buckskin breeches with a large knife scabbard tied to his thigh and a very large knife securely hugged there. Both man and horse were in superb condition, muscles rippling as they moved along steadily. The lieutenant sat glumly as his lady friend followed the two runners silently for a few seconds and then breathed out a quiet but excited comment, barely audible to the lieutenant.

Magnificent!

The lieutenant dropped his head slightly, mouth tensed, and then asked,

The horse?

She glanced at him briefly, smiled beautifully, and replied knowingly.

A stallion, I believe—are you jealous, Gerald? she said, not looking at him, still tracking the runners. She was enjoying the teasing.

Of the horse? He sighed.

"Who is he?" she demanded, undismayed by his avoidance and keeping the glasses up and busy.

Well—his voice was low and glum—I can tell you one thing. We need not be apprehensive about Indians with him around.

Oh, but you are wrong! she cried excitedly, pointing.

Two other horsemen, obviously Indians, came suddenly out of the trees to their left, both brandishing muskets and riding hard toward the running figures. The lieutenant did not budge as the pretty girl looked at him quickly with alarm. The trooper just stared at the event with a wry look in his eyes. She clapped the binoculars to her head again as the black horse abruptly stopped, wheeled, and dashed to the running JD, stopping for him to pull a rifle from its scabbard on the right side of the horse. JD quickly fit it to his shoulder and fired. As the report echoed about the area, he returned the rifle to its scabbard, vaulted into the saddle, retrieved the reins, and directed the horse quickly back the way they had come. The two Indians stopped pursuit, unscathed by the shot, and watched JD run full gallop away. Before they disappeared, the horse abruptly changed gaits to a leisurely canter.

GERALD! the pretty girl scolded, near panic, eyeing Gerald’s indifference with panic in her eyes. Her horse was picking up on her tension, so the lieutenant grabbed the rein near its bit, keeping the horse from reacting.

Jenny, he chided, it’s all a charade. They are all friends just training the horse.

The girl clapped the binoculars to her head again and saw the two Indians riding peacefully away in the direction they had come from.

Oh… , she said, visibly calming, how wonderful. And she switched her binoculars back toward where JD had disappeared.

"Who is he?" she demanded again.

Lieutenant Gerald Hannigan reined his horse around toward the fort as she followed. He was in no hurry to answer. His morning was quite different than he had hoped for already.

GERALD! she said in a tone as if she had stamped her foot.

Okay. He sighed. He is an Indian fighter attached to Colonel Stafford’s survey crew.

Out here? She was surprised.

Sure, there is surveying going on all over out here. If it were not, I would probably be escorting wagon trains.

Surveying? She sounded ignorant. She was not ignorant, and he knew it.

The Homestead Act, Jenny, he said, knowing she knew that already.

Oh—of course. She paused as she hurried her horse up next to his. Indian fighter, huh? She was obviously fishing for more.

Yes. But he did not continue.

"Well, he was not fighting those Indians, I guess." Her impatience with the lieutenant was showing. They were riding through tall grass, along even terrain, and Lieutenant Hannigan was getting worried. This girl was known to bear grudges. He was in danger of losing ground with her.

All right, he surrendered, they were two Crow chums of his, and they all fight Indians.

And he uses that horse to help, she added, trying to loosen him up.

That horse, Hannigan reported to her, is the reason JD is here. It threw him back in the back country, and JD broke his leg—hit a corral post or something. So he has been here mending. Meanwhile, he has been training the horse.

She digested that a bit and said, He looks fit enough.

The horse? Hannigan was gambling again. It was his nature with her.

No, you idiot, she retorted instantly. He glanced at her and saw she was really getting irritated.

Well, he has been here about seven or eight weeks now. I guess he has it licked—which is not surprising.

Not surprising?

Hannigan looked over at her with a little smile. Healthy cuss, isn’t he? He reined his horse to a halt, and she matched him on hers as he paused to surrender totally.

You don’t like him, do you? she guessed.

Hannigan laughed then, the way that idea was all twisted up.

Jenny, he is one of my best friends.

Really! She looked at Hannigan with amazement. You have not mentioned him.

Well, I don’t see him much. He stays out with the Reardons to be near Bessie.

His wife. The girl sighed. It figured. The man was just too much to be single, even out in the West like this, where women were scarce. Now she was glum as Hannigan secretly smiled, letting a few moments pass while he relished her disappointment. But he knew he couldn’t let it go long. They minded the riding while he kept secretly smiling awhile.

Bessie is a cow. The surgeon recommended that JD get plenty of milk. He has become fond of the cow. In fact, he helps out with the milking. The Reardons provide milk to the fort in exchange for protection. JD has definitely become fond of Bessie. Hannigan enjoyed saying that.

The pretty girl in the long riding dress dissolved into laughter then, approving of the way Hannigan had played with her somewhat brazen interest in the young man called JD. She decided to not show any further interest in JD for the moment and changed the subject. She knew just the right person to get the rest of the story on JD from when they got back to the fort. Besides, even if JD was not married to Bessie, he was probably married to somebody. Margaret would know all about that.

Fort Laramie was situated in a bend of the Laramie River about a mile west of where the Laramie and the North Platte merged. Mrs. Jennifer Jenny Halbot and her officer escort had come upon the scene of the training exercise about two miles northwest of the fort, across a creek and up in the first hills of the Laramie Range of mountains. As they returned, she decided to probe for more information.

I thought the Homestead Act was defeated.

It was—by Southern congressmen. The slavery issue, you know.

Free states against slave states.

Yes. But now that Southern states are seceding, the North will probably try again.

Which way will you go, Gerald?

You mean, on slavery?

No, on the war.

I took an oath. I go with my outfit. Maybe old Abe can keep it from happening.

Not a chance! Eww! I hate the idea! She was vehement.

Lieutenant wondered if her feelings reflected concern for him. But Gerald Hannigan had been after the widow almost from the time Captain Halbot was killed. His instinct was that she was merely passing the time till they got to the fort.

There was only a partial wall and no sentry posted on the north side of the fort. Only Bedlam, the magnificent Southern plantation-style building housing bachelor officers, stood out. Beyond it was the enlisted men’s long barracks building. On the other side of the square were the rows of small crib-like rooms and larger noncom quarters. Then there were the sutler’s store, the quartermaster building, and the stables; a few of the officers’ quarters were on that side.

As the duo approached the fort area, a good many necks stretched to get a good look at them. Indian necks were among them. Indians dressed in winter readiness since it was early spring. Brule, Lakota, Ogallala Indians of Sioux tribes. Kickapoo from the East Kansas area. Cheyenne, Arapaho, and others. But no Crow, Comanche, or Pawnee, these being hostile to the Brules and not trusted by others. Crows were notorious horse thieves, and there were a good many horses about, most loose from the hitching rails. Most of the Indians were close to the entrance to the fort and being watched calmly by two sentries. There was no easy way to tell what tribe most of them belonged to. Most were in blankets and some with headgear. All noticed the attractive lady, although many of the Indians made pain to not seem so.

The lieutenant steered the two horses through the traffic toward the far side of the fort without stopping or noting poorly hidden comments. The widow Halbot was different than most frontier women. Her facial and hand skin was smooth. Her complexion was not ravaged by too much sun. Her figure had not broadened even though she was mother to three young children. Her dress was not wrinkled, and her bonnet fit her shapely head. Even the other officer wives could not match her good looks. And, of course, she knew it. So she knew a lot of eyes were on her, and it pleasured her to exhibit herself with some restraint. Her dignity stayed safe.

They rode past the stables and on to her quarters, back where there were no Indians, it being a soldiers’ area, where Hannigan gracefully expressed his pleasure at being favored with the outing and retreated, taking the other horse with him to the stables. The door to the cottage burst open, and two children came noisily up to her—one of her own and the other of Margaret’s brood.

Ah, Sammy, she greeted her oldest boy, and she patted the girl on the head as the girl sidled up to her with an arm around her waist. They went happily toward the door. The girl was bigger, almost a young woman, and adoration shone in her eyes. Have a good time? Sammy got behind her, obviously hiding from another of the children in the cottage, as they went in.

Yes, it was a very nice ride. The main room was full of children and Margaret, who was folding ironed clothes. She hardly glanced up. Jenny went about putting up her shawl and little handbag and then sidled up to Margaret so none of the children could hear what she said.

What do you know about a man named JD that stays out with the Reardons?

Margaret quickly fixed a knowing eye on the young widow and in a voice just as low, watching Jenny’s face, said, Not much. She paused, searching Jenny’s face. But Mike knows him. I can ask him. Jenny, seeing that Margaret was reading her face too well, attempted to be aloof.

It’s not important. Hannigan was being secretive about the man, and I was just curious.

He’s some kind of guard for Colonel Stafford’s survey party, I think, the older woman offered, going back to her folding. But Margaret knew. She had seen J. D. Davis once herself. Margaret didn’t need much to add things up.

I thought we had troops out here for that, Jenny said quietly.

We do. Margaret saw her daughter coming and finished quickly, Mike will have to tell you.

At that point, Jenny’s three children came running up to their mother and nothing more was said right then about the man out at the Reardons’. There was no talking about a thing like that with the children around. Mike was Margaret’s husband and first sergeant for B Company. He would not be nearly as suspicious of an unwidow-like curiosity. The big Irishman walked up to the cottage to escort Margaret and their children back to their cottage.

Ah! Good afternoon to you, pretty lady! he offered toward Jenny as Margaret got his ear and whispered quickly. Big Mike looked serious a moment and began nodding his head as the children all ran out in the lane in front of the cottage. Margaret finished what she was doing there and prepared to leave as Mike considered the question a moment. Then he stepped over to talk quietly to the waiting Jenny.

That fella you saw, he confided, is a crack shot with his Sharps and a real good scout. He spends some time on the five-hundred-yard range and is the best at it. They say he has a Sharps and a Volcanic. I haven’t seen him shoot them. That’s a lot of guns for one man. He travels with the survey party under Colonel Stafford, and he has a few friends here at the fort. He seems nice enough, but the major has it in for him… thinks he should be in uniform. He paused. Then he added, He travels with a couple of Crows and a big Greek fella out where the surveying is going on.

Plato Bascopolous? Jenny asked, smiling a little.

Yes, ma’am. Mike nodded. Mighty rough crowd. The Irish sergeant seemed cautious.

The man you fought? Jenny’s eyes widened, remembering what she had heard of the short fight with the Greek.

Well… there wasn’t much fight to it now, was there? The big Irishman looked unhappy.

It was amazing that you tried at all. Jenny said respectfully. The Greek was well over six feet tall and looked to be very heavy. Around four hundred pounds, people said. He had a big black beard that was part of thick black chest hair. An enormous man, but people said he could move like a mad grizzly. Jenny had not seen the fight, but she heard about it. The Greek had a big white toothed smile and she had liked him. Like most men, he had been friendly to her. He was not about the fort much. And he traveled with a big peculiar-looking wagon pulled by four big mules, sometimes with a military escort.

Big Mike looked at the young widow and said carefully, The Greek treats J. D. Davis like a brother. They practice with knives some. Both of them are very good at it. Some of our sharpshooters like to shoot with Davis. Well, I’ll be leaving now, ma’am. The big Irishman tipped his hat to the pretty woman and left her standing in the cottage parlor, thinking hard. Davis… it sounded English or Irish. Knives. Guns. And there was that horse. A warrior in the West. Still, he had incredible good looks. He might be too young and of poverty. He probably would not like children. She was still more than curious. Her late husband had been a warrior, and the fort was full of them. It was a favorite stop for mountain men. She knew something about warriors… and horses.

CHAPTER TWO

The Greek was on his way to the Reardon place. He had only two of his mules hitched for the trip since the danger of Indian hostiles was small. The Reardon place was well inside the convergence of the two rivers, west of the fort about four miles. The main dwelling and barn was located about a mile east of the first of the Laramie Mountains. He was not pressing his pets as they jogged along, pulling the big wagon easily. It was only midmorning, and the day was bright, no weather threatening. He was almost asleep as the wagon entered the fenced area, about four hundred yards from the main buildings. Those fences were well-done poles and a break to any wild charging hostiles trying to get to the Reardons from across country. They would have to come right down the lane, which was always watched, as the Greek knew. Inside the fence was cultivated pasture, just sprouting a new spring growth under the dead-looking winter grass. A number of shaggy winter-coated horses were scattered about, trying to get at the new growth. It was early in the spring, and snow could still fly. As the Greek approached the house, two men and three of the small Reardon children emerged and came out to meet him. The children ran out ahead of the slower elders, laughing and bright eyed. Old Squire Reardon himself and one of the grown sons were the adults.

As the wagon approached, they all waved at one another casually, and the old man, a tall nice Scotch man who still carried a muscular figure and obviously knew something about hard work, was smiling. The Greek was familiar to him. Squire reached for a handshake which the huge man grabbed enthusiastically.

He’s out in the barn practicing with Jesse, he said. And then he told the children, You kids stay out of the barn. The children groaned but obeyed.

The Greek got down as a little smile opened his mouth to the big white teeth. A twinkle appeared in his eye that the men saw as the huge man easily stepped off to the ground and led the mules up to a nearby fence. Both Reardons knew the Greek would have taken the rig closer to the house ordinarily. Something was up, and they knew enough about the Greek and JD to not ask. When they saw him draw his big knife from its scabbard and begin walking toward the barn, both Reardons followed closely, glancing at each other with little smiles of their own. The Greek walked fast but avoided frightening any of the chickens that were in the way and made no noise. The Reardons carefully did likewise. The barn was closer than the house, and it didn’t take them long. Stealth was evident as the Greek slipped his huge frame through the side door just as a loud thunk came from about thirty paces away in the center of the aisle, followed by a whistle of excitement from Jesse Reardon close by. JD was striding toward the impaled target, a large plank propped up in the center aisle, as the Greek slipped silently in and poised himself for a throw. The two Reardons barely made it inside before the Greek whipped his arm forward powerfully and his big knife sailed, with only two turns in thirty paces, about two feet from JD’s head, and into the target with another thunk, right next to JD’s knife, splitting the plank.

J. D. Davis faltered in midstride, his hair feeling like it was standing on end as his senses told him to panic. But JD exercised rigid control of himself. Not looking back at the three grinning men behind him, he casually walked on to the split target with one knife still impaled in it. As he bent down to retrieve both knives and without looking back at them, he managed a superbly controlled casual tone of voice.

Bascopolous, what the hell are you doing out here?

The three men behind him erupted in loud laughter and some knee slapping as the horses in the barn reacted nervously and JD walked back toward his friends with a nice smile on his clean-shaven face. The little frontiersman’s test of nerve was passed, with great appreciation coming from his friends. He would not let the Greek hug him, feeling that one tough test was enough for that morning, but they gripped hands and hugged a shoulder in brotherly affection.

How’s the laig? mumbled the Greek as they went back out into the sun.

Good—I’ve been runnin’ some.

He’s been jumpin’ too! added the elder Reardon. Musta drunk a whole lake of milk.

Milk?

Yeah, milk, Squire’s got some dandy milk cows here, as the Greek led them all back to his wagon. I been doin’ some of the milking too, he said, looking at the Greek to see his reaction.

I noticed that grip.

JD smiled. If the Greek noticed his milking grip, he hadn’t reacted.

When the Greek laughed, his huge shoulders were involved and his head went back a little. Then you ought to be ready for a little work. They stopped at the rear of the wagon, and the Greek unfastened the back cover. Got a couple of packages here for ya. And he pulled down the back gate of the wagon to show a square wooden crate, about a foot square, but long. The Greek grabbed the rope handle on the crate and passed it casually, with no effort, to JD.

JD took it and immediately sagged under the surprising weight, bearing up as he pushed it back onto the lowered gate. Hey! What’s in that thing? he grunted.

I don’t know. I haven’t opened it. I’d be proud to see it myself.

But JD was looking at the other package because it looked more interesting. The Reardon boys were looking at that one too. It was not exactly a crate. But it was a wooden box, much longer than it was wide or thick. It might have a rifle in it but looked too thick for that. JD reached for it. The weight was too heavy to be a rifle. He hauled it out as the men crowded around. He turned it over a couple of times and laid it back on the wagon gate.

I didn’t let the boys up there see this stuff. The Greek nodded toward the fort.

Old Bailey found us ’cause he thought you were with us. He had several other wagons and some good men with him. It’s been freighted out here from Baltimore.

The writing on both packages said To: Joseph Daniel Davis, care of Colonel Francis Stafford, Nebraska Territory, USA and From: Jack Davis, Walden Street, Baltimore, Maryland. LETTER INSIDE.

Would that be Black Jack Davis? asked Squire, pointing to the name. JD hesitated, looking as if he had not heard the question at first, and then answered very quietly.

Could be. Why? Do you know him? JD looked Squire in the eye.

Who is he, Pa? asked Jesse.

General E. Jackson Davis, U.S. Army retired, supplied the Greek.

A friend, a long time ago—hell of a man! supplied Squire.

But JD, without showing any interest, hiked the two packages up on his shoulders and headed for the barn. I’ll put these up and be right with you.

The three watched him go and all three deduced that JD was not going to show what was in his packages or talk about this general.

When JD was out of earshot, Jesse asked, Is he kin? and looked at the Greek.

I don’t know, he replied and started for his mules. I never asked him. Jesse looked at his dad and the older man had a wry grin on his face, shaking his head at his son. This made young Jesse even more curious, and he followed the Greek up to the mules. Bascopolous was leading his mules out of their traces to a water trough. Jesse was wanting to ask another question, but the Greek just didn’t look receptive. With a man like the Greek, a look was a caution.

If it’s Black Jack, offered Squire, he probably knows more about guns than anyone in the army.

That could be why JD is a great shot and has that old Volcanic. Jesse was excited.

I know a lot of men named Davis. If I was you, I would leave it alone, growled the Greek as he opened the big door for the barn and led his wagon and mules inside. Watching that big man move those heavy doors got their attention a moment. He handled them with an ease that made them admire.

Squire gave his young son a stern look and added, I know a few myself, and then there is ole Jeff. You better not go off half cocked, Jesse.

Tom, the other Reardon son, looked at the barn and said quietly, Well, ‘ole Jeff’ didn’t send him that gun. And with that, he headed to the house with Squire and Jesse following. It was apparent that JD was not going to satisfy their curiosity.

The barn contained a grain storage room, an equipment storage room, a blacksmith forge and work area, an enormous hay loft, and six spacious stalls. It was a very large building, and in winter, they had to keep the forge and the wood-burning fireplace going to keep the chill from getting to the livestock. JD had been sleeping in the equipment room and using the work area near the forge as a place to shave and clean up in. There was a barrel of clean water near the forge and a couple of rough chairs and a table in the work area. He set the long package down on the table first and then put the heavy wooden box in a chair seat. He drew his hunting knife from its scabbard and started getting into the long box first. It was a very secure, well-made box.

The Greek came closer with his two mules and removed the bridles. They had their eye on a stack of hay, and the Greek let them walk to it.

We’ve got Pawnee out there, he stated as he approached JD from behind.

JD stopped working a moment as this registered with him. He knew the Pawnee lodges were much further south than where the colonel was working, by a couple of days… maybe three.

They don’t get upset much. And then he added, Pretty early in the spring for that, isn’t it?

We spotted four of them snoopin’ around. They were hard-looking young ones. They left riding south at a pretty good clip. The Greek eyed JD significantly.

After a few seconds thought, JD asked, It don’t seem likely. That is Brule country. How long do you figure they will talk? The knife was prying away at the fastenings. It seems early to be leaving warm diggings.

If they decide to ride, it will be a few young ones, and they might ride light. They’d just as soon tangle with the Brule as with us.

The top piece to the gun box came up, revealing an expensive-looking chamois wrapper, carefully holding not one, but two guns. One was shorter than the other, but both were long. At sight of them, JD whistled low and the Greek peeked over his shoulder. Never seen one o’ those, the big man rumbled, pointing to the shorter rifle. Pretty, ain’t they?

They are more than pretty, Plato, General Jack has sent some rare stuff. This one—he pointed to the shorter one with the compartment in the stock butt—is one of the new Spencers.

But I don’t know what this is, he continued, picking up the longer rifle with the scope attached. He turned it over to a name plate. On the plate, engraved sharply, it read The Whitworth Company, Manchester, England.

Whitworth? mused the Greek, shaking his head in puzzlement.

‘It’s a long shooter, Plato, a very long shooter with that scope. JD grinned, delight on his young face. The scope on it was fourteen or fifteen inches long and was screwed to the left side of the rifle, It was stamped 1358."

Action looks like an Enfield.

Yeah, but look at this bore. He indicated the end of the barrel. It was a hexagon shape with rounded edges where the bullet rode. Neither of them had ever seen anything but round bore barrels.

JD picked up a handwritten note that was folded neatly on top of the gun and opened it. The Greek retired respectfully back toward his wagon as JD began reading:

February 1861, Baltimore:

Dear Joseph:

It is with great pleasure that I finish getting this gift off to you. I realize that it will be fortunate if it reaches you, but it will have the best chance with Mr. Bailey.

As I predicted, several Deep South states are threatening to secede. If they do, I am certain it will lead to a national bloodbath in the coming year and possibly longer. You know my sentiments about the power of guns and what it will mean in frontal killing. It is my desire that you, at least, may be spared the ordeal of killing officers and other sharpshooters in a circumstance nearing murder of white men. It may also give you some pain to kill the savages who are so notional and uncivilized out where you are. I have no recommendation on that.

You have been an unbelievable shot for a long time now. These guns will extend that capability far beyond the expectation of any enemy. It is said that Queen Victoria was off only a little over an inch of dead center at four hundred yards her first shot from a fixed stand with the Whitworth. The Scope is one of Colonel Davidson’s, but we have added a rubber eyepiece on it because the recoil tends to make the scope hit one’s eye. The elevations on it are not marked, so you will have to discover them by practice. The rifling is one inch in twenty, and the bullets are harder than lead because of the grooving. You probably have heard about the Spencer. The first practical repeater, this one can shoot seven self-contained cartridges from the spring-loaded magazine in the butt, and I have sent along an extra magazine for you to carry, giving you fourteen. I will not tell you how much these guns cost, with the supply of ammunition I have sent along. As you know, we can afford it. I just caution you that the value of these guns alone may make you a target of thieves or killers. For that reason, I have had a handy double holster made for horse tackle. They form fit these two guns along with the scope for the Whitworth and should help secure them from thieves. May take you a while to get one in action because of the tight fit. I could go on about the test firings of these guns. You will find both guns to be exceptional weapons. The accuracy and range of the Whitworth may be regarded as miraculous. It should be no surprise that it has a hard kick. The miracle is partly in the shape and power of the load. You will see.

It is my suggestion that you deliberately set out upon a campaign of deluding everyone about your true capability with these. Be sure you do not lose an edge by acting. If you decide against this, you should know that I believe the time will soon come when a marksman like you may be pressed into service by employment of bad laws and soldiers without conscience.

Your mother and I wish you every good fortune and that you may go with God.

E. Jackson Davis, Retired

P.S. The rifling in the Whitworth does not easily swab, even after the first shot. For that reason, I have taken the liberty of having a better swab made, which you will find here. We also took the liberty of firing it enough times here to break it in. The Whitworth rifling works better with use. If you do not keep this piece clean, acid will form from the powder residue and injure the rifling. We have written some suggestions about powder. You will see a supply of British powder in the package, but it is similar to our standard black powder. Please give the colonel and the Greek my regards.

It was a three-page letter in the neat script of his father. JD slowly walked over to the fireplace, where the embers of the morning fire were glowing, and set the letter there to burn.

The news that seven Confederate States had formed a Southern Confederacy had reached the fort while these packages were being brought from Baltimore by old Bailey. JD knew the East was in an uproar. Fighting would start soon.

He sends you his regards, JD mused just loud enough to carry to the Greek. We are in a hurry, I gather.

You gather right, and we need to test the mood of the major about more hands.

JD stepped to the still partially packaged gun, and he took the Whitworth out of the box and looked at it, turning it over and around, holding it reverently. The telescopic sight was adjustable both front and back to get elevations, but the back adjustment was three times as adjustable as the front one. The Greek walked up to him, his curiosity showing. JD handed the weapon to the Greek, who hefted it and inspected it. He peeked through the scope. Then, eyes bright with admiration, he handed it back to JD

Light. Maybe no more than eight or nine pounds, he mused. You taking it with us?

Have to. He slowly shook his head. People are going to try to steal these guns. Besides, I intend to carry them everywhere. I will leave the Volcanic and the Sharps here. I would give the Volcanic to Jesse, but that gun sometimes has blowback that can be dangerous to the shooter. I wear glasses to shoot it but still have been lucky with it.

JD looked at the gun package and saw the leather double holster folded. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and, with the Greek watching intently, fit the two guns in it. The holster was long enough so the entire barrels of both guns and the telescopic sight were covered all the way up to the breech of each gun. He found a cap piece that fit over the butts of the two guns with straps and buckles to join the holster into one piece entirely covering both guns. Then he pulled out the tackle that attached the holster to his saddle and found thick loops, spaced about three inches apart, in the holster to hold it. He took this a few feet to where his heavy black saddle lay and found out how to attach the affair so the holster would not rub against his horse too badly.

Neat, he grunted.

Yeah, agreed the Greek. Might need to fit your blanket a little larger to be sure to pad it.

JD nodded, deep in thought.

I want to shoot these a bit before we go. Unless there is someone on the range.

Indians are curious. The noise will bring them. The Greek shook his head. JD thought about that.

Well, I need to know what these things can do. I’ll have to chance it. Particularly the Spencer. I need about a half dozen shots with the Spencer. The Whitworth, maybe two or three.

They both thought about that a little.

Day is half gone already. It will get cold this evening. Might hold them off a little.

I can get off six or eight shots even before they get out, JD said, remembering the distance from the fort to the range. The Greek nodded.

JD then found the spare magazine for the Spencer and, after looking a little, found the leather slot his dad had made in the side of the holster to hold it. There was a second, longer slot beside it, and JD looked for and found the swab his dad had made for the Whitworth. These slots were machine sewed in and would hold.

Can you meet me at the fort midafternoon? asked the Greek.

JD nodded agreement slowly, saying, You know there will be some Brule around there.

You figure on hiding?

JD shot him an irritated look and followed the comment quickly. The major might shoot us if we start a war right there in the fort.

The Greek shrugged, commenting softly, You have lived too long anyway. It was a very indirect reference to their status as Colonel Stafford’s guards.

JD ignored him as he started opening the heavy box that held the ammunition. It was sealed tight, and it took some time to remove nails and get to the insides. When he got it open, he found two distinct compartments, the larger one holding ammunition for the Spencer in boxes of a hundred. There had to be thousands of bullets there. He took one of them, opened it, and examined the bullet.

Looks like forty-fours, commented the Greek. The bullet was completely self-contained, being one of the new designs of rim-fired cartridges. A note in the box confirmed that they were forty-four caliber. The note said the inventor was filing a patent on the bullet and the gun later this year and that there was going to be a military model of fifty-six caliber available at the same time. The note was signed by C. M. Spencer. JD grinned from ear to ear as he realized his dad had arranged the Spencer rifle and ammunition through the designer himself. General Davis had that kind of influence. He saw a request from Spencer on the note, asking the shooter to write him about the gun’s performance and usefulness. The address for that was given. He put the note back in the box.

Hurriedly, JD took a similar box out of the Whitworth side and opened it. He immediately whistled at the length of the bullet, the twisted and fluted sides that would have to be muzzle loaded with a patch separating the powder. There was an ample supply of percussion caps and patches along with the