Quentin sat on Paladin as the horse traveled the familiar road into the outskirts of Kalispell. The early morning sun held off on the normal heat of the day, which was why Quentin had started out before sunrise from Lost Lake heading into town. Monday was his normal day to handle any town errands and treat himself to breakfast and usually lunch from Kalispell. He enjoyed the cooking at the ranch, but a little variety was always welcome.
Cantrell took a deep pull on the thin cigarillo between his lips. One hand came up and caught it between two fingers and he held it while blowing out a thin stream of blue smoke. Harriet's absolute disdain for those "smoldering weeds" that Quentin seemed to enjoy so much was one reason he no longer smoked them in the main house. However, He was not about to stop smoking them. He had become used to them during the war, smoking cheap and, fairly bad by his own admission, thin cigars that his officer's pay could afford. Once he had made it out to San Francisco he had finally begun to search for a better example of cigarillo to enjoy. His current supply came from a tobacco shop near the Waterfront and cost him an amount of money he had no intention of disclosing to Harriet to be shipped out to Kalispell.
Paladin ambled along at a decent pace, while Quentin let his mind wander along his list of things to do while he was in town today. His eyes drifted back and forth among the people passing by on the sidewalks or crossing the street. Quentin even exchanged nods with a few people who caught his eye while he rode along. Quentin's eyes moved right and started back towards the street when he suddenly reined Paladin in, squinting at the old gun shop as he realized it appeared to actually be open for business. His head tilted back to regard the roughly made sign above the storefront: "Smith Gun Maker and Shop." Cantrell's lips moved around the cigarillo as he gave a smirk. "Scintillating..."
Quentin reined Paladin over to the post in front and dismounted. He looped the reins around a turn then stepped up onto the sidewalk, his fingers coming up and touching his hat brim as a woman walked by. Cantrell reached for the door handle and caught himself...reaching up and tugging the cigarillo from his mouth and mashing the end out on the heel of his boot before sticking the remaining half back in the leather pouch. Smoking in a room that could be randomly filled with loose gunpowder was a lesson young Lieutenant Cantrell had been taught by a very large Sergeant one day when he had walked into a powder storage room with a cigarillo in his mouth. Landing back outside on his face after being bodily thrown as the older man had explained...loudly...that only damn fools and officers smoked near gunpowder.
Cantrell pushed through the door, causing the bell to jangle and he closed it behind him. He stopped to look around the shop and nodded at the workbenches and tools he could see through the door into the back. There was not much to see in the front area but Cantrell figured that was due to the newness of the shop. When no one was visible after a few seconds, Quentin cleared his throat:
"Excuse me? Are you open for business?" He knew his Lowland South Carolina accent always caught people who did not know him or know people from that part of the country...
Tag Cubanwriter
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Presently, a middle-aged man with a short-cropped beard would be seen to hastily descend from a stairwell into the space behind the counter. A steaming cup was in one hand, and a plate of bacon in the other. He was lightly dressed in a buttoned-down long-sleeved shirt and gray tweed pants that looked like they belonged to a country suit.
A gun-belt seemed like it had been hastily strapped on and buckled without being properly adjusted. The weapon which hung on that belt did not conform to the shape of anything usual to this frontier. At first, it might have been mistaken for a sawed-down shotgun. But a second look would reveal it to be a purpose-built multi-barreled Howdah pistol to anyone who had seen such things. Four barrels in this case, which was an unusual design, and with no exposed hammers, which was more unusual still.
"Forgive me, Sir," Roland said with a clear English accent as he set his cup and plate upon the counter, "I've only just installed the bell, inspired by the local eatery, and I still look about in bewilderment whenever I hear it. At least until I remember that it's my bell, and what it's for." He chuckled as he took out a handkerchief from one pocket and carefully wiped his hands. Then he folded it back up and pocketed it anew before extending his grease-free hand to the visitor.
"Roland Smith, at your service. And I am indeed open for business, despite what my ill-timed breakfast might suggest."
Roland gestured at the partial wall behind the counter, which only had a handful of pieces on display.
"Don't mind the limited visible selection. Those are just trade-ins. I can make whatever you may desire, from bar to barrel, wood to stocks, and brass, bronze, or ironwork locks."
He'd been working on a catchy rhyme for the next newspaper ad. He thought that one was pretty good.
"So, what can I do for you, Mister...?"
Cantrell turned his eyes up to the man coming down the stairs to the front counter. His eyes were immediately drawn to the monstrosity hanging from his belt.
"That's um...that's quite the iron you're wearing. Your design?"
"Roland Smith, at your service. And I am indeed open for business, despite what my ill-timed breakfast might suggest."
Cantrell waved a hand. "No need to apologize. I am bothering you at quite the early hour. I always ride into town early to beat the heat of the day. I saw your store and was surprised. The last several times I have come into town this establishment has been closed." He reached and shook the other man's hand when he offered it to him.
"So, what can I do for you, Mister...?"
Cantrell smiled. "Cantrell, Quentin Cantrell. I'm from the Lost Lake spread outside town. I am hoping from what I have seen and heard you are an actual gunsmith. I am hoping to find someone to help me make something...something unusual, like your Howdah there. Purpose built for a special purpose."
Tag @[CubanWriter}
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland was always pleased when someone commented on his Lancaster favorably. He very consciously did not pull it out when he talked about it. In London, he could have pulled it and laid it on the counter without causing alarm. But he had heard that merely touching a holstered firearm was liable to make Americans nervous- regardless of your intent- unless you were on very friendly terms.
"Not my design, alas. But my build. I used to apprentice at a shop in London, and this was among two prototypes we built for an upcoming patent application. We'd been doing Howdahs for years, of course. But the previous model had exposed hammers, and required the wielder to manually rotate the barrels.
This one is much handier. It has an internal hammer, with a revolving striker mechanism. Two triggers, with one cycling the position of the striker and cocking the hammer. The second trigger releasing the hammer and actuating the striker to fall on a centerfire rifle cartridge. Or, indeed, a shotshell if one prefers. The oval rifling system my f-" his pattern of speech wavered for an almost imperceptible moment, "ellow gunmakers developed will not ruin a shot-pattern as cut rifling would."
He chuckled, "But I feel I'm prattling on a bit. The danger of asking an artist about his art, I suppose."
When Roland heard the man's initial preamble to the proposed work, he grinned.
"You will find that a custom gunmaker hears no finer words than, 'Purpose built for a special purpose.'
He retreated somewhat from the counter, going to a stove that was farther forward in the shop than one might have supposed normal. There was a large covered pot there, and two kettles. Roland retrieved one of the kettles, setting it on the sales counter. Then he selected a cup, saucer, and strainer from a shelf above the stove.
"I have some tea brewed. I'll pour you a cup while you describe your project. Feel free to pilfer a slice of bacon, too, if you like it crispy. I'm well supplied."
And with that, the Englishman started preparing a cup of tea without asking his guest if he actually wanted one. Indeed, his only question about that was, "Milk and sugar?"
Quentin smiled. "Milk, please...and two lumps of sugar." Quentin silently thanked Harriet for teaching him to drink tea, both for the enjoyment, and the social interaction that came with the ritual. It had more uses than just refreshment.
Once Roland had returned with their tea, Quentin figured he had better get to the point with his idea. He pointed at an older Winchester among the trade-in weapons in the shop. Roland moved it around and set it on the counter between the two men. Quentin then set his hands down, knife edged at two points on the weapon.
Anyway, my idea is this...I need something that I can keep with me at all times, that should allow me to out range most revolvers and hopefully carry more rounds, plus be faster to reload..." His hands rested just past the wooden forearm on the barrel and just behind the lever, right where the stock started to swell into the stock. He looked up at the gunmaker's reaction. "If I indicate something that can't be done or you have a better idea, please speak right up. I do not claim to be anything more than an enthusiastic amateur here."
Quentin next rested his hands on the counter. "I want it to be in .44-40. That's the same caliber as my old set of revolvers I have sent for from San Francisco. That way I only need one caliber bullet for all three weapons."
Finally he looked at the gunmaker. "That is the extent of my idea for now...please let me hear what you think..." He reached and picked up his cup of tea and took a sip. "Oh, and two final things. One...I'll supply you with a rifle to work with, and Two. I'll have to figure out a way to carry it on me..." Quentin smiled. "Your turn, Professor..."
Tag Cubanwriter
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland finished fixing the tea according to specifications, and set the wall-mounted rifle down so his new customer could use it for illustrative purposes.
For a moment, the thought of cutting a rifle to pieces appalled him. But as that moment passed, he realized he'd been in this business his whole life. Lancaster had been making Howdahs for decades, and what was a Howdah? Why, nothing more than a purpose-built short rifle. In essence, Quentin was merely asking for a version of what Roland carried at his hip.
But this request had an American spice added in which Roland had never before considered: Use a repeater, instead of a break-action rifle.
Roland glanced up when the man called him 'Professor.' But he quickly set his mind in order. This wasn't school-days in London. No one would be questioning his breeding or education in this place. No... it was more likely meant as a compliment.
"Hmm. Interesting idea you have here, Mr. Cantrell. I don't know that it's ever been tried. I suppose the Volcanic? But that weapon never had the powder charge it needed to be successful."
He touched his beard. "It'd have to be a Henry pattern, and not a Spencer. We'd need the feeding tube under the barrel, not in the stock. A Winchester like this, or a later model, would be an ideal choice. Winchester already sells rifles in .44-40, so that's an added convenience."
He gestured at the stock, "This is easy enough. Cut it down, sand it, re-profile the gripping area. Re-stain the wood. It will look like it was made that way from the factory."
Shifting his hand, he touched the barrel at the point Quentin had indicated. "Here's the real challenge. The more handy you make it, the fewer rounds it'll hold, on account of needing to shorten the magazine. And of course, an overly short barrel will not only decrease your ammunition capacity, but it will rob velocity from the projectile." He wasn't worried about accuracy, as even at a shortened length, the weapon would be as accurate as a man trying to fire it without a proper stock. The front sights could be adjusted in height to make it accurate to about a hundred yards. No point in trying for more than that on a shortened carbine like this. Even a hundred yards was optimistic, unless this gentleman was a talent. But still, it'd be longer-ranged than a normal pistol. Even Roland's Lancaster Howdah wasn't rated for those distances.
"At the most appropriate length, you might have six rounds in the tube. Seven, possibly, if I can snip the spring to a compromise length. But we risk making the magazine ineffective at feeding that final round if the spring is cut too short. Personally, I value reliability over capacity."
He picked up his tea cup now, taking a sip. "Of course... that is assuming you don't want to get plucky with the design."
He set his cup down again, pointing at the rifle magazine. "This pattern of rifle uses a compression spring inside the magazine. That drives a follower which pushes all the cartridges down to the lever-actuated lift."
Shaking his head, Roland said, "This was a decision for the sake of simplicity and cost, because expending a lot of effort towards maximizing capacity matters little on a rifle like this. It already has the reputation of being loaded on a Monday and fired all week."
He chuckled.
"Ah. But you won't be having a rifle anymore. And suddenly, it may be worth it to change how the whole magazine functions."
Roland ran a finger down the magazine as he spoke. "Instead of a compression spring inside the magazine, I can cut slots in the magazine on both sides. This will allow me to provide nacelles that flank the magazine. Spring nacelles, with extension springs in them. I can form up the forward handhold to cover them entirely, making the modifications largely invisible. But by putting extension springs in these nacelles, rather than a compression spring in the magazine, we could completely free up the entire space of the magazine for ammunition. Only the follower need remain inside, connected to the extension springs on either flank. With such a technique, on a thirteen-inch barrel, your six shots become eight. On an eleven-inch barrel, seven. But with no feeding problems if I get it right."
Roland looked up at Quentin. "The process is more expensive, more complex, and will require me to adjust the extension springs extensively to be sure they have equal pull. But I think it can be done."
He cleared his throat, now. "For ten dollars, we can forego all the complexity and do it the simple way. You'll have a fine shortened rifle. But for twenty dollars- a steep cost I admit- you can have a higher capacity and greater reliability than with any other method."
Roland shrugged, "As for the leather... I recommend a wide, contoured loop on a swivel mount, gripping the weapon just forward of the lever axis. I'd have to farm out the leather to a local specialist, but I can build the swivel knob and socket plate with my equipment here. For close-in work, you can tilt the gun up and fire without it ever leaving your belt. For longer ranges, pull it clear of the loop. With the swivel, it'll be fine to carry, sitting or standing, as it'll just point down no matter your angle. That sort of rig would be another twelve dollars. Five for the leather-worker. The rest for me. An expensive project, altogether. But unique in the wide-world, as far as I know."
He watched Quentin to see how deep into his pockets he was willing to go for this idea, and how much he was willing to risk on an unproven concept.
Quentin stood there and listened as the gunmaker ran down his ideas for how to make a weapon would meet the intention he had described, if not the exact concept. Quentin took another sip from his tea and nodded as Roland glanced up to make sure he was following his suggestions. Once he had reached a stopping point, he looked at Quentin for his input.
"Professor, I can see I have come to the right man to make this a reality..." He rubbed his chin as he pondered what he had just had laid out before him.
"Let's go with a thirteen inch barrel. a little more reach and a few extra rounds can't hurt...plus I did have the idea that in certain social situations, I can just bludgeon someone with it in close quarters." Quentin then considered more of what Mr. Smith had recommended.
"I trust you and your concept of the springs along the side of the magazine. If you believe they will be more efficient then I trust you. I will test the weapon out before we consider it complete..." Quentin looked at the weapon before his eyes moved back up to Smith.
"Sights...you mentioned something about them. I want to find some sort of middle ground. I don't need a set I have to squint along like a true rifle, but I also want to be able to pull off a longer shot if necessary...maybe the length of a street and hit a human size target, nothing more impressive than that." Finally he pondered the description of the leather rig he was proposing.
"I like it, with one proviso...I don't want to try that whole swivel attachment thing. I've come across men with fancy gun gimmicks and I've seen many of them end up face down. I like the concept of the clip and attachment, but I would rather have it just stay tight to my leg until I need it, and when I need it, it will be in my hands. Other than that, It's perfect!" Quentin then poked a thumb over his shoulder at Paladin tied to the rail.
"I have a almost new Winchester '73 in .44-40 in Paladin's saddle scabbard. I will bring it in for you to get to work on...as for the price...You make this like you describe and it ends up working as promised...I'll double what you quoted me for the price. I believe in paying an artisan his due, and if I am making you this request, I shouldn't be stingy with the purse strings. After all, I am betting my life on it...Do we have a deal?"
Tag Cubanwriter
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland picked up his tea cup and began sipping the brew as Quentin responded to his proposal. He wanted to feign casual disinterest. He was not the sort to pressure a client, and nor was he the type to betray too much interest in a project.
But the truth of the matter was different from the façade he now presented. As he had considered Quentin's project, he'd become intrigued by the challenges involved, and the potential benefits of the final result. He was a gun maker at heart. Not a casual fiddler. He did not disregard the importance of minor maintenance tasks and improvements, and approached them with the same diligence as larger projects. But big projects like this one- a major rebuild of an existing firearm to make something completely different? That was more than a job. It would be a joy.
But he sipped nonchalantly... until Quentin offered to pay him double. It took an effort not to sputter on his beverage.
Setting down the cup, he nodded.
"That is agreeable, Mr. Cantrell. It is an intriguing project."
In his mind's eye, his hands were already upon the weapon. Marking the places he'd cut material away or make adjustments, before carefully disassembling it and re-shaping it to their shared vision.
The only thing he liked putting his hands onto more than a gun was a beautiful woman. Fortunately, he got to do the latter more often than the former. Otherwise his business would be in deep jeopardy.
"I look forward to getting started."
Quentin smiled wider at Roland's agreement. He could see the obvious enjoyment at such a challenge reflected in the gunmaker's eyes. Quentin extended his hand and both men shook to seal the deal. "Excuse me for a moment..." Cantrell turned and stepped outside, drawing the Winchester from its saddle scabbard before walking back into the shop. He opened the lever to show the weapon was unloaded and he set it down on the counter between them. "Here is your patient...work your magic."
Quentin then looked back at Roland. "I would be remiss not to invite you out to the ranch in thanks for this work. Harriet would greatly enjoy having tea with someone who enjoyed the ritual without her having to have taught them in the first place." Cantrell then blinked as he remembered something else. "I have sent for my revolvers from San Francisco...I had left them behind when I thought I would be leaving that life behind me as well. I think an artisan like yourself would appreciate them. When they arrive I will bring them by the shop and let you see them."
@ [Cubanwriter]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
Roland accepted the rifle with something like reverence, feeling the balance of the weapon, and inspecting its surface for imperfections.
There were always imperfections, either from normal use or tiny variances at the factory where it had been made. He'd be taking it apart soon enough, cutting, sanding, re-varnishing and re-bluing the entire weapon. But he took a moment to absorb what the weapon was today, before he began his work. Then he ducked down and set it upon a shelf behind the counter. Despite the fact that he was about to rehabilitate the entire firearm in the course of his modifications, he set it down with great care.
Then came an unexpected offer.
In the short time Roland had been in this town, no one had invited him to spend an evening at their home. It was a gesture of intimacy and trust one did not often extend to strangers. At least, such was not the practice in London. Quickly stifling his surprise, Roland replied, "It would be my great honor to see your ranch, Mr. Cantrell, though if it is recompense for this job, I assure you the cash will be thanks enough." He smiled, adding, "And if your Harriet is a tea aficionado, it will be doubly a pleasure."
Upon hearing about the revolvers, Roland nodded, "I am always interested in inspecting a well-made firearm. It seems we have two dates for the future. Thank you, Mr. Cantrell."
He reached across to shake the man's hand. He'd found a customer today. But perhaps even more than that. This might be the beginning of a friendship.
Something was tugging at the corner of his mind, though. Four letters, scribbled on the back of a Wanted Poster. EVGN. Presumably, the Evergreen Ranch.
"What did you say your ranch was called, again?"
Best to be sure he wasn't treading into a Lion's Den.