Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1) (18 page)

“What about drapes for the apartment windows, dear?”

“Oh, yes. Rugs for the floor, too. It’ll be cold in winter without them. We’ll need three good stoves as well, to warm the shop, workshop and apartment.”

They washed in cold water, grateful for the warm summer night, then blew out the lantern and got into bed, happy to be alone together at last.

―――――

While Walt was setting up the shop, he had a visit from the owner of a large hardware store in the main business area. “I hear you’re opening a gun store,” the visitor said jovially. “I’m Martin Falke. I’m the regional representative for several arms companies.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Falke. I’m Walter Ames.” They shook hands. “I daresay we’ll be doing business from time to time.”

“What are you needing right now?”

“I brought enough guns and ammunition with me to make a start, but I’ll have to replenish my stocks as I sell them. I need some lower-cost breech-loading rifles and shotguns right away, and also supplies for them—birdshot, buckshot, that sort of thing.”

“I can provide all that. You’ll find shotguns in great demand, but difficult to sell, because they cost more than cheap war-surplus rifles. A double-barrel shotgun retails for between twenty and one hundred dollars. They’re all muzzle-loaders, of course. There’s talk of breech-loading shotguns, but only a handful have made their way out here, all at very high prices indeed.”

Walt frowned. “Isn’t that too high for the settler market? Most of them don’t seem to have a lot of ready cash. Don’t you offer any lower-cost models?”

Falke shrugged. “That’s what a good shotgun costs. Don’t forget, they’re in short supply. Manufacturers concentrated on producing military firearms during the war. They didn’t make many shotguns. They’ll make more now the war’s over, which will help bring down their cost, but that can’t happen overnight. Meanwhile, if settlers want one, they’ll have to pay the going price for it.”

Walt’s first few weeks in business confirmed his suspicions. Many of the travelers and railroad workers simply didn’t have enough money to afford high-quality, high-value firearms, even used examples. He talked it over with Rose one evening.

“I didn’t take that into account in my planning,” he admitted ruefully. “I thought I could charge three-quarters of the new price for quality used guns like Army Colts, but that puts them in the twelve- to fifteen-dollar range, which is too high for most settlers. Used Spencer carbines should fetch eighteen to twenty dollars, but that’s even harder for them to afford. As for shotguns, people on the wagon trains want them almost more than any other gun because they’re so versatile, but they cost too much.”

“What about the Whitneys and Sharps?”

“They’re cheaper, and they sell better, but I don’t have enough of the Sharps.”

“Are you saying we won’t be able to make do this way?”

“Oh, no, not at all! I can always reduce my prices to move my stock if need be. Trouble is, I was hoping to leave here with a nest egg of up to eight thousand dollars to take with us to Denver City. I might have to settle for half that, perhaps a little more if we’re lucky.”

She laughed softly. “Considering you started with less than half that much in St. Louis, if you more than double your initial stake in a year, I’d say you were doing very well.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “I suppose I shouldn’t be greedy. What I really need is something to attract customers to my shop. I should have taken warning from the number of gun shops around here. I’m not the first with the idea to sell guns to those heading west. We’re all competing with each other, and no one has an advantage. I thought I could get one by offering a free army holster with every handgun, but that hasn’t worked. Those who come from cities back east aren’t used to carrying a gun, so they don’t worry about a holster. They just stick it in their belts. That’s a good way to break or lose it when it falls out, but they don’t know enough yet to think about that. I need to find a better way to bring in the customers.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I have faith in you, darling.”

Walt smiled at her. It was strange, he thought, how just her telling him that was enough to make him believe it.

He puzzled over the problem for a week, until he had a notion. If settlers wanted cheap shotguns, but local stores couldn’t provide them, why not make them himself?

He saddled his horse and made a fast trip out to Fort Leavenworth to see the ordnance sergeant there. “Do you have any old smoothbore muskets?” he asked. “I know the army is shipping all its unwanted guns back east, but I thought you might have a few left out here.”

“As a matter o’ fact, we do.” The sergeant led him into a storeroom. “We got almost two hundred o’ these Springfields, Models of 1840 and 1842. They’re percussion-fired, with a .69-inch bore. As you see, most of ’em ain’t in good condition, because they ain’t been issued or even cleaned in years. Nobody wanted ’em during the war—everyone used rifled muskets. We’re s’posed to send ’em all back for disposal, but it ain’t worth the cost of shipping ’em. No one wants smoothbores any more. They ain’t accurate beyond fifty or sixty yards.”

“Who should I talk to about buying them?”

After a discussion with the fort’s Quartermaster, Walt was offered the muskets for fifty cents each, so long as he took all of them regardless of their condition. He agreed, with the proviso that the fort’s small supply of .69-inch musket balls was included in the deal, and paid ten dollars extra to have the army deliver everything to his store.

“What on earth are you going to do with all those old muskets?” Rose asked curiously as she watched a work party of soldiers carry them up to an empty back room of their apartment. “Surely no one will want them?”

“Just you wait and see,” Walt replied with a smile.

He spent most of a day in his workroom, measuring, sawing, drilling, cutting, hammering and filing, much to Rose’s mystification. That evening he showed her two guns. She blinked in surprise. “What have you got there?”

“They started out as muskets, but now they’re muzzle-loading shotguns. On this one, I’ve shortened the barrel to two-and-a-half feet, down from its original three-and-a-half. I mounted a brass bead at the muzzle, cut down the ramrod, and cut off the fore-end at the barrel band nearest to the action. It’s much lighter and handier now. The second one’s barrel was damaged, so I cut it down even further. It’s only a foot-and-a-half long now, which is perfect for use on a wagon or in a tight space. It’s what they call a coach gun. Their .69-inch bore means they’re equivalent to a fourteen-gauge shotgun, which is how I’ll advertise them.

“I’m going to sell them with half a pound of birdshot, the same of buckshot, half a dozen musket balls, and enough wads, powder and percussion caps for twenty-five rounds. I’ll charge eight dollars for the whole package, and make a profit of more than six dollars on each one. Ours will be the only store offering shotguns at affordable prices, which should draw customers like honey draws flies. Those who buy them will want more ammunition and other shooting supplies, too, and maybe even more guns. I’ll offer a shotgun and a former army revolver at a special price for the pair. They’ll sell like hot cakes, or my name isn’t Walt Ames!”

―――――

Walt found that customer demand for his musket-shotguns soon outstripped the time he had available to convert them. He hired a local youngster named Paul, and taught him how to measure and cut the barrel and ramrod, shorten the fore-end, and clean, sand and oil the woodwork. The better barrels were cut to sporting length, while those more damaged or worn were shortened even further to make coach guns. Walt re-crowned each barrel, fitted a brass bead sight, and went over the lock to make sure everything was in order. Between the two of them, even with the other demands of the shop, they could convert two or three muskets each day. They never stayed in stock for long.

Rose started teaching at a private school a few blocks from the shop. She worked there for six hours a day, then came home to keep the shop’s accounts, cook, and clean. As she learned more about bookkeeping she passed on her knowledge to Walt, so that before long they were able to do the books together. She also encouraged him to broaden his education. He bought books and began to read them in the evenings: Plutarch’s
Lives
, Blackstone’s
Commentaries on the Laws of England
, de Tocqueville’s
Democracy in America
, and other classic works. They settled into a cheerfully cozy domestic life together.

Walt borrowed two Colt Army revolvers from his stock and began to experiment with the holsters he’d taken off the body of the outlaw in Missouri. He was intrigued to find that his speed on the draw was faster than from a military-issue flap holster, but disappointed that the soft leather from which the holsters were made sometimes bound up the gun. He approached a leatherworker who’d bought one of the other shops in his building. Jeremy Davis was an Englishman who’d landed in San Francisco a decade before and somehow never made it home. He was still working his way eastwards. Like Walt and Rose, he and his wife had decided to spend the winter in Leavenworth City, accumulating funds before continuing their journey.

“Have you seen this style of holster before?” Walt asked him.

“Oh, yes. It’s common enough in California. Out there they’re known as Slim Jims.”

“The straight-up pull is faster than the cavalry twist draw I’ve used up to now, but the height is wrong, and the soft leather sometimes binds on the gun.”

“That’s because this holster is old and worn. It should have been replaced long ago.”

“I figured as much. I was wondering whether doubling over the leather at the back of the holster to make the belt loop, but leaving it long and stitching it all the way down to the toe instead of cutting it off below the loop, would make it more rigid. That’d make it easier to draw the gun.”

“Yes, a double layer would be stiffer. I can also use thicker, better-quality leather, which would have the same effect. As for the height being wrong, revolver barrels are seven to eight inches long. That makes it hard to get your elbow high enough when pulling them out of a holster at waist height. If the barrels were half that length, you wouldn’t have to lift the gun so high.”

“But you wouldn’t burn all the powder in a heavy charge if the barrel was that short.” Walt scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What if the belt loop were raised an inch or so above the mouth of the holster? That would position the gun a little lower.”

“I see what you mean. I can make you up a holster like that, then you can see if it works for you.”

“I’d like that. Also, these holsters swallow almost the whole gun, leaving only the bottom two-thirds of the grip showing. Could you cut down the upper part so that the grip and hammer are exposed, to allow me to reach them better? You could also leave the rear third of the trigger guard open. The leather would rise from there to cover the whole cylinder.” Walt illustrated what he meant with his finger, tracing it along the leather of the old holster.

“I’ve seen variations like that, although they offer less protection to the gun, of course. I’ll see what I can do.”

The newly made holsters, a straight-up draw on the right and a cross-draw on the left, were considerably stiffer and worked much better than the ones Walt had captured. They were sized to fit his Remingtons, which were a little larger than the Colts the outlaw had carried. He practiced with them for several days before going back to the Englishman.

“They’re just what I wanted. My draw’s about half a second faster now, and it’s much smoother too. I’d like another cross-draw holster to fit this Colt Pocket Police revolver.” He laid it on the counter. “That’s for my wife. Also, these holsters don’t have flaps, so there’s a risk of losing a gun if you fall off your horse. Can you put rawhide loops on them, to fit over the hammer spur? Make them tight enough to stop the gun falling out, but loose enough that they can be pulled off in a hurry if necessary, to hang down the side of the holster.”

“Sure, that’s easily done.”

Samson and Elijah showed up for a brief visit, in between their trips taking wagon trains across the prairie. Both had visibly grown in self-confidence, as well as mastery of their craft. They looked closely at his holsters.

“Where you get dese, suh?” Samson asked.

“The second shop down. The owner is Jeremy Davis. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll make some for you as well. His prices are fair.”

“I’ll do dat, suh. Reckon you’ll want a pair too, ’Lijah.”

“Yeah, I do. We got two guns now, so we may as well get holsters for both of dem.”

As word spread, Jeremy began to do a roaring trade, particularly among Samson’s and Elijah’s fellow teamsters. The cross-draw holsters proved particularly suitable for them, as they were easier to use while driving a wagon. Jeremy and Walt came to a mutually profitable agreement. Jeremy sent those asking him about guns to see Walt, and Walt sent those asking him about holsters and saddle boots to see Jeremy.

The winter passed faster than Walt would have ever imagined, but he and Rose were still eager to begin the next stage of their journey.