Winchester 1886 (3 page)

Not knowing what else to do, James sat beside him. He couldn't help himself. He massaged his shoulder. Come morning, he figured, there'd most likely be a bruise.

“One thing you should know, James,” his uncle said, “is that this rifle”—he tapped the image on the page—“is gonna kick a whole lot harder than my carbine.”

James immediately lowered his hand.

“What caliber do you fancy?”

“Uncle Jimmy . . . I was—”

“I'd say the .45-70.”

Millard sat down. “Jimmy, I think that's too much gun. Besides, he's—”

“Come on, Mil,” Jimmy shot out, voice animated, though maybe not angry. “We were shooting when we were Jacob's age. Besides, the railroad might be pushing through, but this country isn't civilized yet. Not hardly.”

“Is that why you come, Uncle Jimmy?” Kris asked from the doorway.

Behind her, Jacob clapped his hands. “You chasing varmints? To fetch them back so they can swing?”

Jimmy started to take in a deep breath, stopped, finished, and blew it out. Shaking his head, he laughed. “I came to visit my brother and his brood. Even Judge Parker and Marshal Carroll have been known to give a good deputy time off . . . on occasion.” He slid the catalog toward James and put his finger on the drawing of the rifle. “Round barrel or octagon?”

“What's the difference?”

“Depends on who you ask. Some say one's more accurate, others say it's the other. Round's harder to make, or used to be. But you saw mine. Octagon's heavier. Doesn't heat up as fast as a round bore. More metal makes it stiffer, too. So, some folks will argue that makes it shoot more accurately. But others disagree.” He sipped coffee again.

“Here's what you need to know, kid. It ain't the rifle. It ain't never the rifle. It's the fella shooting it.”

James let that sink in.

“A .45-70's a big slug. My carbine holds twelve rounds. This here '86 will hold nine. And that's a rifle. It'll be”—he looked back at the page—“six inches longer and heavier than my carbine. This what you want?”

“I guess so.” James was hesitant, but it was absolutely the rifle he longed to hold.

Jimmy looked across the table at his brother. “I can get one of these when I get back to Arkansas. Might not be brand-spanking new, but it'll be cheaper than what Montgomery Ward sells them for. But I don't want to do nothing that'll go against your and Libbie's wishes. So is it all right for me to get James here a rifle?” He winked. “In case y'all get attacked by a herd of dragons?”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

 

Often, Danny Waco made himself laugh, but this joke . . . how glorious. He put the shotgun on the table, almost doubled over, and eventually had to wipe the tears from his eyes with the ends of his bandanna. Still sniffing, he stood, rounded the table, and looked down at the body of Mr. Percy Frick.

“Y-y-you're . . . c-c-crazy,” Frick whined.

“Me? Crazy?” Waco leaned his head back and laughed harder. “No, Mr. Frick. I'm a calm businessman. But I can show you crazy.”

Immediately the humor vanished and Waco's eyes turned cold.

“Up, Frick. That barrel was empty, but the other one ain't, and if you don't get up and stop actin' like a snivelin' coward, you'll get what that deputy over yonder got. Only you won't be as pretty as he is. Not from this range.” Waco thumbed back one hammer while bringing the stock tight against his right shoulder.

The railroad clerk screamed, and covered his face with his hands as if that could protect him from double-ought buck.

“Up, Frick!”

“D-d-don't . . . sh-sh-shoot. P-p-please.”

“Don't . . . shoot . . . please,”
Waco mocked the clerk. “Up, Frick, or I pull this trigger and you don't ever get up.” His voice cracked. Blood rushed to his brain, flushing his face. “Ever!”

Folks from the Mexican border towns and all the way up to the Dakotas—those who knew him, or knew of him, or had seen him when he got riled—all agreed that Danny Waco was not the kind of person anyone wanted to anger. His fuse was short, and his temper explosive. He could be funny, witty, sometimes even charming, but underneath all of that laughter, the pranks, and the smart-aleck comments lay a raw, violent edge.

Others put it differently. “Danny Waco,” they would say, “is mad as a hatter.”

Of course, no one ever said that to his face.

His first name wasn't Danny, or Daniel, and his last name wasn't Waco. His father had named him Lyman. Another reason, he figured, to put four .45 slugs into his old man. His last name he never shared with anyone, but a good newspaper reporter could figure that out easy enough. Go to Fort Worth. Look at the old newspapers from about ten years back. Find the articles in all the city's papers that mentioned the discovery of the body of Fort Worth's favorite gunsmith. Actually, some would not limit Cahal De Baróid's talents to the city limits, or even Tarrant County, or even the Lone Star State. The poor old man was found in his shop, his shirt still smoldering from the muzzle blasts from a Colt .45 held at point-blank range.

The coroner's inquest ruled that Cahal De Baróid of Fort Worth by way of Savannah, Georgia, and County Mayo, Ireland, met his death from four .45 bullets fired with murderous intent by person or persons unknown. But everyone, especially the newspaper reporters, knew the killer was De Baróid's no-account son, Lyman.

Lyman. Stupid name,
Waco thought
. Not even Irish.
He had been saddled with his mother's maiden name, Leimann, which the Americans had corrupted into Lyman.

German immigrants, the Leimanns-Lymans had taught Cahal De Baróid everything they knew about making firearms. Danny's mother had died of diphtheria, which had almost called Danny to glory, too, but Danny was too tough to die. Too wild.

He had left Fort Worth with all the money he could find on his father's body and in the gun shop's till, and plenty of powder, pistols, and rifles. He had given himself a new name, a name to be feared. Danny Waco.

Funny thing was, Danny had never set foot in Waco.

“Last chance, Frick. We're already short on time, thanks to that dead dog lying yonder. The town law won't stay locked in his office forever, so we need to talk, and you need to light a shuck back home. If the marshal questions you as a witness to this act of violence, your name gets in the newspapers, bosses get telegrams, and your bosses with the Katy start to wonder just why you came all the way to Denison to do your drinking.
Up
. Get up now or make this hayseed town's undertaker mighty happy for the extra business Danny Waco gave him today.”

Mr. Percy Frick, clerk for the Katy, scrambled to his feet, found his chair, made himself sit into it, and tried not to shake his way back onto the dirty floor.

“That's better.” Waco returned to his chair and his Old Overholt. “Now, have another drink, Mr. Frick, and let's get down to particulars.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

 

It was not a .45-70.

It was even bigger.

Deputy Marshal Jimmy Mann took the rifle his brother, Borden, handed him at the depot. Over the years, Jimmy had held a Sharps Big Fifty a few times, even shot one of those old buffalo guns a time or two, but never had he seen anything like this. He looked at the caliber stamped on the top of the barrel just behind the sight.

Jimmy couldn't help himself. Shaking his head, he laughed.

“What's so funny?” Borden asked.

Lowering the rifle, Jimmy said, “Well, I'm just thinking how much I'd love to see Millard's face when our nephew shoots this baby for the first time. Millard thinks a .45-70 is too much for James.”

“Millard's right.”

Jimmy looked into his brother's eyes. “You underestimate that boy. You and Millard both.”

Borden Mann shrugged. He was dressed in the silly cap with the brass insignia and silly tan uniform his bosses required of their express agents, along with worn boots. A shiny gun belt with a revolver holstered, butt forward, was high on his left hip. “Is it what you want?” Jimmy Mann studied the weapon. Once again, he grinned.

 

 

His name was Moses, and he led the Winchester Repeating Arms Company out of the wilderness.

Back in 1876, to celebrate the American Centennial, Oliver Winchester and his company, still enjoying the success and profits from their 1866 and 1873 models, decided to bring out a new repeating rifle. They tried to do something no other gun maker had ever imagined—create and mass-produce a repeating rifle chambered for full-powdered center-fire cartridges. The Winchester Model 1876, commonly called the Centennial, fired the company's new 350-grain, .45-75 cartridge, basically a replicated .45-70 Government but in a shorter brass case.

Oliver Winchester had heard the complaints about the '66 and '73 models. Not enough firepower. Didn't shoot true at long range. Hit a buffalo with that caliber, and the big shaggy would likely think he'd been bitten by a mosquito. So he and his designers and gun makers came up with the Centennial. It looked like the '73, only heavier, with a frame an inch and a half longer, and a shot cartridge that was eleven-sixteenths of an inch longer than Winchester's .44-40.

A rifle like that could help buffalo hunters slaughter those massive herds on the Western plains. A carbine, with a twenty-two-inch barrel, would chamber nine cartridges and weigh eight and a quarter pounds—before it was loaded. No repeating rifle had ever dared fire such a heavy, powerful round.

In 1876, Winchester introduced the new rifle at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia. The North-West Mounted Police bought scores of such rifles for their Mounties patrolling western Canada. That Eastern politician who dearly loved the West, Theodore Roosevelt, used it on several hunts. Texas Rangers were known to ride with them and shoot with deadly accuracy. When the Apache Indian Geronimo called it quits back in '86 and surrendered at Skeleton Canyon, he was carrying a Winchester '76.

There were just a few problems. The rifle couldn't handle .45-70 loads, at least, not safely. In that regard, considering how popular .45-70 Government calibers were across the United States and its territories, the Centennial proved to be a failure. What's more, Oliver Winchester really wanted to land a beefy contract with the U.S. War Department, and the Army didn't like the Centennial.

Drop a '76, and it might bust apart. The rear sight easily came loose, but shooting a rifle with that much power, sights needed to be secure. Besides, Winchesters just couldn't handle the .45-70 Government, and that's what the U.S. government wanted.

That was what brought the Winchester Repeating Arms Company to the doorstep of John Moses Browning.

Browning's father had left Illinois with thousands of Mormons back in 1852, settling in Ogden, Utah, where John Moses entered the world three years later. By the time he was seven, he was working in his father's gun shop. In the late 1870s, he was tinkering with new ideas, and developed a single-shot rifle that the Winchester Repeating Arms Company noticed. Winchester paid $8,000 for the design, and began producing its Low Wall and High Wall single shots that put the fear of God, or rather, the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, into the minds of executives with Springfield and Remington companies known for their single-shot rifles.

Winchester knew whom to turn to when in need of an excellent repeating rifle.

Company executives asked Browning to come up with a repeating rifle that could handle .45-70 Government rounds—and maybe even more powerful cartridges. Browning did just that, got the patent, and took a train to New Haven, Connecticut, with his brother, Matt, but stopped first to visit Schoverling, Daly & Gales in New York City. Since 1865, if a man wanted to sell guns, buy a great weapon, or get an expert opinion on any rifle, shotgun or revolver, he dropped in at the shop on Broadway to see what Charles Daly, August Schoverling, and Joseph Gales thought.

Browning handed his rifle to Daly and held his breath.

Daly adjusted his spectacles, looked over the rifle, and returned it. “John Browning, I know I don't have to tell you this, but what you are holding is the best rifle in the world.”

Standing behind the counter, Schoverling added, “
Nein.
He is holding da future of da Vinchester Arms Company.”

 

 

“A Big Fifty.” Jimmy shook his head. “In a Winchester.”

Borden pulled a cartridge from his jacket pocket. “This is what it shoots.” Into his brother's hands, he dropped a chunk of lead a half-inch wide that weighed 450 grains.

Jimmy examined the rifle closely. Blasted out of a twenty-six-inch barrel by a hundred grains of powder, it had a twist rate of one turn per fifty-four inches, which was needed to fire a load that heavy. The weight of the octagon barrel was also necessary.

No pistol grip, just the standard stock. No shotgun or rubber butt-plate, either. James's shoulder would surely hurt after feeling that standard crescent butt-plate practically tear off his shoulder. No engraving. No set triggers. No tang sights. It looked like an ordinary Winchester.

No,
Jimmy corrected.
It resembles a Howitzer on a Winchester frame.
He rubbed his finger over the serial number. 70630.

“A wolfer ordered it,” Borden said. “Left the warehouse this past January.”

Jimmy looked up. “That's a lot of rifle for a guy chasing wolves.”

“Because Nels Who Smells hated wolves,” Borden said.

Jimmy checked the action, working the lever. The rifle had been cleaned religiously. which did not make sense to him. Most wolfers he had run across were filthy, miserable men that were unfit for company unless you were a grayback.

“Why is Nels selling it?”

“He's not. Town marshal is. To pay for Nels's funeral. I told Mark—that's our local lawman—that you were interested in a Winchester Model '86. Mark told me. I wired you. Here you are.”

Looking around, Jimmy made sure nobody was staring out one of the hotel's second-story windows before he sighted across the street at the façade. Great balance. Heavy, but it felt right, comfortable, the perfect rifle—even better than his '73.

Winchester had paid John Moses Browning $50,000 for the design. Ask Deputy Marshal Jimmy Mann, however, and he'd tell you how Browning should have held out for more.

Still, Jimmy had reservations. His nephew was sixteen. Millard would hound him something fierce for sending a .50-100-450 to that kid. And the next time he visited them in Texas, Jimmy's sister-in-law would make him rue the day he had even answered Borden's telegraph and ridden up to Parsons.

He looked at his brother. “What do you think?”

“You?” Borden chuckled. “You're asking me? For my advice?”

“You are my oldest brother,” Jimmy said.
Who looks ridiculous—like some pale-skinned Mexican Rurale—in that outfit the express company makes you wear.

“You won't find a better price. Funerals are cheap here in Parsons.”

The Labette County seat twenty-something miles from the Cherokee Nation, Parsons had been founded in 1870 with the arrival of the Katy. The railroad was still pretty much the only thing of any substance to the wind-blown town. Everything—food, rooms, beer, women, lives—came cheap, but Parsons wasn't as wild as Baxter Springs to the southeast had been years ago. And it didn't have a bunch of dead Daltons to brag about as Coffeyville had to the southwest.

A bad thought struck Jimmy. “How did Nels die?”

“He didn't blow his head off with his own rifle, if that's what you mean.”

“It isn't,” Jimmy said, though it was.

“You know wolfers,” Borden explained. “He came in, got his bounty from the county sheriff. No hotel would take him, of course. Don't want any travelers on the Katy to complain about getting infested with bugs. He paid for a stall in the livery, paid for rotgut from some whiskey runner heading into your jurisdiction. Got drunk. Passed out. Vomited in his sleep. And choked to death.”

“Bad ending.” Jimmy shook his head.

“Good riddance.” Borden waited for Jimmy to stare at him, and then smiled.

“How does it shoot?”

The train whistle blew. Jimmy knew that he would have to make a decision soon.

“Mark—again, that's our local lawman. He cleaned it up, took it north of town, said he bagged an antelope at four hundred yards without hardly aiming. I know what you're thinking, Jimmy, but Mark's not prone to brag.”

“So why doesn't Mark want to keep this rifle for himself?”

“Because tigers and lions and even bears aren't common in Parsons, Kansas, little brother.”

“I haven't seen many in McAdam, Texas, either.”

“Mark's gunshot tore up a lot of good meat on that antelope. It's like I said, Jimmy, that's a big gun for a kid.”

“He'll be seventeen in April. I remember our pa saying the same thing when you got your '66.”

Borden smiled. “And when you got your '73.”

Porters began helping women and children onto the train, while the conductor seemed to be giving Borden and Jimmy the evil eye. Steam hissed, and the locomotive grunted.

Typically, Jimmy Mann made his choices quickly. Working mostly in the Indian Nations, he had to. Yet he didn't want to disappoint the boy Millard had named after the black sheep of the Mann family. On the other hand, luck had eluded Jimmy as he searched for an '86 Winchester in Fort Smith . . . in Tahlequah . . . McAlester . . . Van Buren. Few .45-70s could be found, and when one came available, the owner had priced the rifle as though it were a “One of a Thousand.”

“Five dollars, Jimmy. But I need to know right now.” Borden wasn't kidding around.

The conductor yelled, “All aboard.”

Borden took the Winchester from Jimmy's hands and made his way to the open door of the express car. Jimmy's boots didn't move. At least, not at first. Then he started running, catching up right after Borden climbed into the car and two black men working for the Katy were about to close the door.

“Can you get it to James?” Jimmy yelled up.

Borden held up a hand, and the men stopped the door.

“You bet. I can get it to Fort Worth. With ammunition to boot. Got a box all ready to ship it. And I can telegraph a fellow I know with the Fort Worth and Denver City to take it the rest of the way.” He smiled. “Won't be long now until our nephew is proud to be a Mann.”

“Yeah. And his ma and pa will be out for my hair.”

“You want to ride along with me?” Borden asked.

“Can't.” Jimmy's head shook. “I'm supposed to meet up with some Indian policemen in Lightning Creek in two days. They think Danny Waco's been in those parts.”

Borden's head bobbed grimly, and the two black men finished closing the door. The train lurched forward, starting its journey south toward the Indian Nations. Relief swept through Jimmy as he watched the train rumble, hissing, belching, squeaking, squealing. He smiled, picturing his nephew's face.

Then he remembered something.

He ran alongside the train, catching up to the express car, pounding on that heavy door with his fist. “Borden! Hey, Borden! I owe you five dollars. Plus the freight charges.” He had to stop, to keep from falling off the depot's platform.

Yet Borden's words carried over the grating of iron as the train pulled out of the station. “You don't owe me a thing, Jimmy.”