said the metal “appeared to bother them” but not how, and what happened when it did or even if it really did. Had they tested it? If so, how? He would have to read up in the doctor’s journal about all this.
A porter had followed Winchester into the building pushing several large wooden cases on a dolly. The gunsmith thanked the man, who departed without a second glance. Hollister still found it odd, being in a building with a train inside it. Then again, he’d been in prison four years. Maybe things had changed.
Like the weapon that bore his name, Winchester was no nonsense. He got right to the point. He hefted one of the crates onto the table and popped the lid off. Chee inched forward, like an eager puppy, desperate to see what was inside the box. Jonas knew Chee was dangerous enough when he was unarmed. But he also appeared to have an unusual interest in guns. Hollister reckoned this made him doubly lethal.
Winchester removed a rifle from the case. It looked like a normal repeater, one of the big Henry’s Jonas had seen in the war.
“Gentlemen, this is an 1866 model Henry rife. It has had some modifications and enhancements made to it. Mainly, changes were made to the barrel that allow various types of ammunition to be used without damage to the mechanism or structural integrity of the barrel. You’ll each be issued one of these and there will be another dozen on board the train for your use. Please do not lose them. They are extremely costly and difficult to produce.”
“I used a Yellow Boy myself, riding with General Sheridan in the Shenandoah Valley during the War,” Hollister said, referring to the nickname given the Henry Rifle. The brass casing on the gun shone nearly yellow when polished and had given rise to the name. “It’s a fine weapon.”
Winchester beamed with pride.
“Sergeant Chee here was a little too young for the war, but I’m sure you’ve heard some of your elder brethren in butternut gray talk about the Henry,” Winchester said. Chee smiled.
“Yes, sir. Some of my uncles fought with the Eighth Louisiana. They called it ‘that damn Yankee rifle you could load on Sunday and fire all week.’ ”
Winchester laughed. “So I’ve heard. Well, given these new models and their capabilities, perhaps our enemies will grow to fear them in the same way,” he said.
For the next hour, Winchester went over the modifications to the rifles and the contents of the first case. They were given ammo that was modified for their side arms. Some bullets were made of silver and some had been dipped in holy water before they were fitted into the cartridge. Others were wooden as with the Gatling guns on the train, their ends machined into a sharp point. They looked especially deadly, like miniature spears.
When Winchester was finally winding down, Hollister noticed that he hadn’t opened or said anything about the second case.
“What’s in the other box?” Hollister asked.
Winchester stopped a moment and looked behind him at the case on the ground. He smiled and put one foot on top of it and stuck his hands in his vest pockets, looking for all the world like some carnival huckster.
“This?” he said, feigning disinterest and tapping his foot on top of the crate.
“This gentlemen, is a little something I like to call ‘The Ass-Kicker.’ ”
He then proceeded to show them how it worked.
Chapter Fourteen
It was the damndest thing Hollister had ever seen. It looked like a short-barreled shotgun had mated with a… he didn’t know what, maybe Monkey Pete’s train, and produced a weapon suitable for the devil himself. Winchester held it out and Jonas was almost reluctant to take it from him. There were two large steel baffles along the barrel, gauges and gears everywhere-all shining and polished-and a collapsing stock. It appeared to him the gun might fly apart at any minute.
Winchester flipped a small lever to the side of the trigger guard and the gun broke open exposing four barrels. Winchester held up four rather large shells, nearly the size of small mortar rounds and loaded them into the barrel snapping it shut.
“There’s advantages and disadvantages to the Ass-Kicker,” Winchester remarked. He took the empty crate and dragged it toward the far wall of the warehouse about sixty paces away.
“It’s actually steam powered. There’s an attachment here,” he said pointing to a large brass fitting on the side of the weapon. “Monkey Pete worked with me on this one. With this valve attachment it can be charged from the engine on the train or any sort of standard steam-powered engine fitting. It builds up pressure in the line here, and each time you fire, it sends a pressurized round through the barrel and with these. 90 caliber rounds… Well, you’ll see.”
Hollister held the gun, the stock resting on his upper arm, as he prepared to fire from the waist.
“That’s it,” Winchester said. “You’ll want to fire it like you would a shotgun. If you try to get too cute and fire from your shoulder, you’ll regret it. Go ahead, Major. I’d be honored if you’d take the first shot.”
“The first shot? You’re shittin’ me right? You mean to tell me you’ve never test fired this gun before?” Hollister replied, shocked.
“Of course we have.” Winchester answered waving his hands in front of him. “In the lab.”
“In your lab?” Jonas said.
“Yes, Major, I assure you the Winchester Repeating Arms Company has a first rate research facility. The gun has been tested.”
“Then why I am firing the ‘first shot?’ ” Hollister asked growing more and more uncomfortable.
“To be honest…” Winchester started, looking at Pinkerton for help, but the detective merely cocked his head and remained silent. “The first models had certain… problems. But when Mr. Pinkerton informed me of the severity of it, I put my best men on it around the clock. I’m certain the gun will work as promised, there just hasn’t been as much time as I would have liked to test all the…”
He didn’t get a chance to finish, because Hollister pointed the weapon at the crate and pulled the trigger. The noise alone was enormous and Hollister was unprepared for the recoil as it sent him staggering backward. He tried to keep his balance, but couldn’t and landed on the dirt floor on his butt. The gun hissed and clicked as the steam was released and the gears turned then stopped with another click as it readied itself for another shot.
“Oh my God,” muttered Chee his face caught between sheer astonishment and an almost childlike expression as if he were about to beg the major for the next shot and would be willing to trade his jackknife and all of his marbles for the chance to shoot the gun just once.
Pinkerton walked to where Hollister lay sprawled in the dirt and helped him to his feet. Winchester cackled with glee as the smoke cleared and the smell of cordite and gunpowder retreated.
“Not going to be a very useful weapon if it knocks you over every time you shoot it,” Hollister said in disgust, thrusting the machine back into the hands of the gunsmith.
“Oh. Really?” Winchester said. “Take a look at the crate, Major.”
Hollister had nearly forgotten about the target. He had been more concerned with the indignity of landing on his ass in the dust. Now he stared over toward where the crate stood.
It was gone. Only a few splinters remained. Some smaller pieces of wood still fluttered in the air, drifting slowly toward the ground like snowflakes. Hollister looked at Pinkerton and Chee in amazement.
“Huh.”
F rom across the rail yard, a man stood in the gloom of alley between two rail sheds, watching the doors of the large warehouse where the strange train had pulled in a few hours ago. He was six feet two inches tall, whippet thin, dressed in a black leather duster, a black Stetson pulled low on his head. He wore a gun belt holding a nickel- plated Colt, the handle forward for a cross draw. His face was scarred and marked from a battle with small pox he’d barely survived as a young boy. He tried to cover it with a beard but the hair grew thin on his face, not covering the scars completely but succeeding in making him look more dangerous and angry.
His name was Slater and he worked for Senator James Declan. He was many things: ranch foreman, aide- de-camp, and-the role he most preferred-problem solver. Mostly he solved the senator’s problems with his Colt, as the gun was second nature to him. But he was happy to use whatever means necessary to make sure the troubles were taken care of. He wasn’t above shooting a man with a rifle from three hundred yards, or caving in a skull with an axe handle. Up close or far away, it made no difference to him.
