him to cause her more concern, but in his mind, there was no choice in the matter.
John and Stephen both wanted to go with him, but they were needed at home to run the farm. His father couldn’t make it without them. And Clay could plainly see that they could get along just fine without his help. Besides, little James was already beginning to do a man’s work. In fact, when he thought hard on the matter, Clay decided that he might be one too many trying to make a living from his father’s farm.
Red raised his muzzle from the water, and turned his head back toward his new master. “Had enough, boy?” Clay asked. The big horse shook his head fromside to side, throwing a spray of tiny droplets of water as he did. Clay led him back up the bank and stepped up in the saddle his father had given him. He reached down to pat the stock of the shiny new Winchester- 66 rifle riding in the saddle boot. He had already developed a habit of keeping a close eye on the weapon. There were not many of them available. He wouldn’t have one himself were it not for the fact that his uncle worked for the manufacturer. One of the first of the new rifles manufactured by Oliver Winchester—and the first model bearing his name—it was a marvelous weapon in Clay’s mind. With a magazine holding sixteen cartridges, the rifle could be fired as rapidly as a man could cock it and pull the trigger. Clay felt he could hold off an entire company of cavalry with the repeating rifle. And, unlike the Henry that preceded it, the Winchester was fitted with a wooden forestock that protected a man’s hand from an overheated barrel. The side ammunition port made it a good deal easier to reload, but the feature that pleased Clay the most was the accuracy of his new weapon. He had acquired quite a reputation for himself as a marksman when he was in the army, so he appreciated Mr. Winchester’s dedication to accuracy. While he might grudgingly admit that the army’s single-shot Springfield could be a shade better at long range, it was no match for his Winchester under most conditions.
In one sense, he felt a measure of guilt for accepting the rifle. It had been a peace offering from his father’s brother—an attempt to make amends for his decision to remain in New Haven when the war broke out. But his father and his brothers insisted that he should receive something for donating his share of the farm to his brothers. And they wanted to contribute something of their own toward the mission to rescue Martha. All things considered, he found himself suitablyoutfitted for the task he had set for himself. Since he was the one going in search of their sister, the whole family had wanted to do their share as well, contributing all they could. Clay figured giving up his share of the farm to his brothers was fair—he never had any strong urges toward farming, anyway.
A natural feeling of uneasiness about riding into a Union army post descended upon him as he passed the outbuildings, and headed toward a building with a flagpole before it. The war had been over for a year, but it was not easy to rid himself of the sense that he was riding into an enemy camp. Blue bellies, as he had come to know them, were everywhere as he made his way at a slow walk up to the headquarters building. He had no earthly idea where to go in search of his sister, but he knew that Robert Vinings’s letter had been sent from Laramie. So that looked to be the natural place to start.
As he stepped down from the saddle, he heard a voice behind him. “That’s a right fine-lookin’ horse you got there, mister.”
Clay’s hand automatically clamped around the butt of the Winchester, pulling it out of the saddle sling as he dismounted. Turning toward the voice, he found a young private smiling at him. Realizing at once that the soldier’s remark had been nothing more than a casual compliment, he rested his rifle in the crook of his elbow and returned the greeting. “Thanks. He’s a pretty
John and Stephen both wanted to go with him, but they were needed at home to run the farm. His father couldn’t make it without them. And Clay could plainly see that they could get along just fine without his help. Besides, little James was already beginning to do a man’s work. In fact, when he thought hard on the matter, Clay decided that he might be one too many trying to make a living from his father’s farm.
Red raised his muzzle from the water, and turned his head back toward his new master. “Had enough, boy?” Clay asked. The big horse shook his head fromside to side, throwing a spray of tiny droplets of water as he did. Clay led him back up the bank and stepped up in the saddle his father had given him. He reached down to pat the stock of the shiny new Winchester- 66 rifle riding in the saddle boot. He had already developed a habit of keeping a close eye on the weapon. There were not many of them available. He wouldn’t have one himself were it not for the fact that his uncle worked for the manufacturer. One of the first of the new rifles manufactured by Oliver Winchester—and the first model bearing his name—it was a marvelous weapon in Clay’s mind. With a magazine holding sixteen cartridges, the rifle could be fired as rapidly as a man could cock it and pull the trigger. Clay felt he could hold off an entire company of cavalry with the repeating rifle. And, unlike the Henry that preceded it, the Winchester was fitted with a wooden forestock that protected a man’s hand from an overheated barrel. The side ammunition port made it a good deal easier to reload, but the feature that pleased Clay the most was the accuracy of his new weapon. He had acquired quite a reputation for himself as a marksman when he was in the army, so he appreciated Mr. Winchester’s dedication to accuracy. While he might grudgingly admit that the army’s single-shot Springfield could be a shade better at long range, it was no match for his Winchester under most conditions.
In one sense, he felt a measure of guilt for accepting the rifle. It had been a peace offering from his father’s brother—an attempt to make amends for his decision to remain in New Haven when the war broke out. But his father and his brothers insisted that he should receive something for donating his share of the farm to his brothers. And they wanted to contribute something of their own toward the mission to rescue Martha. All things considered, he found himself suitablyoutfitted for the task he had set for himself. Since he was the one going in search of their sister, the whole family had wanted to do their share as well, contributing all they could. Clay figured giving up his share of the farm to his brothers was fair—he never had any strong urges toward farming, anyway.
A natural feeling of uneasiness about riding into a Union army post descended upon him as he passed the outbuildings, and headed toward a building with a flagpole before it. The war had been over for a year, but it was not easy to rid himself of the sense that he was riding into an enemy camp. Blue bellies, as he had come to know them, were everywhere as he made his way at a slow walk up to the headquarters building. He had no earthly idea where to go in search of his sister, but he knew that Robert Vinings’s letter had been sent from Laramie. So that looked to be the natural place to start.
As he stepped down from the saddle, he heard a voice behind him. “That’s a right fine-lookin’ horse you got there, mister.”
Clay’s hand automatically clamped around the butt of the Winchester, pulling it out of the saddle sling as he dismounted. Turning toward the voice, he found a young private smiling at him. Realizing at once that the soldier’s remark had been nothing more than a casual compliment, he rested his rifle in the crook of his elbow and returned the greeting. “Thanks. He’s a pretty
Similar Books
