Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1) (10 page)

“Thank you very much. I’m obliged to you, Sergeant Jenkins.” Walt fished in his pocket and pulled out a half-eagle. “Have a bottle or two of the good stuff on me.”

“Why, thank you kindly!” The NCO grinned as he accepted the five-dollar coin. “If you do the same for Wallace, I reckon he’ll give you a cut price on his own grandmother.”

They both laughed as Walt nodded to him, then turned for the door. He walked down the serried ranks of buildings until he came to the third row, then wandered along it looking for the right warehouse. He soon identified it by the line of armorer’s wagons and crates of weapons piled in front of it. Harassed teams of privates under the command of irascible corporals were moving them inside. A burly sergeant kept a watchful eye on proceedings.

Walt approached him. “Excuse me. Are you Sergeant Wallace?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“My name’s Walter Ames.” He offered his hand. “Sergeant Jenkins said I should talk to you about doing a little business. I’m looking for surplus firearms.”

“Then I’m the man you need.”

“Jenkins said I should show you this.” Walt handed over his letter.

Wallace read it. “All right. What do you want?”

“I’m heading for the frontier. I’d like to sell rifles to settlers taking the trail west. There are reports of Indian trouble along the Smoky Hill and Santa Fe Trails, so I reckon there’s money to be made arming travelers. I understand you’re junking surplus worn-out rifles rather than re-arsenal them. I reckon if I can look through them and pick out parts that I can build into working weapons, it’ll be worth my while.”

Wallace lowered his voice, glancing at his soldiers to make sure they couldn’t overhear. “Maybe—but will it be worth my while to help you?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“It’ll cost you a gold double eagle. For that, I’ll give you access to the reject weapons in the back of the warehouse. You can pick your way through them and select whatever you want. They’ll cost you fifty cents apiece. Ammunition is extra.”

“That sounds fair. An eagle now, and another when I’m finished?”

“Done. Come inside to my office.”

As they walked into the shade of the warehouse, Walt asked, “What about all those empty wagons behind the building? Any chance I can pull one into the back of the warehouse and load my rifles into it?”

“Well, let me see. They’re all supposed to be reassigned to the frontier forts. Tell you what, though, if you give me another double eagle, I’ll write off one of them as damaged beyond repair. That way I can sell it to you for ten dollars. You’ll have to provide your own team when you’ve loaded it. If you want to buy surplus mules or horses, I can introduce you to Sergeant Lejeune at the stables. If you see him right, same as me, he’ll see you right.”

“Very well. I’ll give you one double eagle now, for access to the rifles and the use of a wagon, and another when I’m finished.”

“It’s a deal.”

They shook hands, and Walt handed over the first double eagle. He grinned as he watched a grumbling soldier hitch a pair of mules to the best of the wagons at the rear of the warehouse and haul it inside, positioning it where Wallace indicated. The sergeant would earn the equivalent of two months’ salary by taking his bribe, and the stable sergeant as much to provide a team of mules.

If I can just
find enough working guns to
fill a
wagon,
Walt thought,
and taking into account what the wagon, a team of mules and the bribes will cost me, I’ll leave St. Louis with them at a
total
cost per weapon of
two to three greenbacks.
They say that
new Sharps breechloaders
are
selling for twelve to fifteen dollars near the frontier. If
I can
sell used ones for half that price,
I’ll
get back double
what I paid, or even
more.
That’ll be a good start to my new life out there.

―――――

Samson showed up promptly at eight the following morning, showing no signs of a hangover. Satisfied, Walt checked out of the hotel after arranging to store most of his firearms and valuables in a local strong room for the next few weeks. He rented a farmer’s barn and field a couple of miles from the entrance to the army depot, explaining to Samson, “If I rent this instead of a hotel room, I’ll be able to afford more guns. We can put the wagon and its team in the barn, sleep in the hayloft, graze the mules in the field, and we’ll have a roof to cover us while we work on the guns when the weather’s bad.”

“Dat’s OK wid me, suh.”

“We’re going to need another man in due course, someone trustworthy. He should be able to drive a wagon if necessary, although I suppose we can teach him how to do that. Any ideas?”

“Suh, when de
Queen
come back, I can ask Elijah. I t’ink he’d come. He’s a good man, suh.”

“All right.”

He bought blankets and other supplies from a local store. They slept in the hayloft, washed themselves and their clothes in a bucket, and cooked on a fire next to the horse trough. Every morning he and Samson dressed in work clothes and headed for the depot, buying sandwiches at a store outside the gate to sustain themselves through the day. On the second day, tired of the long walk to and fro, Walt approached Sergeant Lejeune in the stables. Money changed hands, and he came away with two cavalry horses in good condition, along with saddles and bridles. From then on, they rode to their work each morning. Walt used the journey to coach his helper in the basics of riding.

He taught Samson what to look for as they picked through huge piles of discarded rifles. Most had bores and chambers too rusted and pitted to be worth salvaging. Many troops approaching their discharge dates had clearly stopped caring for their weapons. However, a few of the rejected guns appeared repairable, given proper attention. Walt concentrated on Sharps cavalry carbines, the most powerful and robust of the single-shot breechloaders he’d encountered during the war. He used a set of tools borrowed from an armorer’s wagon to disassemble those that looked worthwhile, keeping a barrel here, a lock there, plus the better woodwork.

The pile of usable components grew slowly in the wagon—too slowly for Walt’s liking. He began to worry. He’d assumed that the armorers, looking forward to their discharge, wouldn’t have been over-diligent; that they would have written off sub-standard weapons rather than bother to repair them. However, they’d been rather more conscientious than he’d expected. Less than one in ten of the weapons he examined proved to have one or more parts good enough for his needs. He began to wonder whether his plan to sell used guns to settlers had been ill-conceived.

Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, four wagons pulled up at the rear of the warehouse, near where Walt was working. Several dozen crates of weapons were unloaded and piled just inside the rear doors, then the wagons and their teams were put in the paddock out back, joining Walt’s and Samson’s horses. A work party of soldiers began removing Spencer cavalry carbines from the crates. They cleaned them with solvent and boiling water, checked them, set aside a few that needed repair, lubricated and greased the others for long-term storage, then refilled the crates, stacking them to one side.

Walt took a break from sorting through discarded weapons and wandered over to the cleaning team, trying to appear casual and disinterested. “Where do these Spencers come from?” he asked idly.

“They’ve just been handed in by the Third Missouri Cavalry. It musters out this month. We’re preparing them for arsenal storage, except for those needing repair. There aren’t many that do, because they’re almost new. The regiment was only issued Spencers at the beginning of this year.”

“I get it,” Walt replied. Inside he was boiling with excitement, but he dared not let his emotions show.
This is it! This is my big chance!

He sauntered back to his wagon, then called Samson and handed him two dollars. “Run out to the nearest place serving sandwiches and buy some for me. I’m going to work late tonight, and I’ll need food. You’ll go back to the barn alone.”

“Don’t you want me to work wid you, suh?”

“Not tonight. This will be a one-man job.” He couldn’t take the risk that Samson might inform the authorities of what he was about to do. “Don’t tell anyone I’m working late. Just get the sandwiches.”

Samson came back half an hour later with a paper sack. “I got you t’ree ham an’ cheese, an’ t’ree beef, cheese an’ pickle, suh—also an apple.”

“That’ll be enough. Rinse out that bucket, fill it with water and put it in the wagon along with the food. It’s almost time for everyone to close up for the night, so when you’ve done that, you can go. I’ll see you at the barn sometime tomorrow morning. Wait for me there.”

“Yassuh. What about your hoss?”

“It’ll be all right in the paddock, along with the wagon teams. Just leave it there.”

Walt hid behind a pile of crates while everyone in the warehouse stopped working, tidied up their areas, and headed for the main gate. Sergeant Wallace and two corporals walked up and down the aisles, checking to see that everyone had left, then pulled the doors closed and locked them from outside.

As he heard the lock click, Walt relaxed with a sigh. He emerged from hiding and collected several lanterns from around the warehouse, filling those that needed it with kerosene. Lighting one, he approached the pile of crates the work crew had re-packed, and unscrewed the lid from the top one. Lifting it, he was rewarded with the sight of twenty newly-cleaned, arsenal-ready Spencers.

He thought for a moment, then went looking up and down the rows of shelves lining the warehouse walls. Several racks held leatherwork; handgun holsters for belt and saddle, and slings and saddle boots for rifles. He carried an armful of saddle boots back to the crates, then removed his shirt and trousers. He would probably get very dirty tonight. Since he didn’t have a change of clothes with him, he’d have to work in his underwear.

He took the Spencers from the crate one by one, noting each gun’s serial number on a sheet of paper he took from Sergeant Wallace’s desk. He took some of the cleaning rags used by the work party, wiped off as much of the exterior grease as possible, then slid the rifle into a saddle boot and laid it in the bed of his wagon. He worked as quickly as he could, fetching more saddle boots and rags as needed, but it still took him more than an hour to empty the first crate. He removed it from the stack and laid it on the ground, then refilled it with junked rifles from the heap at the rear of the warehouse so that it would weigh about the same as before. He screwed on the lid, then started on the second crate.

By ten that evening he was soaked in sweat and grimy with dirt, dust and grease, but he’d loaded forty Spencers into his wagon. He took a break, eating his sandwiches and drinking water while he thought about what to do next. Rifles were all very well, but many travelers would want handguns too; and he recalled seeing smaller crates among the cargo the wagons had dropped off that afternoon.

He took a lantern over to the stacks of as-yet-untouched crates and began to investigate. Several of them contained Colt Army revolvers, most in good condition. He went back to the shelves where he’d found the rifle boots, and collected a double armful of military belt holsters with flaps. He took forty Colts, slid them into holsters and loaded them into his wagon. He broke up the empty crates and added them to the pile of firewood being used to heat the kettles for cleaning.

He paused again to eat more sandwiches.
The Spencers and Colts will sell for
good
prices, but a lot of people won’t be able to afford them,
he thought as he chewed.
I need to offer something cheaper, too. I wonder what else I might find if I look around?
Further investigation revealed a large quantity of crated .36 caliber Whitney revolvers in another part of the warehouse. The night was drawing on and he was running out of time, so he didn’t unbox them. Instead, he used a hand cart to wheel five crates containing a hundred of them to his wagon. He added the same number of holsters.

It was almost four in the morning by the time he’d finished, and the wagon box was filled to capacity. He spread a canvas tarpaulin over it beneath the wagon cover, to hide its contents from prying eyes, then used the stacked crates of Spencers as a makeshift desk to write out two neat lists of the serial numbers of every rifle he’d taken, both junked and new.

He finished the lists just as daylight began to shine through cracks in the warehouse walls and roof. He wiped the sweat and grime from his face, hands and body as best he could with cleaning rags, then dressed again. By the time Sergeant Wallace unlocked the doors, he was concealed behind a pile of crates once more. He waited until a few of the men had arrived and begun to work, then slipped out and joined them as if he’d just arrived. Taking his lists, he sought out the sergeant, and found him bellowing at a working party outside the warehouse. He waited until Wallace had finished.

“Good morning, Sergeant.”

“Mornin’, Mr. Ames. How’s your rifle-pickin’ going?”

“Very well. I’ve got enough parts for the time being. Now I’ll have to assemble and test them, as quickly as possible.”

“Why the rush?”

“There’s all those wagon trains heading west. The longer I take to get out there, the more of them will have left without my being able to sell them anything.”

“That makes sense, I guess. Got your list of serial numbers?”

“Here it is. I made two copies.”

“Lessee now… almost eighty rifles? That’s more good ’uns than I thought there’d be. I better talk to my armorers. They may be throwin’ out guns that can be salvaged, just ’cause they’re lazy and don’t wanna work on ’em.”

“I really couldn’t say,” Walt replied, hoping fervently that Wallace wouldn’t decide to inspect the contents of his wagon. He thought he knew what would distract him. “I’d like to buy a second wagon from you and load it with additional supplies, seeing as how your prices are so low right now.”