NOVEL NEXT chapter 13 - Blacksmith
While Max was looking over the storehouse,
James quietly came up behind Mary as she prepared breakfast
and gently drew her into his arms from behind.
“Oh my! Why are you up already?”
“I’m going to the smithy. Best to learn the men’s faces and the work a day early.”
It wasn’t official yet, but James had decided to go in the day after they arrived.
“George told you to?”
“No. That’s on me. Anyway, Max is overflowing with energy.”
“He’ll come in like that and ask for meat again.”
James burst out laughing at Mary’s words.
A little later,
even in the deep-below-freezing cold, Max came home sweating.
“After a good run, I’m craving meat like hell.”
“When aren’t you.”
Mary set food on the table.
“Wash up. Time to eat.”
“What about Conall?”
“Off in dreamland. Starting tomorrow, how about we wake him and have him run with you?”
“We’ll see.”
“Too hard, right?”
Max woke Conall, and they had their first meal in the new home.
James went to work; Max helped Mary and Conall put the house in order.
They moved household goods off the wagon and checked what needed fixing.
Given Leavenworth was a frontier town, the house hadn’t been built long.
Even so, it was made of logs,
and when winter ended there looked to be plenty to work over.
Mary, making a list of needs, looked around the kitchen and sighed.
“There’s a mountain of things to buy.”
“Food’s the urgent one among them. I want meat.”
“What did you think you ate for breakfast?”
“Not enough.”
Mary looked Max up and down and went on.
“Still—you’ve filled out since the first day. Is my cooking that good?”
“…Anyway, I need to put on at least twenty more pounds. Please make it a bit fattier.”
With a little “hmph,” Mary started listing out what to buy in town. She wrote “meat” the biggest of all.
That evening,
James came home with his shoulders sagging. Unlike morning, he looked drained.
Of course, by nature he didn’t show it to his family.
“How was work? Are the people decent?”
“What do you make there, Dad?”
Mother and son peppered him with questions, and James smiled and answered each one.
“Besides George, there are three more hands. Younger than me. First day, so… it’ll take time to get close.”
“They’re not hazing you or anything, are they?”
James gave a wry shake of his head at Mary’s words. But to Max’s eye, Mary had hit it.
Human relations are the hardest part.
Max didn’t ask James about the smithy. He just ate.
****
Next day.
After training all morning, Max decided to visit the smithy where James worked in the afternoon.
So Mary hurried lunch.
“Max! If you’re going to my darling, take this along, will you?”
“My darling… Anyway, what is it?”
“A lunch of love!”
“Oh, please.”
A home won at the end of failure in California and a grueling 2,300-mile journey.
That happiness was plain on Mary’s face—though James’s expression yesterday weighed on her too.
Max clicked his tongue and took the food Mary had made. Better to have a pretext than to show up at a smithy out of the blue.
Clop, clop.
By the time he reached the smithy on horseback,
people were gathered, murmuring over a single rifle.
George and James—and three white men who looked late twenties to mid-thirties.
The curly-haired one in particular stared daggers at Max.
I’ll pop those eyes right out.
“Max, what brings you here?”
“Mary asked me to bring this.”
James took the lunch with a happy smile.
“You two are honeyed.”
“That’s all thanks to George.”
“Nonsense. By the way, I hear you’re going to work under that Holiday fellow?”
George asked Max.
“That’s how it turned out.”
“Leavenworth, sure—but Lawrence is a troubled town these days too. Be careful.”
“Thank you for the thought.”
Max dipped his head slightly.
Holiday warned him about Leavenworth; George about Lawrence. Kansas towns as a whole were wrapped in conflict.
“So what’s an Oriental doing here?”
The curly-haired white man spat and asked.
He was likely the one who’d weighed down James’s shoulders.
“This is Max Jo. Came with our family. Max, this is Martin, Brett, and Hollen—you’ll be working with them at the smithy.”
“Pleasure.”
“So the Chinese have pushed their way even here.”
Martin, the curly one, clicked his tongue with a sour look.
Max was used to it now.
The man’s words rubbed, but he chose to watch a while.
Max ignored Martin and looked at the rifle George was fiddling with.
“Something wrong?”
Instead of working, they’d set a rifle in the middle and were debating it—and five more lay beside it.
“Fort Leavenworth brought them in for repair.”
“Army issue, then.”
George nodded, hefting the gun.
“Barrel and chamber give trouble; they bring some every month.”
“Max, want a look?”
“What would an Oriental know just by looking.”
Martin sneered at James’s suggestion.
Whatever.
Max calmly took the rifle.
“A Springfield Model 1842 musket.”
“Muzzle-loading with powder and ball stuffed from the front. And the last smoothbore without rifling in the barrel.”
“The last?”
“…Let’s just say I haven’t heard much about the models after.”
Max let George’s question slide.
Then he slid the cleaning rod down the barrel.
Something snagged a lot inside.
Max knew the cause.
It came from using lead alone for the ball.
“Lead is soft and has a low melting point. On firing, it basically solders itself onto the bore and inside the barrel, so you see this all the time.”
“Ho, you know your stuff.”
“Aw, anybody knows that.”
At George’s remark, Martin snorted.
Maybe a beating would cure him.
Max’s eyes dimmed a shade,
but Martin wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Don’t tell us what everybody knows—tell us the fix, Oriental friend.”
A fix? Of course there was one.
He’d come to the smithy for exactly that.
He wanted to make plenty ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) of things, but there was an order to work. Start with improving the projectile.
Max stared at the needling Martin.
“Make the ball differently.”
“Don’t tell me you mean gold or silver instead of lead—idiot talk. You’re not that dumb. Right?”
If water’s specific gravity is 1, lead’s is 11.3.
Heavy for its volume, cheap, low strength, easy to work—so even in the future bullets stayed lead at core.
What to do with this bastard…
Judging by James’s twisted face, Martin was definitely throwing his weight around.
For some reason, George stayed in the middle, hands off.
Since I’m here, I’ll settle it before I go.
All for James and himself.
Max stepped up to Martin,
brought his face in close.
“Weren’t you maybe nursing that dumb idea?”
“…What? You little shit—want to go outside?”
That would be easier.
But in a smithy, the best answer shines in a smithy’s way.
“Not that kind of stupid method. I’ll give you the fix—what do I get from you?”
Martin’s pupils jittered like mad.
Past excitement, straight into anger.
Two days ago, Martin had been the king of this smithy. Then James, a rolling stone, looked set to push out a set stone.
James himself had done nothing, but his existence scraped Martin raw.
And then—
Now even a yellow bastard looks down on me.
Martin glanced around, then hurled his glove to the ground.
“Fuck it—if you’ve got a fix, I’m your big brother from now on, you yellow bastard.”
“And if it’s the other way, I’m your little brother?”
“Fuck that. You become my slave.”
His words got coarser as he heated up.
Max nodded readily.
“Then make it even—loser becomes the other’s slave. You’re all witnesses.”
Everyone watched Martin’s face.
George owned the smithy, but strangely everything revolved around Martin.
I’ll take that center from you.
The smithy would be useful in days to come.
Max pushed so Martin couldn’t wriggle out.
“The condition—the bet—is that we use lead but there’s no fouling like now. And we get a pass from the client who brought the guns. Agreed?”
“Big mouth on you.”
“Spit out that rag you’ve got for a tongue first.”
You couldn’t see it, but steam all but gushed from Martin’s head.
Regardless, Max kept needling.
“I’ll give you the fix—go fetch the supplies.”
“…You do it, bastard!”
“If you’re going to be my slave, might as well get used to it.”
“Have you lost your damned mind!”
Martin, unfortunately, wasn’t carrying a gun. Even as he raged, his eye kept sliding to Max’s revolver.
Think you’d win if you had one?
Max snorted and spoke to George.
“Mind if I look the smithy over?”
“Huh? Oh—of course.”
George nodded, dazed.
Max brushed past Martin and went into the smithy.
George Russell’s shop made ironware for daily life:
horseshoes and farm tools, and hand tools a household might use.
Max’s interest ran less to finished goods than to the making gear.
Anvils, of course; vises to clamp stock to the bench; tongs; drifts; slitters; center punches; bits and chisels.
Then Max’s eye landed on a mold like a set of tongs that could form four round lead balls at once.
Melt the lead and pour; when it sets, nip off the sprue like an apple stem and…
A ball is made. Pack powder in a paper cartridge and seat the lead ball—one round complete.
How simple a process.
But the downsides are too many.
Like the guns from Fort Leavenworth, the lead round ball had problems.
The history of firearms is the history of loading speed.
Brutal loading times, misfire rates, accuracy—starting with the bullet paid off most.
The bullet’s more urgent than the gun.
Even when he’d taken down the gang, the third shot had been a misfire.
Just thinking of it made your skin crawl.
He’d come to the smithy to solve exactly this. He only knew the theory; he hadn’t been a smith in the prior life.
Max picked up five pea-like lead balls and dropped them in a small dish.
Just then James eased up and asked in a low voice,
“What are you going to do?”
“I can’t just stand by and watch. Why’s that Martin character so wild? George is the owner.”
James sighed softly.
“Looks don’t show it—he’s skilled. Says he does all the hard jobs alone. Thanks to him, the army brings us guns.”
“So there’s a reason George tiptoes.”
I’ll have to revise the plan.
If Martin was a first-rate smith, better to make good terms than crush him.
As Max fixed his course, James asked,
“But do you really have a fix?”
“Who knows.”
“Good Lord.”
James’s face brimmed with worry.
Judging by Martin’s nature, he’d surely try to make Max a slave.
What James feared more was that, if pushed, Max might just kill Martin.
To avoid being a slave… he’d surely kill him…
He hoped not—but a corner of his heart wanted it. That’s how much Martin was a thorn in James’s side, too.
While his misgivings and unease tangled,
Max whispered something under his breath.
It was about the drawbacks of copper bullets.
Why tell me that out of nowhere?
Leaving James with a blank look, Max finished a short explanation and stepped outside the smithy.
He handed out the existing lead balls, one each, to the men.
They looked puzzled and waited for Max to speak.
“First, grind the surface of these lead balls down about 0.04 inches.”
“Zero point zero four inches?”
Roughly a millimeter.
There was no modern grinder, of course.
They had to spin the round natural grindstone in the smithy by hand.
But there was only one of those; George used it, and the rest had to use small stones.
Max held a lead ball out to Martin, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Rub the hell out of it, bastard.” (Korean)
“What? You—did you just curse me!”
“Grind it. Evenly, by about 0.04 inches.”
The smile made it worse. Martin, fuming, still ground the ball.
You’re curious about the result too, aren’t you.
He shaved the surface with no small care.
A little later, the balls with their skins ground off were ready. Less precise than a machine, but good enough to coat with copper.
“Now melt some copper.”
Didn’t take much. A thumbnail’s worth would do.
They melted copper and poured it into the mold. Dropped the lead balls in.
Thus the balls’ surfaces were coppered over.
Max had them lightly dress the shabby exterior to bring it to a true sphere.
As the smooth copper-jacketed ball took shape, Martin’s face began to stiffen.
“…Wh-what is this?”
Call it a full metal jacket, just on the bullet.
Max held the copper ball before Martin’s wavering eyes.
“Alright—shall we test it?”
“…”
The men watched, eyes bright with curiosity, as Max loaded his revolver.
He made two cartridges—one with the usual lead ball in a greased paper, and one with the coppered ball. Then—
Clack.
He rammed them down into the chambers.
With a flashy backspin, he holstered the revolver.
“Woaah…”
Someone let out a breath of awe.
And then—
An Oriental gunman?!
Brett, a white youth who’d been all but invisible till now, shouted.
“Now I remember! Aren’t you the Oriental who took down the Five Joaquins Gang!?”
“Ugh!”
Hollen, likewise invisible till now, gasped.
Martin was the most rattled of all.
His face went pale.
“When you said you caught a gang on the way—that was that?”
“Didn’t I say who I was?”
James answered George’s question with feigned innocence.
They hadn’t said, because of the bounty—but word had already spread.
In fact, it was only Max and James who didn’t know: the paper in Jackson County had run the Five Joaquins story in huge type.
That had been just three days ago.
Brett fussed; George looked at Max with astonished eyes.
“Now I see why that friend Holiday hired you.”
Martin, on the other hand, wanted to deny everything.
He must’ve gotten lucky… There’s no way—a mere Oriental?
But despite himself he chewed his nails, jittery.
Max let out a small sigh. He narrowed his eyes at Brett, who’d broken the flow.
They’d got their minds elsewhere with a full-metal-jacket bullet thirty years early sitting right there.
What’s a damned gang compared to this.
Clap, clap.
“Alright, that’s not the point just now.”
Max brought out two coins.
“Look closely at these one-cent pieces.”
All eyes fixed.
Max flipped the two coins into the air with a flick.
At the same time—
Bang!
Two shots like one cracked the air.
The two coins tumbled like dancers, and every gaze chased where they fell.
****
Martin gaped at what lay on Max’s palm.
One coin was mashed,
the other punched clean through.
Honestly, hitting two coins in the air—that was a cheat.
The coppered bullet amazed, but Max’s shooting was staggering.
It proved catching the gang had been no fluke.
I’m fucked…
Martin’s breath grew short,
and Max’s lecture on bullets began.
“As you can see, the difference in bullets is stark.”
Nod, nod.
“Lead splats on impact; the copper-jacketed one does that far less. So penetration is better. And of course lead won’t be smearing onto the bore or the barrel.”
“Just covering it with copper makes that much difference…”
“Even so, how do you prove it with just one shot…?”
Martin tried to deny it.
“What else should I prove? Want to take one yourself?”
Max’s eyes said he could fire right now. Anyone with half a head could infer the results from that test alone.
Martin had a few retorts on his tongue, but couldn’t open his mouth.
If he did, Max might really kill him.
What’s more—
“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…”
All of a sudden Max shoved his face in and made a crazy little sound at Martin.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Your remaining free time before you become my slave.”
“!”