Castaways in Time by Adams Robert

Later, in his cluttered little office, Pete gestured at the pair of flintlock pistols on his desk. “See? I made the barrels of thesehere set zackly the same len’th as your pistols you carried las’ year. Better leave them old ones here—I might be able to use the parts like barrels and springs and all, but they ain’t gon’ be one damn sight of good to you, ‘thout no shells for ’em.”

Foster shook his head ruefully. “Replacing them with muzzle-loaders isn’t going to hurt as much, morale-wise, as is the loss of a good, reliable, multi-shot sidearm, Pete. You can’t imagine how reassuring it is to have personal firepower in reserve.”

Pete nodded in sympathy. “If it ‘uz any damn thang I could do, Bass . . . ? But, hell, it ain’t but so miny times you c’n reload even them good, plastic shotshells, you know, they gits sorta frayed on the ends. B’sides, it looked like the mo9 loaded ones I sent to you, the less empty ones you sent back.”

Foster shrugged. “Pete, you can’t understand or appreciate the utter confusion of a battle or a skirmish or a pursuit unless you’ve ridden one. At such times, usually, hanging on to spent shells was the last thing on my mind, I’m afraid.”

“Naw, Bass, I ain’t done no fightin’ here and now, but I done my own share oft in Nam, so I c’n understan’. Hell, I’d of figgered enybody tol’ me to save my brass had to be plumb loco, too.

“But cases ain’t the end of it, Bass. I got me a pretty good bunch of boys, metalworkin-wise, and I could prob’ly git tight with ’em and make us some sheet brass and make some cases, but I ain’t got nuthin’ near what it’d take, in know-how or in nuthin’ elst, to make no primers . . . and, Bass, I got less’n a hunert an’ fifty of them fuckers lef, for the shotshells, none atall what’11 fit the cases for thet hawglaig.” He gestured at the Ml873 Colt Peacemaker bolstered at Foster’s side. “How miny roun’s you got left”

Foster unsnapped a small leather belt pouch and gingerly fingered its contents, then sighed. ‘Twenty-two—sixteen in the pouch and six in the cylinder.”

Pete scratched at his scalp with his cracked, dirty nails, then spread his hands on the crowded desk top and looked up at Foster. “Looky here, Bass, Til tell you, you hang onta thet superposed pistol, heanh? I got what it takes to make you up ‘tween ten and ‘leven dozen shells, and then that’ll be all she wrote. You keep them and thet superposed till you done run out’n ammo fer the hawglaig, then you jest have thet slant o’ yourn fix up your holster to take it stead’n the Colt.” His shoulders rose and fell. “Two shots is better’n none.”

The next morning being fair and sunny, Pete accompanied Foster and his entourage on the easy three-hour ride southwest to the estate that Harold, Archbishop of York, had turned over to Buddy Webster. He rode beside Foster, red-eyed from lack of sleep—he and Dan Smith and Nugai had labored over the restoration of the huge sword Dan had brought from the peat-cutter far into the night, long after Foster and his bodyguard and staff had returned to the camp outside the city—but bubbling over with enthusiasm at the oriental’s skills at intricate metalwork.

“I tell you, Bass, Dan Smith’s a master and no mistakin’ it I still wawnts him fer my hashup and I a’ready done offered him a job, but he says he wawnts to tawk some to you and a feller name of Alley fore he gives me a answer. Yeah, ol’ Dan’s a past-master smith, he is, but thet Newgay, manoman, he suthin’ elst!”

Foster smiled. “Nugai appears to be a man of truly endless talents, a Renaissance man par excellence.”

Pete just stared at him blankly. “Well, I dunno nuthin boyt thet last thing you said, I don’ tawk nuthin’ but Ainglish and Vietnamese and a lil bit of Tia Wanna Spick, see. But I do reckon thet ol’ Newgay could do bout enythin’ he set his min’ to. You got eny ideer how hard it is to draw wire right, Bass?”