Underneath the junk tray was a third filled with bundles of Bowie knives, graphic crossbows and quivers of arrows. Better, but not quite what he needed. However, the bottom area contained tiny kegs of black powder, cotton wadding in plastic jars, lead bars and balls for ammo and a collection of muzzle-loading pistols, huge .75-caliber horse pistols with flint firing mechanisms. Doc knew from experience that he could utilize the black powder, wadding and lead in his own LeMat.
Then with a cry of delight, he unearthed a tiny cardboard box of copper primer nipples and a brace of Remington muzzle-loading revolvers. They were the standard .44-caliber, exactly the same as his hog-leg LeMat, but heavily gilded with swirls and filigree. Choosing carefully, Doc filled the leather pouches on his ammo belt with more powder and shot than he’d seen in years.
“Hey, Doc!” J.B. called out.
Standing slightly off balance with the unaccustomed weight of a full pack, Doc turned to grin widely with his oddly perfect teeth. “Speak, Horatio, I am rapt attention.”
“Found a brand-new Webley .44,” the Armorer said, displaying the top-break wheelgun. “She’s a beauty. Want to upgrade from that Civil War museum piece of yours?”
“What? Never. It is impossible. Unthinkable!” Doc said resolutely. Then he eased his tone to add, “However, I sincerely do appreciate the consideration, old friend.”
Watching the exchange, Ryan draped a bandolier of 5-shot clips for the Steyr across his chest. “Reminds you of home, doesn’t it?”
Fondly, Doc stroked the carved wooden handle of the massive weapon. “Indeed, it does, and more.” He spoke softly as if lost in remembrance. “In its own curious way, this is my home.”
Ryan understood. Both weapon and man were from the 1800s. To Doc, it was a direct physical link to his family, as dead as ashes now, but still living in another time. The old-style blaster helped keep them alive in his mind.
Pragmatic as always, J.B. shrugged in response and went back to his hunting.
“Hey, what’s this?” Dean called out, holstering his Browning and lifting an oddly shaped blaster into view. It was an angular rectangle, with a thick holding grip on top, and a pistol like grip on the bottom. A safety switch was on the left, and a fire selector on the right. Aside from the muzzle, there didn’t seem to be any other openings in the weapon.
” ‘Heckler & Koch G-12 4.7 mm caseless,’ ” Dean read from the lettering on the breech. “You used to have one of these didn’t you, Dad?”
Ryan looked up from unpacking the Hafla rockets. “Yeah, I did, although a slightly different model, and it’s a damn fine blaster. Holds a hundred rounds and weighs next to nothing. Put a hole through a flak jacket at five hundred yards.”
Curiously, Dean turned the weapon over and upside down.
“There’s no ejector port.”
“That’s because no brass comes out. The ammo is caseless. There’s only propellant and lead in the stock. No brass. That’s why it is so lightweight.”
The boy loomed at the sleek blaster, impressed. It sort of reminded him of the laser weapons they had faced on Wizard Island, except that it didn’t have a dial to adjust the burning power of a beam.
“Why did you stop carrying it if it’s so great?” he asked bluntly.
“I have the Steyr, which has a longer range, and ammo is easier to find. And I can save the brass and do reloads if necessary. The HK can only be reloaded with blocks of caseless ammo. Nothing else. When you’re out, that’s it. She’s deadweight.”
Getting the balance of the odd rifle, Dean tried the weapon at port arms, then shoulder arms, like he had seen predark soldiers do in the videos the redoubts sometimes had. “I like it,” he stated, slinging the blaster over a shoulder.
The elder Cawdor came over and placed it in his hands. “Okay, then I’ll teach you long-range tactics. The Browning is good, but only at short distances. Keep this on the first setting, single shot. One trigger pull fires one round. The next is burst, one trigger pull, three rounds damn near instantly. Sounds like a single round firing.”
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