The Road to Reckoning. Robert Lautner

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СКАЧАТЬ done my father would say, ‘Let me show you something interesting, Mister Baker,’ for he would be mindful to check the name above the door and use it as often as he felt necessary. He did not talk down to people when he was selling. Many salesmen take the road that they should be superior to their customer, that they are doing them a favor by speaking to them, and that the customer will buy from them because the salesman is letting them become as intelligent as they are by purchasing the goods they extol. This is particularly true if it is a luxurious or superfluous item that must be shown to be aspirational, especially if the customer is not wearing shoes.

      You may have seen these salesmen in colorful coats and silk hats shouting at bumpkins about their cure-alls. They may wear a lined cape and carry a silver-topped cane. Mister Colt exemplified some of these manners but my father did not. I maintain that you do not trust a man whose shirt and pants are colorful and expensive. This man is out to impress first and does not wish to be measured by his words and actions but by appearance alone. Nature has the same rules. The most colorful and banded creatures are usually the most venomous. My father did not even wear a hat when we went west as he had done for those bustled city ladies with their reading-eye deficiencies. I did wear a hat but I was selling nothing and it was useful to hide my shyness under.

      ‘Let me show you something interesting, Mister Baker,’ and he would take out the wooden Colt from behind his back but hold it like a hammer rather than a gun so as to not alarm mister Baker.

      ‘It is a new gun,’ he would say. ‘It is the pistol of the future, to be taken up by the army and navy. I have a note from President Jackson himself approving of the weapon.’ At this juncture mister Baker would find the pistol in his hands, holding it for my father while he pulled out the copy of the note that indeed Colt had acquired from Old Hickory, no longer president but impressive all the same. It did not mean that the military approved of the gun, just that Colt had the sand to go to the capital and ask. As I told you: snake oil.

      Mister Baker held the gun in his hand like a dead fish. ‘It is made of wood, sir.’ This was said in sympathy, as if my father was not aware of it and had been duped.

      ‘It is a model. Now what do you suppose is so different about it?’

      ‘It has no trigger.’

      ‘It has a safety trigger. Cock the hammer, Mister Baker.’

      He did so. A look of wonder as the cylinder wheeled into place with a click like a key in a lock and the trigger dropped in front of his finger. It would take a move of the digit to pass in front of the trigger, thus preventing unintentional fire. Now this rotating gun may seem an ordinary thing but not then. Collier’s revolving flintlock and Allen’s pepperbox were cranked by hand. This music-box action was as pleasing to the eye as to the ear.

      ‘That is quite a trick!’

      ‘What guns do you use yourself, Mister Baker?’

      ‘I have my rifle, which I use with shot when I need.’

      ‘It is a double?’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘And why would you use a double?’

      Mister Baker being reeled in now by his own hand. ‘For two shots, naturally.’

      ‘Well, this gun will put five pistols in your hand and is rifled to boot.’

      ‘A rifled pistol?’

      ‘Accuracy and reliability is Samuel Colt’s aim.’

      Mister Baker passed back the gun. ‘I have no want for a hand pistol.’

      ‘I agree. We all know that the Allen gun with its multiple barrels is a top-heavy arm and is good for shooting a man across a table but is more likely to blow off your own hand. That is why it is only in small caliber and can barely stop a dog. The Colt patent however, if you notice’—the gun now back in mister Baker’s hand—‘separates the chambers at such a distance that a loose spark from the percussion could never cause such a mishap and thus can come in a larger bore. It is not five shots to put a man down. It is one shot for five men or, as our army would have it—as the chambers do not have to be rotated with the other hand—ten shots for ten Comanche. A pistol in each fist.’

      ‘That is all to the good. But I cannot afford a new gun.’

      ‘No-one can, Mister Baker, that is true. Not when a gun is a lifetime’s purchase. Samuel Colt is determined that good handguns should not be the luxury only of those who can afford craftsmanship. As you know, when you buy a gun it is made by one man. You must pay the price for that one man’s dedication and ability, which can be a hefty sum. The Colt, however, is a machine-made arm. Its pieces are assembled by a team of men and, further, this means if it should fault through improper use, it can be repaired economically. No need to buy a new gun.’

      ‘I cannot afford a new gun.’ He cocked and fired the action. ‘How much is it?’

      This is also the mark of a good salesman. The price is the last thing on his mind. It is the value he sells, and now mister Baker knew the value of the weapon without seeing the price tag, which he may have judged unfairly.

      ‘Mister Baker, I am heading west to put these guns into the hands of homesteaders. Colt wishes to bring defense into normal folks’ lives. I am selling orders for these guns for you to make your own profit and I ask no money. Wholesale to yourself, and if you are kind enough to give my boy a twist of candy, I can let you have them for ten dollars each. Sell them at whatever you see right.’

      ‘Ten dollars? A gun for ten dollars? Well, my!’

      ‘For a twist of candy. And you can sell them for whatever you see right. I can let you have one right now for yourself for eight, take your order for the rest, and I will be on my way.’

      ‘Well, that is an attraction!’

      My father took out his order book and licked his pencil.

      There was a low laugh from the end of the store.

      Mister Baker’s store was L-shaped. He had tables at the back so as no ladies would feel intimidated. This was where men drank and gambled cards or bone-sticks. It was dark. I had not noticed it was there.

      ‘Haw, haw, Chet!’ A chair went back. ‘I can sell you a wooden knife too if you wants it, Chet Baker!’ He came out of the dark. I stepped sideways toward my father.

      My father turned to the sound of the boots.

      ‘It is a model, sir. I promise the real. It is steel.’

      The man was brought into the light now as if the darkness had pushed him out of it. He was brown all the way down. From his wool hat to his boots he was dirty and baked. His face bearded and black; only the whites of his eyes, which were wide, defined it. I could smell his drink then. It was not yet one o’clock. He had two closed flapped holsters angled on his black belt.

      ‘You say ten dollars for one of them guns, mister?’

      ‘That is wholesale, sir. And a special price for mister Baker.’ My father did not know how to speak to these people. ‘Twenty dollars for a belt model and that will get you a box and spare cylinder and loading-tool, sir.’

      The man grinned. ‘Don’t call me sir, you little shit.’

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