Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 27: The Goddess Science
Winona smiled, retrieving a small clay crucible from her pack. The Quapaw women crowded closer as she set it atop a flat stone, nestling kindling beneath. “First, we need silver.” She tapped the crucible’s lip where faint traces of the metal gleamed. “Not French lead – their bullets shatter bones. Ours pass through clean.”
Bright Feather’s sister produced a Spanish silver coin from her belt pouch, worn smooth by decades of trade. Winona took it reverently, holding it up to catch the stormlight. “This will make ten bullets. Each one...” She drew a finger across her throat, miming the silent kill. The badger-tooth girl shuddered – not in fear, but hungry understanding.
Crowfoot broke the silence by spitting into the crucible. “Purify it with fire and spit,” he cackled, as Winona lit the kindling with her flint. The Quapaw women leaned in as the silver melted, their faces painted orange by the molten glow. Wind Rider watched their eyes – not on the metal, but on Winona’s hands as she poured the liquid silver into bullet molds.
The badger-tooth girl snatched a cooling bullet before it hardened fully, hissing as it burned her palm. She grinned through the pain, pressing the Apache clan mark into her own wrist like a brand. “My kill will wear this sign,” she declared, to murmured approval.
Winona smiled toward the girl. “Silver is adequate for now, but lead shot is better — flies farther, will pass through French armor.”
Crowfoot snorted. “Lead poisons.” He shook his head. “Silver kills clean.”
“Not if you melt it in proper kilns. Lead only poisons those it hits,” Winona replied.
The badger-tooth girl glanced at Crowfoot’s twisted foot. “Silver doesn’t twist bones?”
Crowfoot wheezed laughter. “No, little hunter. That comes from the French.” He jabbed his staff toward the northeast where storm clouds gathered. “Their lead balls break inside men – leave fragments that fester. But silver?” He flicked a cooling bullet with a fingernail – it pinged like a struck bell. “Silver lets spirits fly free.”
The badger-tooth girl examined her palm’s fresh burn, then Winona’s silver-cased bullets. “Teach us the kilns,” she demanded. Around her, Quapaw women exchanged glances – their men still clutched French muskets while their daughters reached for Apache secrets.
“Learning will take several moons,” Winona said. “And to teach the Apache secrets will take several moons more.” She looked around the settlement, where people were gathering their goods for the travel that Bright Feather had ordered. “We will have time to teach, but not build fire kilns.”
Crowfoot tapped his staff on the crucible’s edge. “Fire is fire. Teach them the patterns – let them build the kilns later.” He turned his milky eyes toward Bright Feather’s sister. “Eagle Eyes learns fast.”
The hawk-faced woman snatched up a bullet mold before Winona could react, pressing its halves together with a smith’s instinct. “Show me the pouring.”
Winona hesitated and Wind Rider nodded sharply. The alliance needed roots deeper than shared enemies.
“Watch the lip,” Winona said, guiding Eagle Eyes’ hands as molten silver streamed into the mold. The Quapaw women inhaled sharply – the metal smelled like lightning and wet stone. The badger-tooth girl crouched low, nostrils flaring as silver vapors curled past her bear-tooth necklace.
Crowfoot abruptly yanked her back by the hair. “Breathe that and your lungs will blister.” He tossed a handful of crushed cattails into the crucible, releasing a bitter, medicinal smoke. “Apache tricks need Apache medicines.”
Winona nodded gratitude as the Quapaw women coughed – silver fumes dissipated into harmless mist. Eagle Eyes pried open the mold, revealing a perfect bullet still glowing cherry-red. She dunked it into the river with a sizzle, then tossed the cooled slug to her brother. Bright Feather caught it midair.
“Faster than French lead?” he challenged, weighing it against a musket ball.
Winona snorted. “French balls wobble like drunk ducks.” She pointed to the rifle’s spiral grooves. “These spin true – shoots twice as far. It is the rifle that imparts the spin. It is the spin that makes it fly farther, fly truer.
Bright Feather rolled the silver slug between thumb and forefinger, frowning at its precision. His war chief snatched it, biting down – then spat in surprise. “No lead grit!”
Winona smirked. “French balls crack teeth. Apache silver cleans them.” She nodded toward Crowfoot, who was whispering over the crucible, his gnarled fingers sketching owl shapes in the steam. “Your elder sees the real power – not in metal, but in how it flies.”
The war chief rubbed his bitten tooth thoughtfully, then gestured at the Quapaw warriors clutching their French muskets. “These have served us against Osage raiders.”
Winona plucked a musket from the nearest man’s grip before he could react. With one fluid motion, she snapped the stock against a tree – the cheap wood splintered instantly, revealing poorly cured oak riddled with wormholes. “French trade guns,” she said, tossing the broken pieces into the dirt. “Made to fail after twenty shots. Their powder turns to paste in the rain.”
Bright Feather’s sister knelt, running fingers along the fractured wood. “Osage arrows are straighter than this grain.” She looked up sharply. “You say your rifles never break?”
Winona flipped her Girardoni, revealing its steel-reinforced stock—the metal etched with looping Apache clan symbols. “Our gunsmiths forge these to last ten thousand shots. But...” She tapped the air reservoir with a fingernail. “The French don’t know how to make these parts. Yet.”
Bright Feather’s sister traced the etching with a calloused thumb. “Ten thousand?” Her voice held the reverence normally reserved for sacred objects.
Wind Rider stepped forward, drawing a knife from his belt—its blade shimmered unnaturally in the stormlight. “Our smiths temper steel with obsidian dust and buffalo marrow. French metal snaps like icicles.” He sliced the knife downward, shearing through a musket barrel left in the dirt. The Quapaw warriors recoiled as the severed metal rang against stone.
Crowfoot snatched the severed barrel, sniffing its jagged edge. “French iron smells of weak earth.” He spat onto the metal—the spittle sizzled, revealing pitted corrosion beneath the surface. “Apache steel sings.” He flicked the knife with a fingernail—it emitted a clear, bell-like tone that lingered in the humid air.
The badger-tooth girl grabbed the broken musket stock, snapping off a splinter with her teeth. She gagged instantly, spitting out rancid wood pulp. “Tastes like dead fish!”
Crowfoot cackled, slapping his knee. “French wood rots from inside! Like their treaties!” He snatched the splinter, holding it to the stormlight—dark veins spiderwebbed through the grain. “See? Worms ate their honor first.”
Bright Feather’s sister rose abruptly, kicking the shattered musket aside. She turned to the Quapaw women, gesturing toward their gathered rabbit snares and fishing weirs. “Break these.” When they hesitated, she snapped a snare cord between her hands. “French gifts are snares too – just slower.”
The badger-tooth girl yanked her own necklace free, bear teeth clattering onto the crucible stone. “Trade these for Apache steel.”
Winona shook her head, pressing the teeth back into the girl’s palm. “Keep your kills close.” She pointed northeast where lightning forked over distant hills. “French bullets forget the hunter’s hand. Ours remember.” From her belt she drew a slender knife—its edge whorled like river currents frozen in black steel. “This drank deer blood at dawn. By dusk in a week,, it’ll know French throats.”
Crowfoot snatched the blade, sniffing its honed edge. “Obsidian whispers in this metal.” He drew it across his forearm—blood welled, then stopped abruptly as the wound sealed. The Quapaw gasped. “Apache steel knows when to bite,” he rasped, tossing it back.
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