Chapter 15

Under ordinary circumstances, the Remington rolling block buffalo gun just had too much recoil for somebody of Joe's size and age. It had a very narrow buttplate and could very easily break his collar bone. However, I thought about it for a while and came up with a possible solution. If I could come up with some sort of pad to absorb and distribute the shock of the recoil, Joe could shoot the rifle.

I went to talk to my friend, the leather worker. Jeremiah thought about the problem for a minute or two and said, "Maybe, we could sandwich a steel plate between two pieces of leather. That might distribute the kick enough ta make such a pad possible. Ya come up with a piece of steel, and I'll make the pad for it." That sounded reasonable to me, so I agreed to see what I could find.

The next morning, I told Joe about Jeremiah's idea, and he was all for it. What else would you expect a boy to do? We went on our scouting patrol and came across a small town with a blacksmith. We stopped in long enough to ask if he had something that we could use.

"I don't rightly know, Mr. Huston. The only thing I got what might work is an old worn out bearing plate that y'all kin have fer a dime ifen y'all kin use it. Give me a minute, an' I should be able ta find it."

The smith came back a short time later with a piece of steel that was slightly dish shaped and about 1/8^th of an inch thick. It was four inches in diameter, so it just might work. I sent Joe to pull my Remington from its scabbard and bring it in. I held the piece of steel to Joe's shoulder while he held the rifle in shooting position. The slight dish in the plate made it hold the rifle butt so that it did not slip. We thought that the plate was worth a try, so I paid the smith the dime he asked for. That was a high price to pay for an otherwise useless piece of steel, but it was a seller's market right then.

We resumed our patrol and returned to the wagons when we finished. Joe was a sight—he couldn't wait for the pad to be finished, but I warned him that Jeremiah had a regular job he had to do first, and the shooting pad would have to come second. Joe could understand that, but it didn't help his impatience. Yeah, I was a boy once, so I could understand his feelings.

It was a week before the pad was ready for a fitting, and I wonder how Joe survived the wait. Jeremiah made up a couple of straps to hold the pad in place over Joe's shirt and nothing to do but rush out of camp to give it a try. Damned if it didn't work! Joe ran off five shots in rapid succession, and didn't even show a bruise on his shoulder. Shit, I had to give it a try, so I put the pad on and found that I could feel the recoil, but it was not nearly so painful. Well, now I had to have a pad like that for myself! I paid Jeremiah four-bits for the pad and asked him to make up one for me as soon as I could find a suitable steel plate.

Joe still had to learn how to shoot at long range, but he was now able to use the right gun for the job. We stopped at every town we came to and asked to buy a Remington buffalo gun. They had become quite popular, so we found one at our third stop. That's when I started teaching Joe everything I knew about being a Marine sniper. He was a fast learner, but it takes time to acquire the skills that I had. What the hell? He was a growing boy, and he would have those skills within a couple of years or so. I expected to be around that long, so I could serve while Joe was getting ready. Now that I knew what being a father was about, I planned to start John along the same path when he was a little larger.

About that time was when Alice dropped her bombshell—she announced very proudly that she was pregnant! Man, let me tell you, I was really proud of myself. Oh, I knew that Alice had something to do with it, but it was going to be my first child, and I was walking on clouds. Alice was happy to see me so happy, but she did think that she deserved some of the credit!

Jeremiah made my pad when I finally found a suitable piece of steel. Mine was a little larger, but the extra weight and size didn't bother me. I found that I could shoot the Remington as much as I wanted to without ever getting a sore shoulder. Joe and I had shooting contests after he gained some experience with his Remington. He could nearly match me at 500 yards, but I beat him roundly at all ranges beyond that. I was sure that the difference was the experience which made it more likely that I would judge the variables better. Nevertheless, I was delighted at his skill, and made sure that he knew that.

We made use of Joe's skill with the Remington as we approached Las Cruces. For some reason, we had not been bothered as much by the Chiricahuas as we had expected, but we were now getting into the range of the Comanches, and they were bound to be as much of a nuisance as they could manage. We were about two weeks out of Las Cruces when we were hit one morning by a large band of Comanches.

There were around 40 of the Comanche warriors, as best Running Fox could estimate. They moved around so much on their horses that it was difficult to get an accurate count. We did see five war chiefs, so we knew that we were headed for a major fight. By this time, Running Fox was moving about with the aid of a homemade crutch. He had made his estimateed time for walking if you allow him the use of the crutch, but he was farther from riding a horse than he wanted to be. His ability with a gun was not impaired, and we were all grateful for that.

The Comanches showed up before we had finished breakfast, so there was a mad scramble to get ready to fight. At last, Joe was going to get his wish about joining a fight from inside the box of wagons.

The common warriors started racing around our fort and shooting madly while their horses ran at full speed. The Indians rarely used more than one hand to hold the rifle, so their chance of hitting someone was just that: pure chance. Nobody was stupid enough to make himself a target, but we were not very worried about being shot at this stage of the battle.

The war chiefs stationed themselves as a group about 600 yards away from our fort of wagons, so they were well out of effective range of our Winchesters, and they knew it. However, they did not know of the two Remingtons that we had, both with the range to kill them with only a smidgeon of luck.

Abe took over management of the main defense, as he usually did. His experience during the War of Yankee Aggression showed itself in the way he spaced out his men and had the oxen in the center of the fort where they would be reasonably safe. One thing he insisted upon was that no ammunition be wasted by shooting while the Indians were out of range. Most of the men were firing from under the wagons where a charge by the Indian horses could not do them any harm. A few men were held back to act as a reserve if the situation came up, and they were back with the two women and the children.

Joe and I planned to concentrate on trying to take out the war chiefs. We were standing together behind one of the wagons and resting our rifles on the edge of the wagon. We were not prone because we needed the slight elevation to be able to see the war chiefs beyond the mass of the circling Comanches. "Shit, Pa, now I know what ya meant 'bout the confusion from all of them hosses runnin' around. I don't see what them Injuns expect ta accomplish with what they're doin' now."

"Well, Son, I have to say that I don't understand it either. If they were to get off their horses and fight as infantry, we would be in deep shit. As long as they stay on horseback, they are better targets for us, so I sure as hell ain't complaining!"

Joe stood there and laughed. He was waiting for me to tell him when to shoot. He had already selected his target and was just waiting for a slight break in the ranks to get a clear shooting path to the target. I was doing the same thing, and it looked like our chance was nearly here.