American history begins along the Atlantic seaboard.Starting from the Commonwealth of Virginia, the United States—having won independence from Britain—formed a federal nation of thirteen states joined together.And the settlers of Lawrence had crossed from the East for freedom and conviction, wielding Bibles rather than guns as their weapons.Tatatatabang!Which may be why they shot like hell.At thirty yards (27 m), not a single man hit the target.“Why did you all even buy guns?”“Because we were heading West…”Max’s militia numbered twelve.He’d picked as many men as there were guns, so the headcount was small.And the guns were museum pieces.You could see the whole arc of firearm development at a glance.One antique caught Max’s eye.A 1725 Pennsylvania rifle—the kind that led the American War of Independence (later called the Kentucky rifle). With rifled grooves, it had decent accuracy for its day.“Did this just fire a round?”“...Uh-huh.”“Looks like something from the Revolution.”The man nodded proudly.“My granddad’s. They say he killed fifty British at the Battle of Princeton with this very rifle.”No way.He’d have reloaded fifty times and the war would be over.In a rain of bullets, he’d have to stand tall to reload—tilt the long barrel up, pour powder, drop the ball, and ram it home with a rod just to fire a single shot—muzzle-loading.You had to measure powder precisely and wrap the lead ball in thin leather to shove it down. It wouldn’t go in, so you’d tap it with a hammer. Call that a hellish reload rate.Even so—if he killed fifty, there’s nothing more to say.On the newer end, there was a model less than two years old.An Enfield 1853 rifle.Percussion-capped, but like ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) the Pennsylvania, still a muzzle-loader—no great draw for Max.What snagged him was that the Enfield’s owner was Emilie Pound Fitch.— Teacher? Pick up a pen, not a gun.— Keeping the children safe is a teacher’s duty too. What, you only take men?— ...That’s not it.— Then what’s the problem?After checking Fitch’s and the others’ guns one by one, Max clicked his tongue.“Even one shot has to be exact. Do exactly what I show you now.”Grip, shoulder mount, and shooting stance.Max moved among the militia, correcting each man’s form by hand.“But Sheriff Max?”“Go ahead, Fitch.”“I know you’re good with a pistol, but I haven’t seen you with a rifle yet.”“Are you doubting me?”“Not doubting—pushing. You see someone good and it motivates you, doesn’t it?”She wasn’t just heckling him.Fitch’s face showed real curiosity.The militia’s eyes lit up too. They stared openly at the Sharps rifle on Max’s back and urged him to shoot.“Well, I was going to show you anyway.”Bringing the rifle around, Max looked at Fitch.“Set a target at whatever range you want.”“Anywhere?”“Even far is fine. You won’t hit it.”Fitch took an empty can and walked off to a long distance—about three hundred meters.For Max now, not a hard shot.“Everyone, mirror me.”When Max took his stance, the militia mirrored it.“Turn your body slightly to the target—bladed off—to mount the butt tight into the shoulder and cut recoil. Keep your back straight…”Bladed-off, named for sighting at an angle to the target.After coaching breathing, Max squeezed the trigger toward the can.Taaang!Clang!“Whoa!”“He hit it at that range. Damn.”Admiration, then eyes full of respect.A smile touched Max’s lips.“With good form you can hit just fine. So practice—”“Huh? Miss Fitch is waving over there.”Fitch had set another can even farther.She was waving at Max.“Wow, that’s got to be four hundred yards (365 m).”“You can see anything out there?”“How are you supposed to hit that? You can’t even see a man.”They blinked.You think I can’t hit that?There was no reason to.Max nodded.“You’ll never have to shoot an enemy at that distance. And if you do, you move up and shoot. Now, repeat the stance we just did.”“What about Miss Fitch?”“She’ll find her way back.”She came back much later, sweat on her face despite winter—she’d run.Max averted his eyes and said:“It’s a busy season, so we’ll meet twice a week for drills.”Plenty had just finished houses—or were in the middle of building.They weren’t soldiers, just a militia, so they settled for shooting and simple tactical work.“Anyone heard of the Minutemen?”Half raised their hands.Early in the Revolution, when there was no standing army, settlers formed militias to fight the British, and those “ready to move in a minute” were called Minutemen.Like a five-minute alert squad any soldier knows.“Keep your guns serviced and ready to use at all times, and when it breaks bad, you’re ready to fight within one minute.”With day one done, Max headed for the sheriff’s office.Fitch fell in beside him.But she didn’t bring up the can. She asked something else.“When do you teach pistols?”“Why?”“I want to learn. Everything about guns.”“Someone you want to kill?”“Might be. Anyway, teach pistols too. See you at drills, Sheriff.”Fitch slipped away, and Max pondered the pistol question.We’re not planning for close quarters.Max’s intent was to block the Border Ruffians from entering town in the first place. A militia visible with rifles could do that.If they stormed the polling place and a gunfight broke out—that would be the worst case.The result’s set anyway. No need to spill blood. ****Two weeks after forming the militia,Holliday clapped Max on the shoulder.“The boys can’t stop talking about you. Clear as a bell, they say. And they feel like gunmen of the West now.”“Confidence is good.”And their skill had climbed.Fitch’s marksmanship especially startled him—she strung hits together at 250 meters.— Want to try farther?Morgan and Holman showed talent too.This is why an instructor matters.Max and Holliday scanned the papers stacked on the table, eyes moving fast.Lawrence had three papers:Herald of Freedom, Kansas Tribune, Kansas Free State.All three covered the same thing—voter rolls for the coming election.“Kansas has 8,601 people, with 2,905 eligible voters.”“Small numbers.”“It’s been a territory barely half a year. Anyway, out of thirty-nine legislative seats, how many do you think we’ll take?”Two.It would end in a perfect victory for the slave side.“Who can tell.”“But Max—you nailed the land dispute the other day, right?”“Did I.”“As soon as we started building, the governor sided with us—just like you said. That’s your call coming true.”“So why?”“Seeing he even ordered a preliminary voter count—I think the governor’s closer to us, like you said. He’s trying to keep things fair.”What good is one man keeping it alone.The fourteenth President, Franklin Pierce, was a Democrat backed by the South. He thought the free states’ abolitionism would tear the nation apart.Max’s face soured; Holliday stayed upbeat.“When Kansas turns free, the Missourians’ faces will be a sight. They can come here, but they can’t bring slaves.”Victory at the polls would mean full freedom for Kansas.People flock to freedom and life. With more people, a territory could become a state sooner.Holliday was sure of a win. So were the townsfolk.They worried instead that the slave states would riot when they lost.The settlers of Kansas overtrusted their creed.But if that creed broke? ****Jackson County, on the Kansas–Missouri line.As election day neared, the squares swelled with speakers and crowds.“Black thieves are trying to seize Kansas! Those damned Northerners hide behind the lie of emancipation to steal our property and fill their labor shortages!”The orator’s neck cords swelled as he spewed.“What we need now are your guns and knives! We will wrench victory from those blasted abolitionists!”“Right! Make Kansas a slave state!”“I’ll aim this revolver at their hearts!”Madness lapped through the square.One man watched and sneered.Idiots.The bouncer from the Kelly inn.He slouched in his chair with a newspaper over his face, boots hooked on the rail.What’s that Oriental up to.Once, three men had come into the pub. One with a mangled ear. One with a bandaged forearm. One with a hole in his hat.— The hell—how does some Oriental punk shoot like that?— That’s why he’s sheriff, ain’t he. You could tell he wasn’t normal.— Sharp as a tack, huh. That why you shot your own man?— I told you—my ear burned all of a sudden and my finger pulled on its own. Instinct.— Instinct my ass. If I went with mine, you’d be dead already.He filtered the worthless cursing.Two words stuck in the bouncer’s head: Oriental sheriff.Kid’s something, I’ll give him that.Even in a small town, a sheriff needed the people’s backing.Thinking over his short track record, you wondered what kind of man he was.While the bouncer was thinking of Max, a band came up to the inn.He slid the paper down.“Rooms are full. Pub only.”“Nice life. Easy work.”“If you came to pick a fight, keep walking.”Hckk—ptoo!They spat on the floor and pushed into the pub.In the recent turmoil, more and more nobodies had taken to roaming in packs.The pro-slavery papers pumped out incitement daily, stoking people like the world would end if they lost the vote.Young men with festering grievances—gutter-life rage—had been pointed toward Kansas.Men too poor to own slaves answering the call of rich Southern planters.In the pub, they fed their hatred for the free state side again—today too.Hot-blooded youth, buried in a false creed, poured cheap bravado into their liquor. ****“All right—plant these posts every fifty yards. Put a can on top.”Chest-high posts bore numbers. Starting at 1 for fifty yards out of town, the numbers rose as the posts ran farther.“This way we know the enemy’s distance and keep the same shooting ranges we drill. What’s our objective?”“Never let them into town!”“If we won’t have our creed held hostage, that’s the only way.”At Max’s orders the militia set the posts from the wagon where marked.Election day—March 30.A spring dawn ran hot in one place.The border of Missouri and Kansas.A man named David Rice Atchison had gathered the Border Ruffians and launched into a speech.“Gentlemen, officers, soldiers! This is the proudest day of my life—the day I become a Border Ruffian! We will steal the votes of those damned abolitionists and win. Ruffians, draw your revolvers and Bowie knives and strip them of their false rights!”“Waaaa!”At last the Border Ruffians crossed into Kansas.Their rush began—shoot in Kansas and sleep in Missouri.To seize the polls across Kansas, they formed up and advanced on each district.Two cannon were brought to bear on the affair as well.One went toward Leavenworth; another moved through Kansas City toward Lawrence.“Let’s see how much backbone their creed has in front of gun and steel.”“Those boys from the free states are all weaklings. They’ll be trembling too hard to mark a ballot.”A Southerner a man’s man; a Northerner fit for a skirt—so they said.They swaggered toward Lawrence. Then the chest-high posts staked along the road began to nag at them.“The numbers go down the closer we get.”From 15 at the edge, down now to 9.“Plot markers?”“Not like this. And what’s with the cans on top?”“Hm. Looks planted at fifty-yard intervals. Next will be eight…”The Border Ruffians cocked their heads but didn’t slow.When they reached the post marked 8, a loud voice rolled over the prairie.“Come any closer—get some new holes!”A distance where the eye couldn’t make a man clean.One man stood there and shouted.The Ruffians snorted.“What is that idiot?”“Mouth works fine at range.”“When we push up, he’ll fall back and run his mouth again.”One sniggering ruffian cupped his hands and bellowed:“Hey, you son of a—”TAaaang!Clang!With the shot, the can on the post jumped.“......”Four hundred yards (365 m).One report stopped the Border Ruffians’ feet.And he wasn’t alone.Men with rifles were appearing one by one at his side.The lead ruffian’s face twisted.What the…

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.