Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/68594
he remembered, long ago, a room filled with weapons . . . where was it? Oh, yes, the museum of Malot, the New Orleans maître d'armes. Some of the things Malot said to him, some of the things he saw and tested there, seemed suddenly to crystallize in his mind. meeting the demand for his product. He said, "Thanks, Rezin," and tossed the knife on the bed. On his face was an absent calm as he put on his waistcoat, with the ragged bullet hole in the pocket, and then his coat. At the door, he turned. "Who's the best blacksmith you know?" "Why – let's see. There's John Sowell, right here in Natchez. A good man. And Snowden at Opelousas. And what's the matter with Jesse Cliffe at Arcadia?" T "I want somebody who knows all there is to know about steel." Rezin pondered. "John was telling me about some Arkansas man, last time he was home. Said he knew more about steel than anyone. Let me see – the name is Black. Has a shop at Washington." "I reckon I'll pay a visit to Washington, Arkansas, on my way north." "Take you way out of your road." "I'll make it to Little Rock in time." "Must be important." "No. Just a notion." he Territory of Arkansas was divided by a rough line running from its northeast to its southwest corner into two triangles of differing country. The southeast triangle was flat and forested, good, black plantation land, where clearings were being made and cotton planted. The northwest triangle rose into mountains, where most men carried squirrel guns, and turkey-walk cabins stood in small stumped-off patches haggled out of the hillside timber. Along the dividing line between these regions was a path, skirting hills and swamps, picked out centuries before by the Indians and widened into a wagon trail by settlers, with raccoon bridges across the worst river crossings. Midway on this roadway, sometimes called the Southwest Trail, stood Little Rock, the territorial capital, and at its southwest extremity was the town of Washington. Early the following morning Bowie found the shop, a big shed with double doors through which a wagon could be run, a tall brick chimney at the back, and a sign in front which read: JAMES BLACK SMITHING AND CUTLERY He entered the place. Drama is inherent in all blacksmith shops, since smiths deal with fire. Around the walls stood broken wagon wheels, plows, implements, and horseshoes, ready-made and hung in an arrangement according to size. There were three forges, each with its anvil and blower and its water tub to cool white-hot iron. But what caught Bowie's attention was a great blast furnace at the back, like a brick kiln in appearance, something not often seen in blacksmith shops. A slave, naked to the waist, came up respectfully. "Mr. Black?" Bowie asked above the clangor at the anvils. The slave nodded. His black arm indicated the office. Bowie went in, closing the door behind him to shut out part of the noise. From behind a desk a thin, nervous man, with dark hazel eyes, long black hair brushed behind his ears, and a forehead greatly wrinkled, gazed keenly at him. "Mr. Black? My name is Bowie. I've been informed that you make a good cutting edge." "I make a try at it, sir." "You have a different tempering method?" "So they say." "In what respect?" Black's face chilled. "By your leave, sir, that's a trade secret." "I crave your pardon. Certainly, it's your business, sir. I only asked because I have a special job. A kind of knife I want made." The smith was interested. "I was a cutler before I came West from Philadelphia. Fine knives are a sort of hobby with me, but we don't have much call for them here." Bowie held out a piece of carved wood. "I sort of whittled this out," he explained It was a long journey from Natchez, and Bowie and Nez Coupé had had a sufficiency of salt meat and noisy taverns by the time they reached Washington. They were pleasantly surprised, however, to find that the town was no log-cabin village, that its homes and commercial buildings were well constructed, and that Elijah Stuart's inn possessed clean beds and a decent table. When they ate supper, which was better than good, Stuart, a big, club-jointed man with a croupy voice and a genial manner, sat at the table with them. "Know of a smith by the name of Black in these parts?" Bowie asked. Stuart allowed that, yes, there was a shop owned by James Black, right up Franklin Street, at the edge of town. For good measure, he added that Black had a right smart place and turned out broadaxes, plowshares, and corn knives so damned good that he kept five slaves busy S P OR T Black nodded. It was customary for men to bring whittled models, since the draftsman's art was almost unknown on the frontier. In long, nervous fingers, he took Bowie's piece of carved white pine and turned it over and over. "Some novel features in this idea," he said. "Just a rough beginning of what I mean," said Bowie. From the sheath at his belt he drew Rezin's butcher knife and handed it to Black. "This thing isn't right. Not a fighting knife. It's too clumsy, lacks balance, and a lot of other things." In one hand Black held the butcher knife, in the other the wooden model. The superior formation of the latter was evident. Black returned the butcher knife and, taking up a rule, made a series of measurements on the carved pattern. "Blade, eleven inches long, and an inch and a half wide," "These are the proportions you want?" he asked. "Roughly." he said. "That can vary a little, according to the balance." "The heel at the back seems exceptionally thick. I get three-eighths of an inch here." 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