A Legend in the Making (SPN, PG13, Gen)
Title: A Legend in the Making
Author: starrylizard
Rating: PG13 (They drink whisky), Gen
Spoiler Warnings: Definitely pre-season (1800's), but uses canon points from Dead man's blood and All Hell Breaks Loose. Not sure if you'd call them spoilers, but better to be safe than flamed, I say.
Prompt/Summary: The prompt from anniehow over at spn_thur_nights was for a fic, set in the 1800's with Samuel Colt and the hunter - "Back in 1835 they say Samuel Colt made a gun, a special gun. He made it for a hunter, a man like us, only on horseback. The story goes he made thirteen bullets. This hunter... he used the gun half a dozen times before he disappeared."
Author's Notes: A huge thank you to erinrua who has been sending me tidbits of historical and cowboy information with happy abandon and whose Mag7 site has been incredibly useful while writing this. You rock! rinkle did a super fast beta today while I was stealing online time at my parents house. Any mistakes are totally mine and feel free to point them out. All comments, good or bad, always welcomed. I'm pretty sure there is a longer fic, or at least more short stories to come from this. My muse is delighted. :)
Words: 951
Samuel Colt made his way to King’s Tavern at an outwardly sedate and gentlemanly pace, but, had anyone cared to look closer, they would have seen the excitement lighting his young face. As he caught sight of one of several horses currently tied up out the front of the tavern, he sped up his pace; no longer caring for any strange looks he may receive. The sturdy bay he’d spied was a handsome animal, well cared for, with a blaze like a star falling down his nose, though it was the animal’s brand that made him truly distinctive. Burnt into the young colt’s rump was a five-pointed star within a double circle. Though most would think it simply a unique branding design, it was, to the knowledgeable man, a powerful ward of protection. Only one man branded his property like that: Morgan Tanner, a man whose deeds were already becoming legend in certain circles, and Sam wasn’t about to pass up a chance to meet this legend in the flesh. He patted his vest pocket gently, hearing the crumple of the telegraph that had brought him to this place and meeting. In his other pocket nestled the letter from Tanner that had started it all, with its stilted writing and carefully drawn symbols and patterns. A commission like no other. With a steadying breath, Samuel straightened his jacket, tugged his vest straight and brushed the travel dust from atop his hat. Then he strode toward the tavern’s main entrance.
The old tavern doors swung easily on well-oiled hinges as Samuel found himself enveloped by a welcoming warmth, the building’s wood smoke and whisky smells crowding in to fill his senses. He made his way to the bar, ordering a drink before leaning up against its polished surface and letting his eyes roam casually around the room until he found the man he was looking for, the hunter, at a far table. The man seemed to blend in with the shadows there. Grim and careworn, his face was hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat and patterns of Indian bead work adorned his buck-skin coat. That was Morgan Tanner all right - a man known for quick wits and few words. The sort of man that projected an air of menace, leaving folks with the disturbing feeling that he could kill them as easily as befriend them. The other patrons in the tavern were certainly giving him a wide berth; none were willing to try their luck tonight.
Samuel reached for his drink, swallowing back the whiskey shot with a grimace and a sigh and he felt the sharp heat of its slide down his throat to pool in his belly, spreading with it a warm false courage. He turned back to face the bar to slap more silver upon its polished surface.
“Leave the bottle and bring a second glass,” Samuel stated, watching with satisfaction as the whiskey bottle thumped to the bar in front of him and clinked against the glasses. He swept them off the table and spun back around to face the room.
When he looked up again, it was to find the hunter’s piercing gaze looking right back at him from beneath the black brim of his hat. Samuel held the bottle he’d purchased aloft along with the glasses, saw a small trace of a grin light the older hunter’s face, and a slight tilt of his hat acknowledged the offer. With a deep fortifying breath, Sam squared his shoulders and made his way over to the corner table.
“Mr Tanner, I presume.” Samuel set down the bottle and glasses and tipped his hat before taking a seat.
“One and the same. I see you got my message, Mr Colt.” Tanner tipped his own hat in greeting, poured himself a drink. “Did you bring it?”
“Straight down to business I see. I surely did, Mr Tanner.” Samuel smiled, pulling his bag to him and reaching inside to bring out a gun case.
He opened the box and spun it around so the contents were visible to Tanner.
“You are looking at the first ever, genuine Colt Patterson five-shot revolver. Its soon to be patented technology employs a revolving magazine of .28 caliber rounds with multiple chambers aligned with a single, stationary barrel. One of a kind, Mr Tanner and I don’t just mean technologically, if you know what I mean.” Samuel smiled, sending another whisky shot sliding softly down his throat as he watched Tanner reach for the weapon, lifting it out and testing its weight in his hands.
The hunter quietly studied the polished surface of the revolver, examining the etchings engraved upon its surface and fingering his own brand where he found it scratched into the handle.
“The ritual worked then?” he finally asked.
“Oh, yes. It’ll work all right. Assuming the demon blood you sent me was the genuine product, the rest was a matter of,” Samuel paused to throw back another drink as if to cover up a bad taste, “ritual and timing.”
Tanner nodded, put the gun back in its case and tucked it carefully away inside the saddlebag at his side. He pulled out a crumpled parchment and handed it to Samuel.
“I think I found a solution to your problem, Mr Colt. It’s called The Key of Solomon and it keeps them in real good.”
“A toast to your health, Mr Tanner.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
The two men raised their glasses, as Samuel started in on a new topic. “So, Tanner. Vampires...”
The hunter laughed, threw back his drink and began to tell the story of how he took out the Harpe ‘brothers’ on The Natchez Trace.
______________
Extra notes for your interest, with thanks to erinrua:
King’s Tavern is in the oldest building in Natchez, Mississippi, built in 1769 and it has it's own creepy haunted past! More here.
The Natchez Trace was used by settlers making their way to the west, and while they had their own legends and ghost stories to tell, they were more afraid of being robbed and murdered on the Trace, two very real possibilities. Into the 1800's, all travelers along the Natchez Trace faced the same fears as it had become known as a favorite hideout for outlaws. They attacked and killed travelers here and many who dared to travel along the Trace were never seen again. Some of the most dangerous outlaws to ply their trade here were the Harpe Brothers. They committed bloody atrocities on the trail for years, torturing, mutilating and robbing their victims. One of the brothers was later captured and beheaded and his skull was hung along the road as a warning to other killers.
The Colt Patterson revolver on wiki.
Author: starrylizard
Rating: PG13 (They drink whisky), Gen
Spoiler Warnings: Definitely pre-season (1800's), but uses canon points from Dead man's blood and All Hell Breaks Loose. Not sure if you'd call them spoilers, but better to be safe than flamed, I say.
Prompt/Summary: The prompt from anniehow over at spn_thur_nights was for a fic, set in the 1800's with Samuel Colt and the hunter - "Back in 1835 they say Samuel Colt made a gun, a special gun. He made it for a hunter, a man like us, only on horseback. The story goes he made thirteen bullets. This hunter... he used the gun half a dozen times before he disappeared."
Author's Notes: A huge thank you to erinrua who has been sending me tidbits of historical and cowboy information with happy abandon and whose Mag7 site has been incredibly useful while writing this. You rock! rinkle did a super fast beta today while I was stealing online time at my parents house. Any mistakes are totally mine and feel free to point them out. All comments, good or bad, always welcomed. I'm pretty sure there is a longer fic, or at least more short stories to come from this. My muse is delighted. :)
Words: 951
Samuel Colt made his way to King’s Tavern at an outwardly sedate and gentlemanly pace, but, had anyone cared to look closer, they would have seen the excitement lighting his young face. As he caught sight of one of several horses currently tied up out the front of the tavern, he sped up his pace; no longer caring for any strange looks he may receive. The sturdy bay he’d spied was a handsome animal, well cared for, with a blaze like a star falling down his nose, though it was the animal’s brand that made him truly distinctive. Burnt into the young colt’s rump was a five-pointed star within a double circle. Though most would think it simply a unique branding design, it was, to the knowledgeable man, a powerful ward of protection. Only one man branded his property like that: Morgan Tanner, a man whose deeds were already becoming legend in certain circles, and Sam wasn’t about to pass up a chance to meet this legend in the flesh. He patted his vest pocket gently, hearing the crumple of the telegraph that had brought him to this place and meeting. In his other pocket nestled the letter from Tanner that had started it all, with its stilted writing and carefully drawn symbols and patterns. A commission like no other. With a steadying breath, Samuel straightened his jacket, tugged his vest straight and brushed the travel dust from atop his hat. Then he strode toward the tavern’s main entrance.
The old tavern doors swung easily on well-oiled hinges as Samuel found himself enveloped by a welcoming warmth, the building’s wood smoke and whisky smells crowding in to fill his senses. He made his way to the bar, ordering a drink before leaning up against its polished surface and letting his eyes roam casually around the room until he found the man he was looking for, the hunter, at a far table. The man seemed to blend in with the shadows there. Grim and careworn, his face was hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat and patterns of Indian bead work adorned his buck-skin coat. That was Morgan Tanner all right - a man known for quick wits and few words. The sort of man that projected an air of menace, leaving folks with the disturbing feeling that he could kill them as easily as befriend them. The other patrons in the tavern were certainly giving him a wide berth; none were willing to try their luck tonight.
Samuel reached for his drink, swallowing back the whiskey shot with a grimace and a sigh and he felt the sharp heat of its slide down his throat to pool in his belly, spreading with it a warm false courage. He turned back to face the bar to slap more silver upon its polished surface.
“Leave the bottle and bring a second glass,” Samuel stated, watching with satisfaction as the whiskey bottle thumped to the bar in front of him and clinked against the glasses. He swept them off the table and spun back around to face the room.
When he looked up again, it was to find the hunter’s piercing gaze looking right back at him from beneath the black brim of his hat. Samuel held the bottle he’d purchased aloft along with the glasses, saw a small trace of a grin light the older hunter’s face, and a slight tilt of his hat acknowledged the offer. With a deep fortifying breath, Sam squared his shoulders and made his way over to the corner table.
“Mr Tanner, I presume.” Samuel set down the bottle and glasses and tipped his hat before taking a seat.
“One and the same. I see you got my message, Mr Colt.” Tanner tipped his own hat in greeting, poured himself a drink. “Did you bring it?”
“Straight down to business I see. I surely did, Mr Tanner.” Samuel smiled, pulling his bag to him and reaching inside to bring out a gun case.
He opened the box and spun it around so the contents were visible to Tanner.
“You are looking at the first ever, genuine Colt Patterson five-shot revolver. Its soon to be patented technology employs a revolving magazine of .28 caliber rounds with multiple chambers aligned with a single, stationary barrel. One of a kind, Mr Tanner and I don’t just mean technologically, if you know what I mean.” Samuel smiled, sending another whisky shot sliding softly down his throat as he watched Tanner reach for the weapon, lifting it out and testing its weight in his hands.
The hunter quietly studied the polished surface of the revolver, examining the etchings engraved upon its surface and fingering his own brand where he found it scratched into the handle.
“The ritual worked then?” he finally asked.
“Oh, yes. It’ll work all right. Assuming the demon blood you sent me was the genuine product, the rest was a matter of,” Samuel paused to throw back another drink as if to cover up a bad taste, “ritual and timing.”
Tanner nodded, put the gun back in its case and tucked it carefully away inside the saddlebag at his side. He pulled out a crumpled parchment and handed it to Samuel.
“I think I found a solution to your problem, Mr Colt. It’s called The Key of Solomon and it keeps them in real good.”
“A toast to your health, Mr Tanner.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
The two men raised their glasses, as Samuel started in on a new topic. “So, Tanner. Vampires...”
The hunter laughed, threw back his drink and began to tell the story of how he took out the Harpe ‘brothers’ on The Natchez Trace.
______________
Extra notes for your interest, with thanks to erinrua:
King’s Tavern is in the oldest building in Natchez, Mississippi, built in 1769 and it has it's own creepy haunted past! More here.
The Natchez Trace was used by settlers making their way to the west, and while they had their own legends and ghost stories to tell, they were more afraid of being robbed and murdered on the Trace, two very real possibilities. Into the 1800's, all travelers along the Natchez Trace faced the same fears as it had become known as a favorite hideout for outlaws. They attacked and killed travelers here and many who dared to travel along the Trace were never seen again. Some of the most dangerous outlaws to ply their trade here were the Harpe Brothers. They committed bloody atrocities on the trail for years, torturing, mutilating and robbing their victims. One of the brothers was later captured and beheaded and his skull was hung along the road as a warning to other killers.
The Colt Patterson revolver on wiki.