Over the Misty Mountains by Gilbert Morris Read Free Book Online

ceiling, and the floor was made of hard pine of varying widths, worn smooth by years of the passage of bare feet. Two handmade rugs, red and blue, made by his mother, were now worn, and he suddenly remembered how luxurious it had been when at eight years old he had for the first time gotten out of bed onto the warmth of the wool instead of the cold, bare floors.
    There won’t be any rugs where I’m going , he thought abruptly and lifted his eyes to the miniature portraits of his father and mother that stood out against the pale green print of the wallpaper. He studied their faces for a moment, and a frown formed two vertical creases between his eyebrows at the thought of the sharp differences he had had with them since the death of Faith and the birth of his son. Quickly he passed his hand across his face, closing his eyes as if to shut the memory out, but his love for his wife had been the most consuming passion in his life, and he could not shake the memories. Night after night he had lain in his featherbed tossing and turning, many times getting up and walking the floor, often leaving the house and going out in the bitter cold, trying to tire his body out so he could finally fall asleep. Even when sleep did overtake him, he dreamed of Faith, of their days together, brief as they had been, all etched on his memory forever. He heard a scratching at the door, and rising, he walked over, still holding the musket in his hand. When he opened it, a large shaggy dog with a massive head and curly red fur pushed his way through the crack, reared up on his hind legs, and tried to lick Josh’s face.
    “Get down, Charlie!” The words were rough, but Josh reached out and fluffed the floppy ears. He had found the dog in an alley and brought him home and fed him with warm milk soaked on a wet rag. The puppy had now grown to a monstrous size, and he had every bad habit a dog could possibly display, including tearing up furniture with his huge teeth and large claws. Seemingly, he was impervious to being housebroken, and he brought fleas from the outside as if it were his duty to infest the house.
    Shoving the dog back down, he said, “You lie there and behave yourself!” Josh sat back down and began looking at the equipment he had piled up. The musket he held was a good one. It had been a present on his sixteenth birthday, made by Dave Devinny, one of the finest musket rifle makers in the state. He moved the hammer back on half cock and looked down at the frizzen, noting the smoothness of the action. Picking up a flint, he inserted it into the mechanism, pulled the hammer back to full cock, then pulled the trigger. The machinery clicked sharply, the flint struck the frizzen, and sparks flew. If there had been black powder inside, it would have exploded instantly, setting off the charge in the interior of the musket. It was a good piece, and he examined the flints, of which he had over a hundred. They wore out with use, and a piece shaped into a standardized form by a skilled flint worker was good, on the average, for some twenty or thirty shots, then was discarded.
    Josh pulled the rifle up to his shoulder, closed his left eye, and sighted down the barrel. Under normal conditions a good musket would misfire once, perhaps, in twenty or more shots. Sometimes because of a poor, worn-out flint, often because in the rain it was practically useless. At other times the touchhole through the barrel became plugged with powder, fouling the priming flash, which in turn would fail to ignite the charge.
    Placing the musket down carefully, he picked up the powder horn and the bullet pouch, weighing them carefully in his hand. He had spent the last two nights molding the bullets out in the work shed. First shaving the lead into an iron pot, he then set the pot in coals. When the lead had melted, he would ladle it out into the bullet molds, watching as the hot lead flowed in a slithering, shining stream into the molds. The liquid metal fascinated