Unforced Error by Michael Bowen Read Free Book Online Page A

leather-wrapped grip, but we might be able to fill the bill.”
    He turned to a rack behind him and retrieved a saber in a brass scabbard. After pulling out about six inches of blade, he extended the hilt to Rep, letting the dull gold braid on the plain, half-moon handguard hang free.
    â€œModel 1856 light cavalry, widely used by enlisted men,” he said. “That wrap on the hilt is very fine brass wire, not gold thread. The braid and tassel aren’t just for parade. You can tie that to your wrist in a scrap and it’ll keep you from dropping it. Three-fifty.”
    Rep hefted the weapon, careful not to stain the blade with fingerprints or body oils. It was heavier than he’d expected, which pleased him. It made the saber seem like a serious piece of military hardware instead of a toy.
    â€œDo you have anything a bit more basic?” Rep asked.
    Leaving the first saber with Rep, Jameson fetched a second model from the rack behind him. The scabbard for this one was also brass, but looked a little beaten up in places and had a few black tarnishes. The guard was narrower, and its lanyard was ordinary white cord-rope instead of braid.
    â€œThat’s also standard issue light cavalry,” he said. “Same weight and length of blade. No scroll-work on the blade. Two-sixty-five.”
    â€œYou’ll need a belt fitted out with a scabbard harness as well,” Peter warned Rep.
    â€œI’ll throw that in for twenty-five,” Jameson said.
    Rep hesitated. Three-hundred dollars-plus, after sales tax, for something he’s probably never use again after this weekend. It seemed absurd. And yet, entertaining a potential six-figure client, Rep would drop three-hundred dollars for dinner and wine or basketball tickets without blinking.
    â€œSold,” he said. “At least if you take American Express.”
    â€œWelcome to the Grand Army of the Republic,” Jameson said.
    While Rep was waiting out the paperwork the sutler who’d been ignoring the guy in gray called to him.
    â€œHow about a piece to go with your new saber, private?” he said. “I have a Starr Arms Company 1857 model six-shooter right here, and if you’d rather have a Colt I can fix you up with one of those, too.”
    â€œHe can also sell you a genuine Barlow knife over a hundred-fifty-years old,” the man in gray said quite loudly, in what a Missourian would have recognized as a bootheel drawl. “But before you pay him a thousand dollars for it, you might want to know that he bought it from my grandmother for six bucks one weekend when I wasn’t home.”
    Rep glanced over. The sutler had turned his back on the reb and was holding two long-barreled revolvers out butt-first in Rep’s direction. Rep didn’t have the slightest intention of dropping several hundred dollars on a firearm, but he couldn’t hide the interest that glinted suddenly in his eyes at the sight of the handguns. He was, after all, an American male.
    â€œJedidiah Trevelyan, at your service,” the gun dealer said, scurrying out from behind his table and hustling over to Rep. “Just feel the balance on that Colt. Try the action once. That’s a Navy Colt, but a lot of cavalry carried Navy Colts. It was thirty-six caliber instead of forty-four, so it was lighter.”
    â€œNot right now,” Rep said. “I’m only here for a few days. I’d have to leave before the waiting period is over anyway.”
    â€œNo, sir,” Trevelyan said emphatically with a vigorous shake of his head as a shocked expression distorted his features. “No. Sir. This isn’t Russia. These are not ordinary firearms. These revolvers are legally recognized as historical collectibles. There is no waiting period, no registration, no license. We can complete this transaction in three minutes.” In what Rep assumed was a transport of evangelical fervor, Trevelyan had pressed close enough to Rep to