The year was 1860 and January was cold. January pulled his blanket tighter around him as he snuggled down in a wild plum thicket where he was protected from the north wind. He gently parted tall grass in front of him and looked out on the early October cornfields below. Morning, still dark and, still the Sun’s shining rays were not enough for him to see well, now thinking he had seen a silhouette of a buck deer in the morning shadows out there.
Only he would have to wait until full light before he would then be able to shoot.
Slowly he ran his hand down that half octagon barrel of his rifle. That rifle which hadn’t been out of his sight since he had traded for it. His rifle which had seldom been out of his hands. This time would be his first kill with his new gun. It was an 1860 Henry. He loved this gun and at the same time he hated it. He loved it for what he dreamed it would do. Also, he hated it for what it had cost him.
The white trader had told him that if he traded for that rifle he would be the only person west of the Mississippi to have a repeating rifle. This white trader also told him that there had been only a hundred such rifles made and more of them were planning to be made in the future, but for now there were only a hundred.