Nagant M1895

NAGANT M1895. (See also, REVOLVER, RUSSIAN EMPIRE) Designed by L on Nagant, the Nagant M1895 was commissioned as a bespoke service revolver for the Russian Empire and would see use throughout the armed forces. This created relatively stringent design requirements. The Russian Empire was a vast expanse stretching across some of the most inhospitable terrains in the world. At the same time, the nation was lagging behind in terms of modernization. Manufacturing standards at the time were relatively less sophisticated in Russia than throughout the United States and Western Europe

As a result, The Nagant M1895 proved to be a unique, albeit unconventional, single-action revolver. It proved to be durable enough to survive use in adverse conditions, and simple enough to be manufactured quickly and in staggering quantities. The cylinder is pressed flush to the barrel on firing, though this does mean that it requires unique ammunition. A major disadvantage of the weapon was that reloading was slow. Shots had to be removed individually with the ejector rod, and then loaded individually.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin" Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/9

Pa,

The short is: I need you to front me $20 dollars for bail. I'm interred at Jefferson Parish, LA.

The long is: I took a train from San Francisco to Ogden, bad luck, the inspector decided my ticket was invalid. The next station was a nowhere town, Wells, Nevada. They turned me out.

I fell badly, landing on the piece which I had tucked into my belt, cut up my hip, a lot of blood. In town, the folk were not forthcoming with aid. Irony in that the gun which had in part caused my injury, was also the means by which I was able to get help. I'm not proud of threatening the woman, but I needed stitching up. Truth be told, I had to hope that none would call my bluff, I didn't believe the thing would fire after I'd landed on it

The piece could take one hell of a beating. It's Russian, called a Nagant M1895. Strange bullets, tucked up inside like they were afraid to come out. I won it in a game of street craps. The owner was a Russian, a deserter, he had made across the Pacific to escape a certain death. I wouldn't say his chances of survival really increased that much.

Well, the lady finished up her work about the time a lawman arrived to tell me I wasn't welcome in Wells. And not to wait for the next train

With nowhere to go, no money, and just a little food, there was nothing for it but following the tracks. What I was hoping for, I don't know. Towards nightfall I came to the ruin of a ranch, set in a dead gnarled orchard. The trunks bleached white. There was a dry gulch running through it, with nought but a trickle of water. Good as place as any to rest, I was lucky enough there was water.

Yours,
Russell

Letter to Frank Chambers

Author: Russell "Snakeskin" Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.

2/9

The next morning, I woke to find the dressing the woman had done was bad. The wound was festering, a fever setting in. The last thing I clearly remember, crawling on my belly towards the gulch, gulping what water I could.

Time passes different with such a fever. The first day, I took apart one of the strange bullets, using the gunpowder to cauterize the wound.

The second, I heard a rattle of a sidewinder. Somewhere in the dirt. held the Nagant tight. Funny a gun from wintery Russia would find itself out in the badlands, guarding a man drying out in the sun from a rattlesnake.

The third day, I saw the snake. Coming toward me. I took a pot shot and it went back into the brush. That evening, it came again, and I got it

The fourth day, the pain in my leg showed no sign of abating. I wished I'd left the snake there, to kill me. On that I realized what a coward I was.I saw no way out my predicament.

I pushed out all but one bullet from the chamber, and spun it idly. Placed it to my temple. Pulled. Click. Next, it was the snake's turn. Spun. Pulled. Click. We went back and forth like that, me and the snake, till the gun kicked back in my hand, a puff of dust emerged from the snake. He'd eaten the bullet meant for me.

The fifth day, the pain subsided. I ate that snake, saving the skin. With the strength, I walked on. Came across the next town. Found labor, the day after, shoveling manure. Took the first train out.

Ended up here - in New Orleans. Got picked up for playing dice. So now I'm writing you from jail. I need $20 dollars for bail

Yours,

Russell