Nagant M1895 Officer
NAGANT M1895 OFFICER. (See also, REVOLVER, RUSSIAN EMPIRE) The Nagant M1895 was produced in two models: a single-action and a double-action variant. The single-action was cheaper to produce and was issued to privates, whilst the more expensive and desirable double-action was issued to officers
In double-action revolvers, the pull of the trigger performs two actions: drawing the hammer back into the cocked position and releasing the hammer to strike the firing pin. This differs from single-action revolvers, in which the pull of the trigger only releases the hammer. This action compensates for the slower firing mechanisms of single-action revolvers, as there is no need to draw the hammer back manually. The double-action design of the Officer variant confers it a relatively higher rate of fire but also circumvents novel strategies used to circumvent this, for instance, fanning the hammer.
Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin " Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
6/9
Pa,
I'm sorry I haven't written you in some weeks. It's all gone to hell. The superintendent's dead. Seen in the paper too. Not like us to make such an announcement. Someone took their place, though I didn't meet them before they was dead too. Hardin is keeping his head down. Can't say I blame him. Out in the grounds, word's coming back that it's more ruthless than ever. Huff's men killing our men, our men killing Doctor John's, Doctor John's killing the Reverend's. And so on. No one knows who's riding with who no more, and we're all the worse for it.
I lost my old Nagant in one such shootout. Luck went against me. A group of the Reverend's fanatics, setting all in their path aflame, torching the charred remains of an already burned church the Sheriff and I was bunkered down in.
Did chance upon a second. Trevors had imported the latest: an Officer model with a Double-Action. Heavy pull on the trigger. Hardin asked me my preference, why I favored a Russian Imperial revolver over a good old-fashioned American piece. I recounted to him the time out in the desert. He nodded. Told me of a similar predicament he'd faced.
One of his first Hunts. Back when it was just dead men, or so he'd thought. A woman called Lynch showing him the ropes: how to heat and skim the blood, see in the dark without losing your sight, why to burn bodies. A young girl had given testimony of an afflicted parent, and they were pursuing her. A huge swarm of plague flies set on them, driving Hardin and Lynch into a bunkhouse. The swarm covered the house, and gave no chance of letting up.
Hardin sealed up the front door and Lynch went further into the house to ensure it was sealed up. He didn't see her again for a long time, assumed she was dead. But he was holed up there for almost a week and
[LETTER INCOMPLETE, ENDS HERE]
Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin "Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5x 11 in
7/9
Pa,
It seems all out war between the hunters is about to start any day now.
There's hushed word that in the middle of all this trouble is nothing but two young girls who overstepped their bounds. Not sure if I believe that myself, but everything I've heard seems to boil down to those two. None that I've met will admit to knowing them personal, mind. Either they're not real or no one wants to get entangled up. Like they're in the eye of a hurricane, everything rushing round them faster and faster, but they're unaware there's even a storm.
I've heard stories from Hardin about such storms marking the end of Summer. He's grown up with them and is rightly afraid. Speaks of them in the same tones that devout men talk about their God's wrath. I hope against hope I see one. I hope if anything kills me, it's a storm. For one, it will mean I lived to at least the end of August. Maybe even September. Another, it will mean I didn't die to one of the things in the bayou, and rise again to rot on my feet.
Dreams of young huntresses and hurricanes are a welcome relief from the funeral of ragged corpses that have marched through my dreams since I arrived here. With everything gone to hell, and everyone waiting for the cards to fall, it doesn't seem right to have such a relative moment of peace.
Last night, Walcott and I burned our white shirts. He said it was a symbolic gesture of innocence lost, to mark the calm before the storm. That was the laugh I needed to get my head out the clouds. It's sweet to think anyone came here innocent.
The officer's badge looks better on black, and after all, I'm carrying a gun now fit for some Russian Duke's son. I should look the part.
Yours,
Russel
