Winfield M1873C Vandal
WINFIELD M1873C VANDAL (See also: WINFIELD M1873C, RIFLES) is a shortened variation of the Winfield M1873C. While the regular M1873 necessitates complex adaption, the C model's already reduced magazine length allows the barrel to simply be sawn off. Suited for confined spaces, the rifle proved popular with those seeking further range than could be conventionally provided by a revolver.
Letter, Gus Leroux
Handwritten, 85x14 in
1/3
When I read my story, published in today's paper, I hardly recognized myself. I imagine the recently deceased must face a similar moment of reckoning when, rising from their deathbed in astral form, they might ready themselves for the new day, yet unaware of their fate. Only later to realize their candle had been snuffed out, their fate transpired. I thought not idly of ghosts, for the paper spoke of a phantom, a specter, terrorizing the French Quarter. It had not occurred to me that my pursuit of errant justice would be considered supernatural
People were abuzz with excitement that something other-worldly walked among them. Yet, if that Irish Woman can be believed, there truly were such creatures among us, and it was fear and caution we should cultivate. As I walked among Bourbon Street's crowds, I considered the irony that people should not recognize me as the phantom, for they certainly recognized me otherwise. Memories of my humiliation haunted me.
At the farrier's, I collected my order. My father's Winfield, cut down to size so that I could still fire it with my good arm. He'd taken off the stock and shortened the barrel. Gripping it, I found it suitable. When I turned to leave, the smith asked why I'd not bought a pistol. Some things should be done the old-fashioned way, and my father was nothing if not old fashioned. I did not answer him.
The letters had by then made the rounds, and I knew my father's hand would soon be forced. If the Irish Woman had her way, I feared for the fate of the city more than the fate of my kin. The Winfield was concealed easily enough in the sleeve of a long dinner jacket, and my scar with a mask. Its flamboyance was not out of place in the French Quarter.
The plan had been to wait for the crescendo of the piece, but my patience was not what it was, my penchant for drama eroded by my desire for revenge. The orchestra were still tuning their instruments and the crowd still settling when the Winfield barked. Father tumbled from the box, and I receded into the dark labyrinth of the theater.
