---
Dick went early to the upper Missouri and crossed the Divide to the Seed-skee-dee and beyond. He trapped his plews, bedded his squaws, and drank his whiskey until he began to gray. He returned to Missouri, married up white, and farmed his plot until he buried her. Then he allowed himself to be talked into guiding an early emigrant train to the Oregon Country.
Except for the kitless preacher, who mooched, Dick's plunder was the slimmest of the lot, barely a burden for two pack horses on the six-month trek. Indian trade truck, kettle, a robe or two, and "a couple of knives, his Hawken, and an over-and-under double with one barrel big enough for bird shot." And a small keg of whiskey.
The best modern analogue is found elsewhere, in good writing about equipping for a serious north woods canoe trip. The better authors remark the primitive red man who set out for a season with his bow, quiver, knife, and maybe a sack of pemmican. "Our equipment is a substitute for his knowledge," they write.
Dick Sommers knew; his main arsenal lived in his head.
---
"Uncle" George lived and killed about a century later. He is my only known ancestor to fall low, a lawyer and incessant office seeker who got hisself elected mayor of Madison, Missouri, twice, and justice of the peace in his old age, a time when he got an idea. He would sue a passel of his relatives to get his legal paws on a small dirt farm northwest of Madison.
The merits of the case are murky, probably lost forever. The larger points are that Leslie, 40, died, George took poison in prison, and the large extended family -- a whole raft of us infested those parts then -- factionated itself like a pack of Sunnis and Shi-ites. All over 111 acres of miserable ground which wouldn't have brought $25 an acre.
Leslie shared a surname with George and was probably a nephew, maybe with some "removeds" and "greats" tossed in. He was 40 to George's 68. He was on the other side of the law suit and pissed off, and aggressive, and, family lore holds, on familiar terms with strong spirits.
On November 13, 1926, they met in downtown Madison. A scuffle happened. George told the jury that being old and weak he was forced to shoot. Two quickies and finisher.
Within a month George was convicted of manslaughter. He appealed, lost, and in 1928 went to prison. Two years or so later, in the infirmary, he found a jar of potassium-something and drank.
So, back to the point. Then as now the media were awful light on interesting details but did report the gun George needed was
"a .32 revolver of the blue steel variety."
Therefore we are certain that whatever his other character flaws, my ancestor George wouldn't be caught dead carrying no whore-house special colored chrome or nickel or some two-tone Brucie gun. A sure-nuf man's man. That's always been a great comfort to me.
---
Me? I figure that the only guns I actually need to face the wild world, including the wild civilized world called cities, are two: A 1911 out of John Moses Browning for carry and an old Savage .22LR over and 20-gauge under for pot meat and general pest control. With an especially sturdy pack mule I'd add a .30-06 to reduce the need for careful stalking, but we're getting pretty close to effete foo-foo-raw here.
I have other stuff, of course, but they're mostly fashion statements, unless I miss my guess.
Ain't no harm in that, I reckon, but, as I may have mentioned, some thinks one way, some another.
---
(Dick will be familiar to A.B. Guthrie readers.)
