Chapter 152: The Maxim Machine Gun
Shady Belle.
Davey stood at a distance, watching the battle through a pair of binoculars, an 8x-scope sniper rifle resting in his hands just in case.
Arthur, Lenny, Mac, and Charles had already pushed their way into the Lemoyne Raiders’ position.
From the outer perimeter, Arthur—sniping from range—cleanly dropped the Raider manning the Maxim with a single shot.
What followed was a rolling chorus of gunfire.
Even though the Raiders had more than forty men, most of them weren’t real gunmen at all—just hot-blooded youngsters duped into joining the White League.
The handful who did have some skill were still easily taken out by Mac and the others.
Their wild spray of bullets ended up hitting nothing but air.
The fight didn’t last long. In less than half an hour, it was over.
Realizing there was no hope of turning the tide, the Raiders’ leader ended his own life.
Davey arrived with a few men and a wagon to haul away the Maxim machine gun.
“Oh, Davey, when did you get so timid? Standing guard on the outside now?”
“Back then, you were always the one charging ahead of me.”
“Well, I guess these rookies weren’t worth your time anyway.”
Mac threw out the jab as Davey walked over, but when their eyes met, his tone shifted immediately.
“Listen, Mac—stop assuming you’re some unstoppable gunman. If those kids hadn’t been terrible shots, they had at least three chances to kill you just now.”
“Even the best gunman is one bullet away from the grave. Lose that arrogance. You can succeed ninety-nine times, but one hit is all it takes to end you.”
“I’m not planning on being the one to bury you, Mac.”
Hearing his older brother’s scolding, Mac sighed.
“Alright, alright, you’re right, Davey. I’ll be more careful.”
Arthur overheard the Callander brothers and laughed.
“Oh, Davey, now you sound just like Hosea. He’s always lecturing us the same way.”
Davey shrugged.
“What can I say? I’m the older brother. The Callander family only has the two of us left.”
Just then, Charles and Lenny walked over.
“Thank you, Davey,” Charles said sincerely.
Lenny echoed his thanks.
The White League enslaved Black people and brutalized all non-whites without restraint—humiliation, robbery, murder.
Both Lenny and Charles had suffered in many places. And even though the United States had laws against discrimination, certain prejudices had long since sunk deep into people’s minds.
Arthur had already told them that bringing them along was Davey’s idea.
Davey clapped Charles on the shoulder with a grin.
“Great work in there, Charles. I saw everything. Honestly, even Mac might not stand a chance against you.”
“And… I want to apologize for some things I’ve done in the past. I hope it hasn’t left any resentment. We’re friends, right?”
Charles hadn’t expected Davey to apologize.
The buffalo incident had always left him wary of the Callander brothers—especially their disrespect for his beliefs.
“I accept your apology, Davey,” Charles said earnestly. “Like you said—we’re friends.”
Mac rolled his eyes nearby. He didn’t think an apology to Charles was necessary, but since Davey had spoken, he kept quiet. No point inviting another lecture.
Davey turned to Lenny next.
“Good work, kid. Your shooting’s improving fast. Won’t be long before you’re a damn fine gunman, Lenny.”
Lenny did indeed have talent. At just nineteen, he was diligent, proactive, and earning Arthur’s approval quickly.
Though young and not yet fully mature, he was already impressive for his age.
“Alright, fellas—let’s see what kind of loot the Lemoyne Raiders left behind.”
Under Davey’s orders, a few men started loading the Maxim machine gun.
It was a fine piece of equipment. Even if a Sharpshooter could circumvent its weaknesses, that kind of firepower turned into a devastating weapon whenever numbers came into play.
True Sharpshooters weren’t easy to come by—they needed rare talent, refined marksmanship, and even a certain kind of iron will.
And despite its fearsome power, a Maxim wasn’t that expensive—around six hundred dollars.
Davey had never bought one, though, because in the country it was classified as a restricted weapon due to its destructive capability.
If federal lawmen ever found out he was transporting one, a squad of U.S. Marshals would be on him in no time.
Even now that Davey had the Maxim in hand, he wouldn’t use it casually.
But with Land Security Company, he technically had the qualifications to apply for a federal weapons license. As long as he paid enough money, he could legally operate a Maxim.
The problem was that such licenses were extremely hard to get—and required a lot of dollars.
On top of that, state laws varied wildly across the US. Some states allowed such weapons, others completely banned them.
Still, if Davey used it out West, nobody would seriously enforce those rules. Restrictions on firearms were mainly an Eastern concern.
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Author's Note
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