Chapter 88: The M1899 Pistol
In the storyline from his past life, Leviticus Cornwall suddenly showed up with a group of men and took John and Strauss hostage.
Reality, of course, wasn’t that absurd. Cornwall’s first move would be to gather intelligence on the Van der Linde Gang.
So sending a few subordinates ahead made perfect sense.
Cornwall was now a successful businessman, though his rise hadn’t been free of dirty dealings.
He wasn’t like a gang leader—he simply kept a few men on his payroll to handle illegal work or eliminate those who got in his way.
The next day, Davey brought along Mac, Uncle, and a few of Donal’s men to start building the shooting range.
Naturally, most of the work fell to Mac and Donal’s men. Uncle wouldn’t lift a finger, and Davey certainly wasn’t going to get his hands dirty either.
Leaning against the fence with a bottle in hand, Uncle asked, “Davey, what made you think of training a Sharpshooter?”
“Sharpshooting isn’t about hitting bottles or targets on a range.”
“You know, Davey—only a fight between life and death can make someone a true Sharpshooter.”
Davey nodded. “You’re right, Uncle. A Sharpshooter needs talent and luck, but training doesn’t make your aim worse. Even if you improve only a little, it’s still better than standing still.”
Uncle waved dismissively and took a long drink. “Davey, I’ve seen plenty of men who thought they could become gunslingers just by training. Every last one of them ended up dead.”
That kind of thinking was common in the West. People believed a gunslinger couldn’t be made through practice alone—it took raw talent.
But truthfully, Uncle’s outlook came down to poverty.
In the West—whether during the old cowboy days or now—becoming a cowboy wasn’t cheap.
Even the simplest setup cost at least fifty bucks for a revolver and a dollar for a box of sixty rounds.
And no cowboy could go without a horse. The cheapest one was over ten bucks, not to mention the cost of feed, supplies, and maintenance.
Gun oil, saddlebags, all of it added up.
In short, without at least a hundred dollars, you could forget about being a cowboy. That’s why so many cowboys turned to robbery—they were dirt poor.
A regular worker earned only thirty to forty dollars a month, and most folks made even less.
Under those conditions, who could afford to waste bullets on long practice sessions?
And guns themselves didn’t last forever—overuse just wore them down faster.
If someone had that much money to burn, why would they bother being a cowboy at all?
Only someone as rich as Davey could afford to ignore those expenses.
“Hey, Davey, come play!”
Mac shouted from nearby.
They’d set up a few simple targets, and Mac was clearly showing off.
Maybe he thought it wasn’t much fun playing with rookies, so he decided to call Davey over.
Davey grinned and walked toward him.
“Davey, check this out. There are six bottles lined up over there—let’s see who can shoot them all down the fastest from thirty meters away.”
Mac explained confidently as he slipped his Remington revolver into his holster.
In a proper gunfight, draw time counted too.
Standing beside them were five sturdy young men—Donal’s handpicked shooters.
Of course, compared to Davey and Mac, they were nothing.
Davey smiled. He needed to show a bit of skill, just to make an impression on them.
He unbuttoned his coat, revealing two holsters at his waist.
Inside, two gleaming M1899 pistols caught the sunlight.
“Oh, hell—M1899s? Davey, that’s cheating!”
Mac said, speechless at the sight.
The M1899 pistol, designed by the legendary John Browning, was a weapon years ahead of its time.
It had a high rate of fire, remarkable accuracy, and quick reloading. At close range, it could deal devastating damage. It was also the first pistol in the world to use a slide mechanism—the prototype of all modern handguns.
Its price tag was steep too: $350, far beyond what an ordinary person could afford.
Unlike a revolver, the M1899 held eight rounds.
Davey didn’t argue. In a gunfight, the weapon made all the difference.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
In less than a second, he drew and fired.
All six shots hit dead-on, and six bottles shattered almost simultaneously.
That was Davey’s skill as a true Sharpshooter.
The semi-automatic M1899 fired faster than any revolver.
“Davey, you’re sharper than before.” Mac knew Davey well, but this time something felt different. The gun helped, sure—but there was more to it.
“Mac, you think I’m like you—just drinking and chasing women?”
“They only slow your reflexes.”
Author's Note
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