Johan Frey was enjoying the day. It had been a cold, wet week, but now the clouds had broken and it was a lovely fall day. He and Watchman Thomas Weiss were sitting outside the watch headquarters. Their main activity was waving greetings to the passing crowd. "Public relations" up-timers called it.

Johan called it "knowing the city and its people." He had even carried a table outside so he could catch up on the report he was doing for the council, but he wasn't accomplishing much work. Well he was making the watch noticeable and to use Anse Hatfield's phrase for resting, "charging his battery."

He thought back to last week's harvest fair. Like a lamb to the slaughter, that's what I was. But what a lovely slaughter it was. He was thinking about his dances with Marie Ziegler. He had avoided any romantic entanglement his whole life. Now he was rushing headlong into one.

His pleasant memories were brought to a halt by the sight of Watchman Gering running across the square. "Come quick, Captain! There's been a shooting in a tavern!" Gering called out. "Andreas Guenther is down. We need help."

"Which tavern?" Johan asked as he sprang to his feet. Andreas Guenther was his youngest watchman and just a part-timer.

"The Rutting Bear, Captain," Gering gasped between deep breaths.

"Stay here, Weiss, and send any watchmen who come in to the tavern," Johan ordered as he started to trot. "Gering, catch your breath and follow as soon as you can."

****

When he got to the Rutting Bear, Johan found three watchmen gathered outside the door. None of them were Guenther. Luckily, one was Wachtmeister Jost Braun.

"Report, Jost. What happened?"

"We, that is, Andreas and I, were walking a normal patrol when the tavern pot boy stopped us and said they had a mean drunk who was breaking up the place and beating the tavern owner. The pot boy said the man had two friends with him. We moved in and Andreas went to the drunk at the bar and I went for the two friends. When Andreas said he was the watch, the man just shot him. He had two pistols and was waving the other at me, so I backed out the door. Andreas is still inside. The man's friends came out and surrendered. Hans has them over there."

Johan looked around. Obviously the other watchmen had been drawn by the commotion. Hans Weiss was guarding two men with his short sword drawn. "Does this place have a back door?"

"Ja. I have two men covering it."

Hell and Damnation. With just cudgels and short swords, his men were overmatched. If they tried to rush the door—a narrow door at that—the man inside could wound or kill at least two of them.

Then he scanned the gathering crowd. Ah, just the men he wanted to see. He walked over to where Anse Hatfield and Gary Reardon were standing. "Herr Hatfield, Herr Reardon, the watch needs your assistance."

Anse's hand dropped to the butt of his .45 auto. "Say the word, Johan. Andreas is a friend."

"Nein, this is watch business. I just want to borrow your pistols. My men will take any action required."

Hatfield drew his pistol and offered it butt-first. "It's cocked and locked with one up the spout. Click off the safety and it's ready to go. Seven shots. You know how to shoot an auto."

Indeed, Johan did know how to shoot an automatic pistol. Better yet, he had shot this automatic pistol. He turned to take Reardon's offered pistol.

"It's a revolver," Reardon explained. "Double action, just point and pull the trigger. Only five shots though."

Five shots and he says only, Johan mused. "Danke."

Johan walked back over to Jost Braun, a pistol in each hand. "Jost, I'm going into that tavern. Want to come with me?" He held out the revolver.

Jost held out his hand. "Ja, Captain. I need to get my partner."

You need to get revenge, but so be it, Johan thought as he handed over the revolver.

"Wait until I ask him to surrender and then follow me in. Remember, that is just a pistol, not a shield, so be careful."

"If I was careful I would still be a tanner and not in the watch. But, as you order, sir."

Johan had a plan. He would call for surrender. Then have the watchmen guarding the door try to pry open the shuttered window. That noise should distract the gunman enough for him and Jost to rush the door. It might even work.

"You, inside the tavern. I am Johan Frey, Commander of the city watch. Come out and surrender."

Johan had not finished the word surrender when Jost ran toward the door. Shit. Johan ran behind him. Jost hit the closed door with a crash and went through. Johan heard a shot and a grunt from Jost. Then he saw the gunman raising his other pistol. Wheellock, he thought as he raised the automatic. Beside him he sensed that Jost was also raising his pistol.

The tavern rang with the thunder of gunfire. Johan lost track of the number of times he squeezed the trigger.

Finally, the man went down. Johan realized that the slide on the auto was locked back. He had fired all seven rounds. He looked to his left. Jost still had the revolver pointed at the fallen gunman. "Gently, Jost, hand me the pistol. Then go and check on Andreas."

When he got the revolver, Johan kept it pointed at the gunman's head while he checked for signs of life. No pulse, the man was dead. Johan would have gladly hanged him . . . hanged him, hell. He would have gladly had him flayed before drawing and quartering him, but now the man was just dead.

Jost got his attention. "Andreas is dead, Captain. So is the tavern owner." Jost's left side was wet with blood. He had taken a hit.

"Watchmen, to me! Bring a stretcher! Bring three stretchers! Hans, bring your prisoners in here," Johan yelled. Then in a quieter voice, "Jost, sit down. You were shot."

"It's a scratch, Captain." But Jost collapsed into a chair.

Two hours later

"You and your men did good work this morning, but while personal bravery is desirable in a watch commander, it can be overdone."

For the last hour Johan had been listening to Councilman Cornelius Klett critique the morning action at the Rutting Bear. Now the man was repeating himself.

The two prisoners had identified the dead man as Hans Fischer, a mercenary on his way to Italy. They claimed innocence in the death of the tavern owner, but their skinned knuckles said otherwise. They were lodged in the watch cells awaiting trial.

Jost was wounded worse than he'd thought and was probably not going to return to street duty for a long time. Andreas was still dead. And this wind bag was making speeches to an audience of one.

Johan had heard enough, more than enough. "Herr Klett." He interrupted the councilman's monologue. "I came to see you with a simple request. I want my men armed with pistols. Today I want permission to allow them to carry any pistol they can find. Within the week I want permission to buy, at city expense, enough pistols to arm the whole watch."

"Now, I don't . . ."

"I have one watchman dead, another who will not return to duty for months, and then only as a desk man. And the rest of the watchmen are angry. You don't want to see what happens when the watch is angry. Herr Klett, I am going to arm the watch with pistols. You are the head of the committee that oversees the watch. Will you take it to the city council? Or will I have to make my request in front of the whole council, in an open meeting?"

It was the open meeting comment that swayed Klett. He was always posing as a modernizer for the people. And there was an election coming up.

"Your men may carry privately-owned pistols, Captain. The city laws require they be armed. Swords are traditional, but 'armed' is all the law says. I will present your request for the city to buy pistols. Bring me a list of the pistols you want and prices. Oh, Suhl-made pistols only."

"Thank you Councilman. And I am sure the men will thank you. I will tell them it was your idea."

****

The next morning was as bad as Johan had expected. The men coming on duty were angry, as angry as he had ever seen them. God have mercy on any thief caught today. The watch won't.

And they were armed; armed with a mixture of weapons, like Johan hadn't seen since his early days as a mercenary officer. Three of the watchmen were even carrying the rifles they carried as militiamen. The Weiss brothers had matching wheellock double-barreled carbines. The rest of the day men had restricted themselves to pistols, but what a range of pistols.

The largest was a two-foot-long double-barrel carried by Wachtmeister Meusser. The smallest was a tiny pistol designed for a lady's pocket carried by Watchman Jorg Klett. In between those extremes was every size of pistol known to man, most large smooth-bores.

One man even carried a short pistol whose barrel looked like keg. Johan recognized it as a volley pistol that fired seven balls from one shot. That was what spurred him to action.

He blocked the door. "No rifles or carbines. Last night I told you pistols and pistols only. Stack them in the back office. You can take them home after your shift. Meusser, that's a cannon not a pistol, so it goes in the back office too. Rocke, that volley pistol would take out a whole crowd, so back office. Klett that toy is cute, but I don't want any thieves to die laughing, back office."

After his inspection he had only seven watchmen without pistols. First in line was Thomas Weiss. "Weiss, you're on desk duty, so you don't need a pistol. Go to work." Next was Weiss's brother. "Hans, get the five pistols in the evidence cabinet and pass them out." Johan reached under the back of his jacket, drew his own flintlock and passed it to Meusser. "I want that back, so find a suitable pistol before tomorrow."

Johan knew he couldn't let the men go on the streets in the mood they were in. "All right, all of you. Listen to me. You're angry about Andreas getting killed. I'm angry about it too. But the man who shot him is dead. We are the city watch, not an occupying army. You know how the city feels about, and will react to, occupiers."

That drew a growl from the men; six of them had helped remove the former garrison. "So, remember you are the watch. We work for the city. Remember that. Treat the people of the city as our employers and any visitors as guests. Be as courteous as they will let you be. If you want to make a statement, tie a black ribbon over your arm band in memory of Andreas. Now go to work."

The men filed out, calmer, if no less angry. But hopefully it was a controlled anger.

The last outgoing watchman hadn't cleared the door when Jost Braun came in. Jost looked terrible, pale and obviously in pain. "Reporting for duty, Captain."

"Go home, Jost. You're on leave, paid leave. You've done enough this week."

"Nein, Captain, I can man the desk. You're going to be short one man, I won't make it two." Jost waved Weiss out of the chair behind the front desk and sat down. He looked like a rock . . . a very stubborn rock.

Johan realized that the man's pride was at stake. "Very well, but you stay in the office, understood?" Jost nodded.

"Weiss, get your carbine out of the back office and loan it to Jost. Then you and I will take a walk."

Out in the street, Weiss looked questioningly at Johan. "Where are we going, Captain?"

"To my father's home to get you a pistol." Johan saw Weiss glance at his own waist. "Oh, all right. I'll get one for myself also. Afterward I want you to patrol the square by the watch office. And I want you to check in often and keep Jost from doing too much. I'm going to see Pat Johnson."

****

"What kind of pistols do you want, Johan?"

Pat Johnson had just asked the big question. Johan had been surprised to find Johnson wearing a black ribbon on his arm and the whole shop staff was wearing ribbons. Then he remembered that Andreas worked here part-time.

Johan thought a moment. Jost Braun had used the borrowed revolver with no problems, fired four shots in fact, all hits. He, on the other hand, had not been able to totally control the big automatic. Five hits out of seven shots weren't good enough. If the gunman had gotten the small wheellock pistol they had found in his sleeve into action, Johan would be sitting in a surgeon's parlor, or lying in the morgue.

Johan answered the question. "Up-time revolvers, cartridge revolvers. I want thirty cartridge revolvers that weigh no more than a watchman's short sword."

Johnson was shaking his head. "It's not possible, Johan. I can't make up-time revolvers and there aren't thirty pistols to be had in Grantville that match. I assume you want matching revolvers. And I don't make cartridge cases . . . the ammunition. What I can do is find you some cap and ball revolvers."

Johan was shocked. He had been sure Pat could fill his request. "Cap and ball?"

"Yes. Caplocks. They use percussion caps like the French rifle, only six caps, one for each shot." Pat walked over and opened a cabinet. "Here, I'll show you a couple. I watch the competition." Pat was smiling, the first smile Johan had seen on his face today.

Pat laid two revolvers on the desk one large and one tiny. "These are H&K—Hokenjoss and Klott—revolvers, improved copies of a Remington design. The big one is their Army model and the smaller is a pocket pistol. They are made in Zella-Mehlis, but my boys can copy them. I'll pay them a license fee, but that's just business."

Johan studied the pistols. The small one was a joke; it was smaller than Klett's toy from this morning. The larger showed promise though. He picked up the pistol . . . no, the revolver. He had noticed that Anse and now Pat always made a distinction. It was close to the weight of a heavy horse pistol, maybe a bit lighter.

"This will fire every time I pull the trigger, for six shots?" Johan asked.

"No. That's a single action. It has to be cocked for each shot. The pocket model only has five shots."

"Herr Reardon's revolver fired with just the pull of the trigger. It was easy for Jost to use."

Pat nodded. "Yep. It's what we call a double action; one pull of the trigger cocks the hammer and fires the pistol. I can't match it with anything I make now. But there is this." Pat went back to the cabinet.

When he sat back down he had a large revolver in his hand, a very large revolver. "This is an experimental design. It's a copy of a Smith and Wesson Model 29. It's a caplock . . . notice the nipples are almost fully enclosed for safety. I designed it so the spare cylinders could be carried loaded and capped. Fire your six shots; swing out the empty cylinder, pull the empty off the crane pin and replace it with a loaded cylinder. Close it and you're ready to go with another six shots." Pat demonstrated the action as he talked. Then he held the big revolver out to Johan to try.

Johan hefted the revolver. "It's heavy, heavier than a short sword."

"Yes. I can't match up-time steel alloys for strength. So I added a little bulk. Too much, that's why we didn't market it. I had fun with the design though."

Johan recognized a real love of firearms in Pat's voice. A love he didn't understand or share. They were just tools. Useful tools, deadly tools, but just tools.

He laid the big revolver next to the toy from H&K. Looking at the two side by side he had an idea. "Herr Johnson, could you make this one smaller?" He touched the big revolver. "Make it five shots like the little one; but a bigger caliber?"

Pat studied the two guns. "Yes. Say a .40 caliber . . . make the cylinder a bit longer for more powder . . . it's do-able." Pat was reaching for paper. "Hum, make it a six inch barrel . . . no four inches; weight, remember the weight. Give me a week and I'll have a design, two weeks to a ...