by the depth of the moment. What a strange family they were, but a wonderful one. The dusky Indian was dressed as usual, in a pullover linen shirt open at the neck and denim trousers. He was lean as the day he stepped out of the woods to challenge Buck. The elder Canon had grown broader, stocky as the stump of an oak. He wore as usual a short open coat, cotton shirt dyed gray and black cotton trousers. Canon was in his dinner dress of white planter’s suit.
He knew the three of them conversed less than other more conventional families, but it was a comfortable silence born of understanding and trust.
Buck motioned to the packages on the table.
“Belated Christmas gifts from me and the Eagle, Rabe,” he said. Canon rose, hefted one package, then the other. He chose the larger, lighter one. It was bulky. Under the wrapping was a hand-tooled gunbelt with twin cutaway holsters and cartridge loops. Each holster had a leather thong to slip snugly onto a pistol hammer to keep the weapon tied down. Leather thongs descended from the bottoms of the holsters so they could be strapped to the legs.
Its buckle was turquoise and carried the emblem, in silhouette, of a hawk’s head. The leather was light and supple and of an unusual color that looked liked muddy milk.
“It is made from the skin of a white buffalo,” said the Eagle simply. Canon could only nod. He knew what had to be inside the smaller, heavier package. A mahogany case gleamed, reflecting the lamplight, as he removed the paper wrapping.
The case was two feet by two. In the polished wood of the hinged lid was a lock, in the lock a key. Canon turned it, lifted the lid and swallowed hard. The twin pistols, lying barrel over barrel, were unlike anything he had seen.
Nestled in crushed red velvet, they gleamed as if with inner light. But as the metal of the pistols reflected light, so the handles absorbed it. They were of teak, Canon later learned, with luster deep enough to smell. Each grip bore the hawk silhouette.
The metal was too rich for iron. It beamed as if white hot. Canon lifted one of the huge guns out almost with reverence and, lo, it was part of his hand. There was weight, but no heaviness. That made sense, thought Canon. How could his own hand feel heavy?
“They are made of steel,” Buck said, “from Herr Krupp in Germany. I sent him a pair of your gloves. He wrote me that it took two weeks for him to find someone whose hands fit the gloves exactly. Then it took six men six months to make them.”
Canon knew his father’s statement wasn’t a boast or grandstand. He was simply explaining the reason for the wonderment in Canon’s eyes. He recalled telling Buck of the Krupp steel factory in Germany. He visited it during his time at Heidelberg. The pistols must have cost a fortune.
“They’re machined to .50 calibre,” said Buck. Canon lifted the pistol’s twin from the case, noticed that each revolver held seven rounds rather than the usual six. He put them aside and buckled on the gunbelt. Then he picked up the pistols and dropped them into the holsters, withdrew them. The holsters seemed to grab the pistols down, then spring them back into Canon’s hands, and the hawk heads kept the grips from being too smooth.
He looked to the two men.
“No one has ever gotten such a gift,” he said. “I thank my fathers.”
“The hawk is your war totem, my son,” said Mountain Eagle. “It is the hunting hawk, and I now so name you.”
“War?” said Canon hollowly.
“Listen to me, Rabe,” said Buck, “and please let me have my say before you speak. It’s time we settle this thing. Now it used to be I was pretty certain in my mind on most things. A thing was right or wrong, and no room in the middle.
“But the Eagle here showed me different. I’ve learned from him there are few absolutes, as he calls them, in the world. There’s no absolute guarantee that the sun will rise in the morning or that the mountains won’t shake themselves to pieces before tomorrow night.
“But I absolutely guarantee you that there will be war in this country, and it won’t be long in coming. And I reckon you’ll decide to fight, and you’d best be ready as you can be for it.
“There will be war, because wars are fought for gain, and not principles, and there’s gain to be had,” he said. Canon was surprised to hear Buck echo the professor’s sentiments, if in different terms. He paid attention. Entranced by his thoughts, Buck slipped back into the rugged speech pattern of the early frontier.
“From the time a’ the first ambush, when Cain picked up that rock, all fights and battles and wars have been for profit. Cain wanted Abel out of the way so he would gain the Lord’s attention.
“The Romans, Celts, Goths, Persians—all them tribes and peoples—they knew the more people they had under their rule the more tribute, which is another word for taxes, they could take. And they could use that money to build bigger and better armies.
“The Crusades and the Eastern wars are claimed to be fought because of religious differences. Religion wasn’t nothing but paint over a ugly fact. Whoever controlled the souls of the inhabitants of an area also controlled their wealth and lands.
“The Mongol armies was at least honest about it. One a them raiders even wrote a little poem about it and they took it as their rule. It’s the only poem I know:
I do not have a mill
with willow trees, I have a horse and a whip,
I will kill you and go.
“Right on up to British rule, whether it was rule over America or India or the open sea, if they called the tune, they also set the fee. That’s the way it is.
“Now this country is split just like Cain and Abel. One is industry and one is agriculture. I want high prices for my cotton and I don’t want to pay much to ship it North. And when it comes back to me in the form of a pair a long johns, well, I don’t want to pay much for them.
“The people who run the factories up there want it just the other way. They want me to sell my cotton cheap, and also pay to have it shipped and also pay dear for that pair a long johns.
“Some want me to free our slaves, the labor of which is the only way I can grow cotton cheap. But they want me to give up my labor and sell cheap cotton. Can’t be did.”
Canon held his peace in deference to his father. They had long ago agreed to disagree on the slavery question. “Slavery ain’t the only issue in the troubles between North and South, Rabe, but it can certainly be the fuse to the dynamite. And we all agree that any state or nation which allows a man to imprison or put to the lash any other man without due process of law is in the wrong.
“If the damned Yankee would come in here and talk sense instead of trying to heavy hand their way, this war might could be avoided. But nobody is even offering to pay us back the money we paid the Northern slave traders when they brought ’em here to sell. Not the Washington congress, not the abolitionists. Just wants us to free ’em. But it ain’t those who are behind the war, Rabe. It’s the man in the North who runs the factory. He wants Southern cotton to be cheap and stay cheap, meaning he wants to set the price. If the South separates from the Union, he ain’t gonna get it. And that’s why we ain’t gonna be allowed to go in peace. There will be war.”
“Then the South will lose,” said Canon heavily. “We don’t have the means or men to fight a war. We can’t whip the North. In the long run, we’ll lose.”
“You right about the long run, son. We can’t afford a long war. We got to whup ’em quick and whup ’em good, and we can do it. Because what little we have got in the way of men and equipment is ready and waiting.
“Southern units been drilling for war nearly a year. We ready for the thing and the Yankee ain’t. They don’t want to fight and don’t believe we will fight. But we will. We want to. And that’s the three main words which have been spoke here today. We want to. And a ounce of want to is worth a pound of anything else.
“I reckon England and France will jump