Chapter 5: Backfire

https://www.appalachianhistory.net/2021/05/is-the-kentucky-long-rifle-misnamed.html

     Five sharp caws from a big black bird glistening in the sunlight atop the tallest fir on the northern ridge announce Benny's climb up through the rhododendron thicket to a sandstone outcropping above the cache site.

He skirts behind the ledge and sets his satchel on a narrow foothold strewn with pine needles. Removing the biscuit tin, he levers off the top and hands one to the hound, signaling him to lie down. Jack happily complies by curling into a circle and chomping into the buttery dough still warm from the wood stove.

     Next he removes the three lead balls and places them in a nook on top of the rock. Then he slips the gun strap off his shoulder and leans the long rifle against the back of the rock, the end of the barrel reaching to the shoulder of his six foot frame. He unclips a ramrod from under the barrel, leaning it beside the gun before squatting down to pull a greased leather patch from a little box built into the stock. Finally, he slips the powder horn cord over his head and sets it on the ground.

     Only when all the parts are at hand and the dog settled with another biscuit does he peer over the rock. The sunlight has finally cracked the eastern ridge, highlighting evergreens and a scattering of yellowing poplars atop the hill to the north. Benny watches a big black bird swoop down from the ridge, settling on a bare oak branch opposite the cache before belting out four more calls. Answering caws float in from the surrounding hills and he smiles, satisfied that the arrival of scavengers will alert the varmint.

     With all in readiness, Benny squats down and thumbs the wide cork from the mouth of the old bison horn, gasping when he sees a splash.

     Utensils for carrying liquids were sparse and unreliable in the early settlement days of the southern Appalachians. Leather pouches leaked and animal bladders ripped with repeated use on daylong hunting trips. Metal flasks were uncommon since most homespun clothing didn't yet have pockets. What was common was for someone in a liquor-making family to commandeer an old powder horn.

     The small bore Kentucky long rifles only required a pinch of gunpowder poured down the barrel and packed tight by lead ball and ramrod. A shot burned off much of the powder, but some unspent residue would dust the inside of the barrel. In a pinch, thrifty backwoodsmen could scrape enough powder back down to get a second weaker shot.




     "Hair of the dog," Benny whispers before taking a swig of the family recipe and jamming the ramrod into the end of his rifle.

He angles the metal edge of the rod tip and slides it repeatedly in and out to scrape the grooved bore. Taking a second sip before slinging the horn over his right shoulder, he places a patch over the hole and pushes a ball into it, reinserting the rod to push lead and leather to the bottom of the barrel. Ready at last for his one shot at the beast, Benny stands, leans into the ledge, and positions the gun over the rock and against his left shoulder.

     A steady chorus of caws accompanies the sunlight creeping down the mountainside. From cyan firs at the top, the illumination drops into ochres at the deciduous line, then to viridian rhododendrons in the hollow. Benny greets each color change of the lengthening day with another nip and a slow grin. The old woodsman is also suffused, but with moonshine-induced warmth even as the hues begin to blur.

     The caws suddenly cease, jarring Benny's sight into focus on a reddish motion at the cache. He fires and a blast of smoke and heat flash into his face, tumbling him back over the edge of the ledge.