a bound the man was at the door, his knife drawn. "Who are you, and what do you know about me?"
"I don't know nothing about you, sir," said Alvin. "But I'm a blacksmith, and I know a file that's been made over into a knife. More like a sword, if you ask me."
"I haven't drawn my knife aboard this boat."
"I'm glad to hear it. But when I walked in on
you
asleep, it was still daylight enough to see the size and shape of the sheath you keep it in. Nobody makes a knife that thick at the haft, but it was right proportioned for a file."
"You can't tell something like that just from looking," said the man. "You heard something. Somebody's been talking."
"People are always talking, but not about you," said Alvin. "I know my trade, as I reckon you know yours. My name's Alvin."
"Alvin Smith, eh?"
"I count myself lucky to have a name. I'd lay good odds that you've got one too."
The man chuckled and put his knife away. "Jim Bowie."
"Don't sound like a trade name to me."
"It's a scotch word. Means light-haired."
"Your hair is dark."
"But I reckon the first Bowie was a blond Viking who liked what he saw while he was busy raping and pillaging in Scotland, and so he stayed."
"One of his children must have got that Viking spirit again and found his way across another sea."
"I'm a Viking through and through," said Bowie. "You guessed right about this knife. I was witness at a duel at a smithy just outside Natchez a few years ago. Things got out of hand when they both missed -- I reckon folks came to see blood and didn't want to be disappointed. One fellow managed to put a bullet through my leg, so I thought I was well out of it, until I saw Major Norris Wright setting on a boy half his size and half his age, and that riled me up. Riled me so bad that I clean forgot I was wounded and bleeding like a slaughtered pig. I went berserk and snatched up a blacksmith's file and stuck it clean through his heart."
"You got to be a strong man to do that."
"Oh, it's more than that. I didn't slip it between no ribs. I jammed it right
through
a rib. We Vikings get the strength of giants when we go berzerk."
"Am I right to guess that the knife you carry is that very same file?"
"A cutler in Philadelphia reshaped it for me."
"Did it by grinding, not forging," said Alvin.
"That's right."
"Your lucky knife."
"I ain't dead yet."
"Reckon that takes a lot of luck, if you got the habit of reaching over sleeping men to get at their poke."
The smile died on Bowie's face. "Can't help it if I'm curious."
"Oh, I know, I got me the same fault."
"So now it's your turn," said Bowie.
"My turn for what?"
"To tell your story."
"Me? Oh, all I got's a common skinning knife, but I've done my share of wandering in wild lands and it's come in handy."
"You know that's not what I'm asking."
"That's what I'm telling, though."
"I told you about my knife, so you tell me about your sack."
"You tell everybody about your knife," said Alvin, "which makes it so you don't have to use it so much. But I don't tell nobody about my sack."
"That just makes folks more curious," said Bowie. "And some folks might even get suspicious."
"From time to time that happens," said Alvin. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bunk and stood. He had already sized up this Bowie fellow and knew that he'd be at least four inches taller, with longer arms and the massive shoulders of a blacksmith. "But I smile so nice their suspicions just go away."
Bowie laughed out loud at that. "You're a big fellow, all right! And you ain't afeared of nobody."
"I'm afraid of lots of folks," said Alvin. "Especially a man can shove a file through a man's rib and ream out his heart."
Bowie nodded at that. "Well, now, ain't that peculiar. Lots of folks been afraid of me in my time. But the more scared they was, the less likely they was to admit it. You're the first one actually said he was afraid of me. So does that make you the
most
scared? Or the least?"
"Tell you what," said Alvin.
"I don't know nothing about you, sir," said Alvin. "But I'm a blacksmith, and I know a file that's been made over into a knife. More like a sword, if you ask me."
"I haven't drawn my knife aboard this boat."
"I'm glad to hear it. But when I walked in on
you
asleep, it was still daylight enough to see the size and shape of the sheath you keep it in. Nobody makes a knife that thick at the haft, but it was right proportioned for a file."
"You can't tell something like that just from looking," said the man. "You heard something. Somebody's been talking."
"People are always talking, but not about you," said Alvin. "I know my trade, as I reckon you know yours. My name's Alvin."
"Alvin Smith, eh?"
"I count myself lucky to have a name. I'd lay good odds that you've got one too."
The man chuckled and put his knife away. "Jim Bowie."
"Don't sound like a trade name to me."
"It's a scotch word. Means light-haired."
"Your hair is dark."
"But I reckon the first Bowie was a blond Viking who liked what he saw while he was busy raping and pillaging in Scotland, and so he stayed."
"One of his children must have got that Viking spirit again and found his way across another sea."
"I'm a Viking through and through," said Bowie. "You guessed right about this knife. I was witness at a duel at a smithy just outside Natchez a few years ago. Things got out of hand when they both missed -- I reckon folks came to see blood and didn't want to be disappointed. One fellow managed to put a bullet through my leg, so I thought I was well out of it, until I saw Major Norris Wright setting on a boy half his size and half his age, and that riled me up. Riled me so bad that I clean forgot I was wounded and bleeding like a slaughtered pig. I went berserk and snatched up a blacksmith's file and stuck it clean through his heart."
"You got to be a strong man to do that."
"Oh, it's more than that. I didn't slip it between no ribs. I jammed it right
through
a rib. We Vikings get the strength of giants when we go berzerk."
"Am I right to guess that the knife you carry is that very same file?"
"A cutler in Philadelphia reshaped it for me."
"Did it by grinding, not forging," said Alvin.
"That's right."
"Your lucky knife."
"I ain't dead yet."
"Reckon that takes a lot of luck, if you got the habit of reaching over sleeping men to get at their poke."
The smile died on Bowie's face. "Can't help it if I'm curious."
"Oh, I know, I got me the same fault."
"So now it's your turn," said Bowie.
"My turn for what?"
"To tell your story."
"Me? Oh, all I got's a common skinning knife, but I've done my share of wandering in wild lands and it's come in handy."
"You know that's not what I'm asking."
"That's what I'm telling, though."
"I told you about my knife, so you tell me about your sack."
"You tell everybody about your knife," said Alvin, "which makes it so you don't have to use it so much. But I don't tell nobody about my sack."
"That just makes folks more curious," said Bowie. "And some folks might even get suspicious."
"From time to time that happens," said Alvin. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bunk and stood. He had already sized up this Bowie fellow and knew that he'd be at least four inches taller, with longer arms and the massive shoulders of a blacksmith. "But I smile so nice their suspicions just go away."
Bowie laughed out loud at that. "You're a big fellow, all right! And you ain't afeared of nobody."
"I'm afraid of lots of folks," said Alvin. "Especially a man can shove a file through a man's rib and ream out his heart."
Bowie nodded at that. "Well, now, ain't that peculiar. Lots of folks been afraid of me in my time. But the more scared they was, the less likely they was to admit it. You're the first one actually said he was afraid of me. So does that make you the
most
scared? Or the least?"
"Tell you what," said Alvin.
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