Hooo, boy. Ivy League and pissed. Not good.
She shook her head. "Sorry, but no, they don't look alike."
"Not at all," Ann chimed in, startling Margo at first until she saw the tiniest bit of a dip from Ann's left eyelid. She felt better immediately.
"Now," Ann was saying, "where you're going, some folks are going to see those Model 94's up-close enough to notice."
"Can't be avoided," Margo added, enjoying the seesaw rhythm as they took turns. Maybe if I'm desperate for something to do on weekends, l could try my hand at teaching. I've got pretty good credentials, after all.
Modest, Margo was not. And finally she could revel in it to her heart's content, the way cats simply fold their bodies into pretzel-twists around anything loaded with catnip.
"Young woman," one of the men began, voice surprisingly deep for the acceptably trendy cadaver he called a body, "are you questioning my judgment? I," he went on, arrogant as a New York cabbie, either suggested or chose each and every one of these firearms myself." He cleared an Ichabod Crane throat delicately, feigning (and not very well) humility. "NCAA Rifle Team four years running. Harvard."
Harvard? Aw, nuts! I'm losing my touch. She'd have bet for sure he was a Yalie.
She caught and held his gaze squarely, long enough to let him know she wasn't impressed, then replied politely, "Well, sir, I'm sure you were wonderful with a perfectly balanced match rifle-Anscheutz Model 54? Thought so," as he nodded stiffly.
Someone behind the tall professor said, "Wow! A real classic!" to which someone else whispered, "And a college rifle team! Do you have any idea how scarce those are now?"
Margo hid a smile as the man's face went red, though humiliating him would be so easy and so fun, the point was to get the folks to learn. Before the man could turn and chastise the speakers, Margo said forcefully, "An Anscheutz Model 54's a great match rifle-but choosing a gun to bet your life on is a little bit different.
"No," she revised, "a whole lot different."
The professor, his pride clearly damaged, opened his mouth to reply. In the pause, Ann stepped in, a savvy businesswoman smoothing ruffled feathers.
"You'll have to forgive Margo's abrupt manner, Dr. Reginald-Harding. I do assure you, all time scouts are usually a bit... direct."
The professor's scowl lightened. Ann Vinh Mulhaney gave him her most winning smile, a sure sign that she personally detested him, all the while coveting as much of his grant money as she could shake loose. "But scouts do know what they're talking about if they didn't, they wouldn't survive long. And this one," she nodded toward Margo, "has had the best possible training available. I taught her firearms and other projectile weapons, Sven Bailey taught her martial arts and bladed weapons. `Kit' Carson set up her whole training schedule and did a good bit of the teaching. Then, of course, the best freelance time guide in the business, taught her what the rest of us didn't. Like how to really survive downtime in the East End of London, 1888."
Sounding as if he were sucking lemons, the professor said, "Well then, would you please explain why our firearms are either anachronistic or unsuitable?"
Ooh, bet it hurt your platinum tongue to say that.
"All right." She could be civil if he could, although it cost her considerable effort. But she was learning. It was a skill that would doubtless stand her in very good stead as a scout. It was also, she realized abruptly, a skill her grandfather had perfected long ago to stay alive and had retained as a life-long habit, just to protect himself from crowds of awestruck uptimers gawking and asking him stupid questions. He'd shouted and fumed at her because he knew what she had yet to learn for herself controlling pride and anger were utterly critical for a scout, something she hadn't realized before.
Good grief! These idiots were actually teaching her something!
"All Right. First, open the actions-Ann will assist you, if necessary-and check to be sure your rifle is unloaded."
They went through the drill, she and Ann moving back and forth along the line, correcting here, demonstrating there. Clearly, La-La Land's expert firearms instructor was having the time of her life, taking Margo's orders, for this, too, was a test of everything Margo had learned from her. Good thing I kept studying at college with those books Kit sent.
Margo nodded. "Okay, work the action and look down into the top of the loading mechanism while you do it."
They obeyed, opening and closing the actions slowly.
"Notice anything?"
One of the younger men spoke up first. "The loading ramp flips up, like a toggle. And there is not so much room in the loading ramp and chamber as with many rifles."
"Very good."
The young man started, looking up in brief astonishment; then grinned belatedly. "Thanks."
"Okay, class," Ann took her turn in an astonishingly commanding voice, "anybody guess why the Model 94's feed system is constructed that way?" It was clear that only the younger man had much knowledge about guns in general. He glanced at all the others, finding only blank faces, before clearing his throat. "It would be a fairly smooth way to bring a cartridge into the chamber. Not so many moving parts, I think."
Ann nodded. "Very good." She glanced at Margo, silently saying, "Over to you."
Margo drew a deep breath for courage and plunged in feet first, her limited experiences gripped in both hands like daggers.
"Yes, you've noticed something very important about the Winchester 94. The 94's feed system does flip like a toggle, or to use an easier analogy, it tips like a teeter-totter every time you shoot, to bring a new cartridge up into the chamber. Okay, everybody lay down their rifles and gather 'round me."
In a moment, she was loosely surrounded by the group. "Now look," she picked up the Model 73 and proceeded to tip it up so everyone could watch, "at the difference here." She worked the lever slowly, so they could see the difference. "On a Model 73 or 76, the feed system just moves straight up and down. Like an elevator. That's important to all of you for your downtime research. Anybody care to guess why?"
Several chewed their lip s. The young woman spoke up. "Because somebody'd notice the difference while we're getting our gear together in Denver?"
"Too right. No Old Westerner's going to miss that difference. They pay attention to guns. All guns. For one thing, guns keep 'em alive, and I haven't met a man yet who didn't just love tinkering with the toys-or tools-of his choice."
Both male grad students went red at the unintended double entendre. She ignored them as she ignored most boys. "Now, go get your Model 94s and keep the muzzles pointed toward the ceiling."
Eventually, they all returned to her side, Model 94s held carefully, muzzles rigidly pointed toward the ceiling.
"Okay. Look at the outside of each rifle. This side plate on my Model 73, for instance, doesn't exist at all on your Model 94s. Again, every Old Westerner who notices that your rifles don't have a side plate and believe me, someone, maybe several someone's, will notice! So the second they spot that little detail, they'll know it's something they've never seen before. And they'll get mighty curious about it. Curiosity about your group or your gear is the very last thing you want."
She smiled coldly and drove home the point like hammering in a wooden stake.
"Any Old Westerner seeing these 94s is going to wonder just what in heck they are and where in heck you got 'em. I think the only other Model 94s in existence in 1885 were in a workshop in Ogden, Utah, where the Browning Brothers were just finishing up inventing it. Winchester bought up the rights like a fish snapping up a fly, because the improvements the Browning Brothers had made over the Model 73 and the Model 76 were so good.