THE HENRY ENIGMA
In an alcove beneath an unobtrusive stratified overhang, someone once worked into place three vertical sandstone columns. They consist of elongated slabs half the length of a man’s forearm. Two additional basalt cobbles, unlikely to have been swept onto the foundation rock by nature, add to this intriguing montage.
Deeper into the shadows, three more dark volcanic stones have also been discreetly wedged.
Upon closer exploration the intrigue becomes even more compelling. Removing the monuments and deeper stones reveals another darker, smaller, less accessible, hollow.
Inside that dim keep, moldy material composed of loam mixed with pebbles, decayed cedar needles, and small black bits of branches from a nearby evergreen, covers the sandstone floor. What possible need could there ever have been to mark such a nondescript interment?
My wife reaches in and waves the tip of her pin pointer over the mass. We are rewarded with a series of staccato beeps. They are enough to encourage us to slowly and carefully rake out the detritus.
The fading sunlight reveals the answer, and another mystery. A solitary cartridge, dark with patina, lays half-exposed within the dross.
The case is short and straight, close to half an inch in diameter. The lead bullet crimped in the mouth is heavily whitened with oxidization. Closer examination reveals a head stamp consisting of an embossed “H.”
But, why cache a single cartridge? Moreover, this round bears the unmistakable marks of twin firing pin indentations on its rim. This round is a dud. Why then, not just discard it? Why go to the trouble of not only hiding it away, but then discreetly marking the spot? Only someone who had the intention to returning to this lonely corner of high Southwestern desert would have expended the time and effort such a project. Besides that, returning here from anywhere more civilized would have required a trip of many hours, if not days, by horse.
Further investigation will have to wait. The afternoon shadows are already growing long, the truck is some distance away, and Mares’ Tails, streaking the sky to the south, portend a weather change.
* * * * *
A night’s dreaming provides no insight. Morning light diffusing through a solid gray overcast helps to rationalize my decision to remain indoors and concentrate on research into yesterday’s discovery.
Leafing through books detailing the particulars of similar antiques convinces me that the item in question is indeed an early example of a cartridge designed for the Henry repeating rifle.
Such weapons had been popular during the Civil War, largely because of their ability to fire fifteen bullets without being reloaded and this at a time when most battle rifles were single shot muskets capable of a three-round-per-minute rate of fire.
A decade after the war, however, the diminutive munition has become largely obsolete. Once across the Mississippi River, western-bound pioneers soon find that conditions demand larger, more powerful, loads. Not that B. Tyler Henry’s invention isn’t in use. Many are still in the hands of civilians and Indians. The big problem is the availability of ammunition, especially in country such as this, newly settled and well away from more established trade routes.
But such information does nothing to clear up the mystery. If ammunition is in short supply, why stash one useless round? Wouldn’t a well-protected box or leather pouch full of usable cartridges make more sense? Once again there are more questions than answers.
Later that morning, I put down my book and my third cup of coffee and take yet another close look at this little curio. While turning the puzzlement over in my hand, I feel a subtle shift. Something within the case seems to have settled with a soft “thud,” more felt than heard. Am I imagining things? And that bullet appears to be a little off center now, looser in the case mouth. Had I not noticed it the day before or is this a new development?
I hold it up close to my ear and gently work it back and forth.
That all-but-phantom sound repeats with each twist of my wrist. I hurry to the kitchen, spread a towel out on the counter, and cautiously begin to work the bullet free from the weathered copper cylinder.
One final, careful, tug and it is done. The bullet rests on the towel and the case remains upright between my fingers and thumb. I don’t quite believe what my eyes are telling me so I move closer to a lamp.
Gold nuggets glow like tiny suns.
* * * * *
In all, the gold weighed out at one-third of a troy ounce. In the 1870s it would have been worth approximately six and one-half dollars at a time when local wages were commonly less than two dollars for a ten hour day. Were these tiny bits of wealth, possibly intended as chips in a small-stakes game of chance, cached by some cowboy who lost his life before recovering his grub-stake? Might some desperate placer miner, guilty of a small act of high-grading, have hidden the evidence before being overtaken by company enforcers? Was some itinerant traveler who unexpectedly found himself encircled by an Apache war party, making an effort to prevent the loss of his last resource? Whatever the explanation, only these few mute items are evidence of such an event. The story itself is forever lost to history.
In an alcove beneath an unobtrusive stratified overhang, someone once worked into place three vertical sandstone columns. They consist of elongated slabs half the length of a man’s forearm. Two additional basalt cobbles, unlikely to have been swept onto the foundation rock by nature, add to this intriguing montage.
Deeper into the shadows, three more dark volcanic stones have also been discreetly wedged.
Upon closer exploration the intrigue becomes even more compelling. Removing the monuments and deeper stones reveals another darker, smaller, less accessible, hollow.
Inside that dim keep, moldy material composed of loam mixed with pebbles, decayed cedar needles, and small black bits of branches from a nearby evergreen, covers the sandstone floor. What possible need could there ever have been to mark such a nondescript interment?
My wife reaches in and waves the tip of her pin pointer over the mass. We are rewarded with a series of staccato beeps. They are enough to encourage us to slowly and carefully rake out the detritus.
The fading sunlight reveals the answer, and another mystery. A solitary cartridge, dark with patina, lays half-exposed within the dross.
The case is short and straight, close to half an inch in diameter. The lead bullet crimped in the mouth is heavily whitened with oxidization. Closer examination reveals a head stamp consisting of an embossed “H.”
But, why cache a single cartridge? Moreover, this round bears the unmistakable marks of twin firing pin indentations on its rim. This round is a dud. Why then, not just discard it? Why go to the trouble of not only hiding it away, but then discreetly marking the spot? Only someone who had the intention to returning to this lonely corner of high Southwestern desert would have expended the time and effort such a project. Besides that, returning here from anywhere more civilized would have required a trip of many hours, if not days, by horse.
Further investigation will have to wait. The afternoon shadows are already growing long, the truck is some distance away, and Mares’ Tails, streaking the sky to the south, portend a weather change.
* * * * *
A night’s dreaming provides no insight. Morning light diffusing through a solid gray overcast helps to rationalize my decision to remain indoors and concentrate on research into yesterday’s discovery.
Leafing through books detailing the particulars of similar antiques convinces me that the item in question is indeed an early example of a cartridge designed for the Henry repeating rifle.
Such weapons had been popular during the Civil War, largely because of their ability to fire fifteen bullets without being reloaded and this at a time when most battle rifles were single shot muskets capable of a three-round-per-minute rate of fire.
A decade after the war, however, the diminutive munition has become largely obsolete. Once across the Mississippi River, western-bound pioneers soon find that conditions demand larger, more powerful, loads. Not that B. Tyler Henry’s invention isn’t in use. Many are still in the hands of civilians and Indians. The big problem is the availability of ammunition, especially in country such as this, newly settled and well away from more established trade routes.
But such information does nothing to clear up the mystery. If ammunition is in short supply, why stash one useless round? Wouldn’t a well-protected box or leather pouch full of usable cartridges make more sense? Once again there are more questions than answers.
Later that morning, I put down my book and my third cup of coffee and take yet another close look at this little curio. While turning the puzzlement over in my hand, I feel a subtle shift. Something within the case seems to have settled with a soft “thud,” more felt than heard. Am I imagining things? And that bullet appears to be a little off center now, looser in the case mouth. Had I not noticed it the day before or is this a new development?
I hold it up close to my ear and gently work it back and forth.
That all-but-phantom sound repeats with each twist of my wrist. I hurry to the kitchen, spread a towel out on the counter, and cautiously begin to work the bullet free from the weathered copper cylinder.
One final, careful, tug and it is done. The bullet rests on the towel and the case remains upright between my fingers and thumb. I don’t quite believe what my eyes are telling me so I move closer to a lamp.
Gold nuggets glow like tiny suns.
* * * * *
In all, the gold weighed out at one-third of a troy ounce. In the 1870s it would have been worth approximately six and one-half dollars at a time when local wages were commonly less than two dollars for a ten hour day. Were these tiny bits of wealth, possibly intended as chips in a small-stakes game of chance, cached by some cowboy who lost his life before recovering his grub-stake? Might some desperate placer miner, guilty of a small act of high-grading, have hidden the evidence before being overtaken by company enforcers? Was some itinerant traveler who unexpectedly found himself encircled by an Apache war party, making an effort to prevent the loss of his last resource? Whatever the explanation, only these few mute items are evidence of such an event. The story itself is forever lost to history.
