The weak winter sunshine slanted through the tall windows of the shop, and the workman at the bench set the last pin in place. An experianced cutler, he had been working at the knife factory in Turner Falls for many years, but he never lost the pride in his workmenship. He held the finished knife in his hand a moment, looking it over, and then laid it in the box with the rest. All were ready to be shipped out in the morning. Standing up, he straitend his back and left for home. The shop boys were already collecting the boxes of finished knives for transport to the shipping room.
The box was one of many new pocket knives made in the John Russell plant. This box was no different from the others containing the plain bone handle knives. It went by horse drawn wagon to the train station in town, and from there to the many distributors.
Many weeks later a young cowhand walked into the general store in a small town called Trinidad, Colorado. He was part of a cattle drive up to the rail head in Kansass, and they were passing by the town of Trinidad. He had lost his pocket knife days before, and the trail boss had told him to go with the cook to get some more supplies of flour and other sundries. While there he hoped to replace his knife. He looked into the case and picked out one knife that cought his eye, a Russells barlow. The store keep took it out for him to examine, and he felt the rough cut cow bone handles, and tested the edge of the blade with a thumb. "It's plenty sharp," said the store keep, "those Russells are good knives". The young man paid the price and walked out with his new knife in his pocket. It felt reassuring to have a knife there again instead of an empty pocket.
Years passed, and the young man turned into an experianced cowhand. Time after time he went up the trials driving the ornery long horns up to towns like Elsworth and Dodge City. The barlow knife cut piggin strings, bacon, slice a plug of chaw off a twist, and alot of small chores that a man in the saddle 12 hours a day needed done. He put some money away planing on starting his own ranch, but fate took a hand.
It was a bad bronc that rolled over on him as he was trying to saddle break it. His leg badly broken, they sent to town for the Doc right away. The Doc did what he could but it would not be enough.
"Are you sure, Doc" the ranch owner asked.
"He's not going to walk right or ride a horse again, that I'm sure of." the black suited doctor told the ranch owner. "He'll be lucky if he's only on a cane the rest of his life"
The rancher let the cowhand sleep off the laudnum, and in the morning he broke the bad news to his top hand. There was a bad few minutes while the news sunk in, but the rancher was not about to abandon a man who had worked for him as long as this. He convinced the cowhand to stay on as cook on the drives north. This was a common practice at that time in the west, alot of the chuck wagon cooks were older cowhands that could'nt ride anymore, accident or age taking its toll. To the relief of the rancher the cowhand agreed. Often the cook being an older man, was relied on to settle disputes, tend injuries, and very often give guidence to the young cowboys going up the trail for the first time.
More years passed, and the man grew grey with the passing of those years. An experiance trail cook, he not only fed, but ministered to the younger hands. They knew he had been a top hand in his day, and saw the respect the owner of the ranch gave him, so they followed in like. He still carried the bone handle barlow, and used it to slit open bags of flour and coffee, cut string to tie things with, and cut leather strap to repair a harness now and then. It was a valued tool, and he treated it well, oiling the joints and touching it up on a stone, stroping it on a belt when needed.
Then came the day. It had been comming slowly, but surely. No longer young he was feeling his years now, and tiring at the work. One day at the ranch in between drives north the rancher had a word with his old friend and best employee. They talked about things, and the old cook said he was thinking about going east to see family once more. He had come west as a young man, and he had kin back in Illinois. The old rancher shook his hand, and told him he's been a bigger help than he could put into words, and they parted well. As the old cook packed his small amount of belongings, he picked up his barlow knife from the bunk and looked at it. The saw cut bone had turned a light brown over the years, and the saw cut marks were faint, all but rubbed out from handling. "My God," he thought, "had it really been twenty years since that general store in Colorado?"
Ariving in a small town south of Chicago, he had on a new store bought suit, and he hesitated at the door of the large Victorian home in a good part of the town. He had a sister that he had not seen in all those years since he had went west, and now he felt strange about to knock on the door. He may have well saved himself the trouble, there was a joyous reunion, and his sister and brother in law insited he stay with them. Before long he had decided to stay. Arthritus from the old injury had been getting worse, and he leaned heavily on a cane when he had to walk. His sister had married well, and he had a niece and nephew who took endless delight in his tales of the west and wild times on cattle drives, fighting rustlers and indians. He found himself enjoying the free time to sit on the back porch and whittle napkin rings for his new family, with the small blade on the old barlow. He also carved little figures for his niece which delighted the little girl.
He passed on after a short illness. As he lay in bed, the nephew who had become very close to him sat at his bedside. The old man looked at him and motioned to the bedside table.
"I want you to have my knife. Its been a good friend to me, I can't tell you how many jackrabbits it's skinned. Give it a touch on a stone now and then"
The boy picked up the knife with care. His uncle had tought him to whittle with that knife out back under the shade trees, and the knife was a treasure to him. He told his uncle that he'd only keep it till he got well, but the old man shook his head. "Every drive comes to an end sooner or later. Mine's about done now, don't worry, its okay."
In the years to follow the boy became a young man, and he carried the old barlow. It was still in good shape, as its owners had placed great value on it, and not abused it. But by and by it was put away and a fancy pearl handle pen knife hung on his watch chain. He became a wealthy buissness man and sent his own son in time to an easteren university.
The son loved university life on the ivy leagued grounds. He joined the rowing team and became friends with most. One friend in particular was a short sturdy built young man from New York, son of a wealthy hardware and glass family. They became close friends, and his friend told him on graduation if he ever needed anything just ask. As they parted company He told his friend he would. His friend Teddy gave him one of those toothy grins and waved as he went off.
Back home in his off time from his fathers buisness he persued hunting in the Illinois countryside. His father gave him the old barlow, saying how his uncle had been a cowboy out west and had carried that knife. They had a stable, and he enjoyed riding across the country. A few years passed uneventully, untill the battleship Maine blew up in Havana. Sitting around the dinner table his father mentioned the news he had heard in town.
"We'll be in a war with Spain before too long. They're raising troops now as we speak. If I were a young man I'd go myself. Maybe that regiment Mr. Roosevelt is raising. They're calling it teddys terrors or something"
"What" the young man asked startled "Who did you say?"
"Mr. Roosevelt, the secretary of the navy. He's raising a regimet to go to Cuba. Why, what's the matter?" The father had noticed the strange look on his son's face.
"My God, thats my friend from school! We were on the Harvard rowing team together!"
That night the son decided to enlist. In the morning he packed a small bag, told his family he was going to serve his country in the comming war with spain, and left to go find his friend Teddy, and join him.
He served in the fighting in Cuba, and he and Teddy worked well together. Living conditions were hard, and like all soldiers a knife was a handy thing to have. He had put the old barlow in his pocket for luck when he left home, and it served him well in camp life. It was getting worn by now, with the blades a bit slimmer than when his old cowboy uncle had it. But it was still servicable, and the blades took and held a keen edge. Durring the action to take the Spanish guns on San Juan hill, he used the barlow to cut a strip of material from the pants of a wounded soldier to make a tight bandage on the soldier to stem the bleeding from a bullet out of one of those "Spanish Hornets", the Mauser rifles the enemy was using.
Then the glorious 6 week war was over and America had become a world power. They had a parade for what they called "The boys of '98" and made wonderfull speaches. Then the uniforms were put away, and time marched on, the war put away in history books, and the young man went back to his fathers company in Chicago. The uniforms were put in trunk up in the attic of the Victorian home and forgotten. In the pocket of the uniform jacket was the barlow, as forgotten as the clothes. Years marched on, and the old trunk was pushed further back into the attic as more junk built up from the flotsom of life. Old clothes, childrens cast off toys, out of fashion lamps, all covered the chest to view. New generations came and went.
Then came a day when a new owner came to the house. The prievious owners had moved to a new home in the best part of Chicago, and had left the junk in the attic. The new owners set about cleaning up the attic. After many loads of junk to the dump, they came upon the chest. Finding the old uniforms, they thought them old costumes or such and gave them to the trashmen to dispose of. The trashmen took the old clothes and were about to toss them in the back of the truck when one of them felt a lump in the pocket of the old uniform jacket. He came out with the old Barlow.
One looked at the other.
"Do ya think its worth anything"
"Maybe. Maybe we can get a pint out of it" said the other.
They took the knife to an antique shop down the road, and asked the man if it was worth anything. The man looked at the two disheveled workers with distaste. He asked what they had there.
When he saw the knife he thought "Could it be?" Looking closer he saw the marked bolster, the worn bone now the color of brewed tea.
"I'll give you 10 dollars for it right now." He told them.
They were more than happy to get the price of a cheap pint of whisky. The man took the barlow to a back room and with a toothbrush and gentle cleaning the dirt of decades came loose. He loved old knives and knew this was a good one. Dust and grime from a long ago war had dried in the knife, but the man worked with patience. Soon it looked alot better. The blades were maybe 25 % worn, no cracks in the bone handles. Some fine gun oil in the joints and soon the blades walked and talked again. He looked it over carefully. A little wobble in the joint, but not bad. He realized it was a real Russell from the 1800's.
He stared at the old knife in his hand and gently rubbed the aged brown bone scales.
"Where have you been, you old beauty," he mused, " and if you could talk what stories would you tell?"
The box was one of many new pocket knives made in the John Russell plant. This box was no different from the others containing the plain bone handle knives. It went by horse drawn wagon to the train station in town, and from there to the many distributors.
Many weeks later a young cowhand walked into the general store in a small town called Trinidad, Colorado. He was part of a cattle drive up to the rail head in Kansass, and they were passing by the town of Trinidad. He had lost his pocket knife days before, and the trail boss had told him to go with the cook to get some more supplies of flour and other sundries. While there he hoped to replace his knife. He looked into the case and picked out one knife that cought his eye, a Russells barlow. The store keep took it out for him to examine, and he felt the rough cut cow bone handles, and tested the edge of the blade with a thumb. "It's plenty sharp," said the store keep, "those Russells are good knives". The young man paid the price and walked out with his new knife in his pocket. It felt reassuring to have a knife there again instead of an empty pocket.
Years passed, and the young man turned into an experianced cowhand. Time after time he went up the trials driving the ornery long horns up to towns like Elsworth and Dodge City. The barlow knife cut piggin strings, bacon, slice a plug of chaw off a twist, and alot of small chores that a man in the saddle 12 hours a day needed done. He put some money away planing on starting his own ranch, but fate took a hand.
It was a bad bronc that rolled over on him as he was trying to saddle break it. His leg badly broken, they sent to town for the Doc right away. The Doc did what he could but it would not be enough.
"Are you sure, Doc" the ranch owner asked.
"He's not going to walk right or ride a horse again, that I'm sure of." the black suited doctor told the ranch owner. "He'll be lucky if he's only on a cane the rest of his life"
The rancher let the cowhand sleep off the laudnum, and in the morning he broke the bad news to his top hand. There was a bad few minutes while the news sunk in, but the rancher was not about to abandon a man who had worked for him as long as this. He convinced the cowhand to stay on as cook on the drives north. This was a common practice at that time in the west, alot of the chuck wagon cooks were older cowhands that could'nt ride anymore, accident or age taking its toll. To the relief of the rancher the cowhand agreed. Often the cook being an older man, was relied on to settle disputes, tend injuries, and very often give guidence to the young cowboys going up the trail for the first time.
More years passed, and the man grew grey with the passing of those years. An experiance trail cook, he not only fed, but ministered to the younger hands. They knew he had been a top hand in his day, and saw the respect the owner of the ranch gave him, so they followed in like. He still carried the bone handle barlow, and used it to slit open bags of flour and coffee, cut string to tie things with, and cut leather strap to repair a harness now and then. It was a valued tool, and he treated it well, oiling the joints and touching it up on a stone, stroping it on a belt when needed.
Then came the day. It had been comming slowly, but surely. No longer young he was feeling his years now, and tiring at the work. One day at the ranch in between drives north the rancher had a word with his old friend and best employee. They talked about things, and the old cook said he was thinking about going east to see family once more. He had come west as a young man, and he had kin back in Illinois. The old rancher shook his hand, and told him he's been a bigger help than he could put into words, and they parted well. As the old cook packed his small amount of belongings, he picked up his barlow knife from the bunk and looked at it. The saw cut bone had turned a light brown over the years, and the saw cut marks were faint, all but rubbed out from handling. "My God," he thought, "had it really been twenty years since that general store in Colorado?"
Ariving in a small town south of Chicago, he had on a new store bought suit, and he hesitated at the door of the large Victorian home in a good part of the town. He had a sister that he had not seen in all those years since he had went west, and now he felt strange about to knock on the door. He may have well saved himself the trouble, there was a joyous reunion, and his sister and brother in law insited he stay with them. Before long he had decided to stay. Arthritus from the old injury had been getting worse, and he leaned heavily on a cane when he had to walk. His sister had married well, and he had a niece and nephew who took endless delight in his tales of the west and wild times on cattle drives, fighting rustlers and indians. He found himself enjoying the free time to sit on the back porch and whittle napkin rings for his new family, with the small blade on the old barlow. He also carved little figures for his niece which delighted the little girl.
He passed on after a short illness. As he lay in bed, the nephew who had become very close to him sat at his bedside. The old man looked at him and motioned to the bedside table.
"I want you to have my knife. Its been a good friend to me, I can't tell you how many jackrabbits it's skinned. Give it a touch on a stone now and then"
The boy picked up the knife with care. His uncle had tought him to whittle with that knife out back under the shade trees, and the knife was a treasure to him. He told his uncle that he'd only keep it till he got well, but the old man shook his head. "Every drive comes to an end sooner or later. Mine's about done now, don't worry, its okay."
In the years to follow the boy became a young man, and he carried the old barlow. It was still in good shape, as its owners had placed great value on it, and not abused it. But by and by it was put away and a fancy pearl handle pen knife hung on his watch chain. He became a wealthy buissness man and sent his own son in time to an easteren university.
The son loved university life on the ivy leagued grounds. He joined the rowing team and became friends with most. One friend in particular was a short sturdy built young man from New York, son of a wealthy hardware and glass family. They became close friends, and his friend told him on graduation if he ever needed anything just ask. As they parted company He told his friend he would. His friend Teddy gave him one of those toothy grins and waved as he went off.
Back home in his off time from his fathers buisness he persued hunting in the Illinois countryside. His father gave him the old barlow, saying how his uncle had been a cowboy out west and had carried that knife. They had a stable, and he enjoyed riding across the country. A few years passed uneventully, untill the battleship Maine blew up in Havana. Sitting around the dinner table his father mentioned the news he had heard in town.
"We'll be in a war with Spain before too long. They're raising troops now as we speak. If I were a young man I'd go myself. Maybe that regiment Mr. Roosevelt is raising. They're calling it teddys terrors or something"
"What" the young man asked startled "Who did you say?"
"Mr. Roosevelt, the secretary of the navy. He's raising a regimet to go to Cuba. Why, what's the matter?" The father had noticed the strange look on his son's face.
"My God, thats my friend from school! We were on the Harvard rowing team together!"
That night the son decided to enlist. In the morning he packed a small bag, told his family he was going to serve his country in the comming war with spain, and left to go find his friend Teddy, and join him.
He served in the fighting in Cuba, and he and Teddy worked well together. Living conditions were hard, and like all soldiers a knife was a handy thing to have. He had put the old barlow in his pocket for luck when he left home, and it served him well in camp life. It was getting worn by now, with the blades a bit slimmer than when his old cowboy uncle had it. But it was still servicable, and the blades took and held a keen edge. Durring the action to take the Spanish guns on San Juan hill, he used the barlow to cut a strip of material from the pants of a wounded soldier to make a tight bandage on the soldier to stem the bleeding from a bullet out of one of those "Spanish Hornets", the Mauser rifles the enemy was using.
Then the glorious 6 week war was over and America had become a world power. They had a parade for what they called "The boys of '98" and made wonderfull speaches. Then the uniforms were put away, and time marched on, the war put away in history books, and the young man went back to his fathers company in Chicago. The uniforms were put in trunk up in the attic of the Victorian home and forgotten. In the pocket of the uniform jacket was the barlow, as forgotten as the clothes. Years marched on, and the old trunk was pushed further back into the attic as more junk built up from the flotsom of life. Old clothes, childrens cast off toys, out of fashion lamps, all covered the chest to view. New generations came and went.
Then came a day when a new owner came to the house. The prievious owners had moved to a new home in the best part of Chicago, and had left the junk in the attic. The new owners set about cleaning up the attic. After many loads of junk to the dump, they came upon the chest. Finding the old uniforms, they thought them old costumes or such and gave them to the trashmen to dispose of. The trashmen took the old clothes and were about to toss them in the back of the truck when one of them felt a lump in the pocket of the old uniform jacket. He came out with the old Barlow.
One looked at the other.
"Do ya think its worth anything"
"Maybe. Maybe we can get a pint out of it" said the other.
They took the knife to an antique shop down the road, and asked the man if it was worth anything. The man looked at the two disheveled workers with distaste. He asked what they had there.
When he saw the knife he thought "Could it be?" Looking closer he saw the marked bolster, the worn bone now the color of brewed tea.
"I'll give you 10 dollars for it right now." He told them.
They were more than happy to get the price of a cheap pint of whisky. The man took the barlow to a back room and with a toothbrush and gentle cleaning the dirt of decades came loose. He loved old knives and knew this was a good one. Dust and grime from a long ago war had dried in the knife, but the man worked with patience. Soon it looked alot better. The blades were maybe 25 % worn, no cracks in the bone handles. Some fine gun oil in the joints and soon the blades walked and talked again. He looked it over carefully. A little wobble in the joint, but not bad. He realized it was a real Russell from the 1800's.
He stared at the old knife in his hand and gently rubbed the aged brown bone scales.
"Where have you been, you old beauty," he mused, " and if you could talk what stories would you tell?"
