Railways and Revolvers: Arming the Iron Horse Age

There’s a sound that still lingers in my ears from the early days of Oregon’s steel veins—the long, slow groan of a locomotive easing to a stop, the hiss of steam, and somewhere nearby, the soft click of a revolver’s hammer easing down under a cautious thumb.

The railroad brought prosperity to the Willamette Valley, but it also brought trouble. Timber, fruit, and ore rolled north and south, but so did gamblers, confidence men, and the occasional outlaw with nothing to lose. If you worked a rail line between Ashland and Portland, odds were good you kept something solid and chambered within reach.

The Kolb Hammerless was a favored companion of porters and station agents—a tiny thing, but easily hidden in a waistcoat. I knew one fellow in Eugene who carried his tucked behind the pay ledger in a locked desk drawer, ready to remind a drunk not to go over the counter.

Railroad detectives, on the other hand, preferred something with more bite. The Iver Johnson Safety Automatic was popular not just for its double-action mechanism, but its transfer bar safety—a feature that gave it a strong reputation among those who carried daily but prayed not to shoot often.

Of course, no discussion of sidearms in that era can neglect Colt’s New Pocket or Smith & Wesson’s .38 Safety Hammerless. Both were found on the hips of express clerks and ticketmen alike. The former had the Colt name’s prestige and sturdy bluing; the latter rode smoothly in a coat pocket and could be drawn without fear of snagging a hammer on one’s sleeve.

I once rode the Southern Pacific line with a brakeman who carried a battered Harrington & Richardson Young America revolver. "She ain’t pretty," he said, "but she’s punched more timecards than my conductor."

More seasoned guards—especially those riding gold shipments—carried heavier iron. The Colt 1877 “Lightning”, with its double-action charm, and the Smith & Wesson New Model No. 3, with its top-break reloading system, were both admired by men who didn’t have time to fumble. Fast reloading and a firm grip made the difference between handing over the cargo or handing over a eulogy.

Even a few Webley Bulldogs found their way across the Atlantic and into Oregonian pockets via mail-order catalogs or traveling salesmen. Short, stout, and built for close quarters, they were just the thing to level across a train car seat if someone thought to make trouble.

The train was a marvel, to be sure—but it was also a magnet. For goods, for people, and sometimes for danger. And so we armed ourselves—not with swagger, but with steel and common sense.

So next time you pass a rusting rail spur lost in blackberry vines, picture a lantern swinging in a brakeman’s hand... and a small revolver nestled beside a tin of tobacco in his breast pocket. He wasn’t looking for trouble. But like the rest of us, he was prepared.

— Orme Dumas Firearms Historian, Industrialist, and Passenger of the Iron Age