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4 stars only because there was no leg room and the seat was uncomfortable.

GIVE HIM THE HOOK! Captain Crane eased down on the brake pedal. He prided himself on giving a chauffeur grade ride. Back when dirt was young (and so was the Captain), ambulances were made by Cadillac and doubled as a funeral coach. He and the other driver read about the Rolls-Royce School of the Chauffeur, where as one of the final tests, a glass half full of water was set on the dash, and the driver had to come to a stop without rippling the water. The Captain, of all the men who tried, was the only one who could. He carried that same smooth-driving mindset with him, whether in his personal vehicle, or in the squad, and his braking was nice and smooth as he came to a stop on the paved back road he was taking as a shortcut back to the firehouse. "Shelly?" he called. "Take a look at this." Shelly Keller squeezed her patient's hand, a sweet little old gal who'd fretted herself into a fine case of A-fib, and was now being given a nice, easy, peaceful ride to their friendly local ER. Shelly looked through the windshield. Ahead of them, one of the local hot rods -- wide tires, big engine, more money than good sense, obviously -- wound up the throttle and burned 'em off, fishtailing on the blacktop. The vehicle stopped, the two in the front seat looking at each other and laughing. "Surely they see us," Shelly said. Again the fishtailing, tire burning, blue cloud rolling, squalling abuse of a perfectly good motor vehicle. Captain Crane muttered, "Enough of this," and reached for the siren switch. Shelly turned to her curious patient, laid her hand over the old woman's bony knuckles and said, "Violet, we're going to run the siren to get something out of our road," WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW -- Twin chromed Federal speakers screamed angrily, a huge set of utterly astonished eyeballs appeared in the subject vehicle's rearview, and a car that had been content to carve black S-marks in pavement -- the car jumped ahead, then slowed -- A driveshaft rolled casually along behind it. The driver opened his door, took a look, his face falling about three feet when he saw what he'd done to his prized hot rod. The Captain sighed, shook his head: he eased around the stricken car, continued on toward the hospital, picked up the heavy grey mic. "Firelands, Firelands Squad One." "Squad One, go." "Could you call Brother Dean and have him send a wrecker up Beeham about a quarter mile. A car appears to have lost its driveshaft." "I roger your Beeham, one-quarter mile, anything else?" The Captain grinned, remembering an intentionally awful high school stage performance where a shepherd's crook was extended from the wings, caught the performer by the neck, pulled and mercifully ended the performance. "Yeah," the Captain grunted. "Tell Dean to give 'em the hook!"

THE AMBASSADOR'S NEW CLOTHES A set of red cowboy boots marched into the Ambassador's office, and brought an attractive young woman with them. The Ambassador looked up, startled, rose: he stared for a long moment, then harrumphed as Marnie pirouetted, struck a dancer's pose, gave him a sultry look and said, "Like what'cha see, fella?" The Ambassador laughed -- it wasn't easy to surprise the man, but Marnie managed, and this wasn't the first time she'd genuinely astonished him ... but it was the first time he'd seen her in red cowboy boots and a pleated, knee length skirt. "You look different in clothes," he said candidly, and Marnie smiled as chagrin claimed his face, as he realized what he'd just said. Marnie skipped over to him, kissed him quickly on the cheek, like a mischievous cheerleader, and whispered, "Flattery will get you everywhere!" "Yes, well" -- the Ambassador harrumphed, his face reddening, but looking not at all displeased -- "I take it your vacation was ... relaxing?" Marnie laughed. "Other than being nearly drowned on a sailing-ship, other than starting a feeding frenzy on another world's ocean, other than playing surgeon to a man who was grateful to have a leg left, even with dressmaker's stitches closing the wounds?" Marnie laughed. "Other than having to soak the salt out of my best gown and informing my sister she can start a business selling Sister Angela's Genuine Patent A-Number-One Ackumpuck, guaranteed to heal cuts, scrapes, prevent infection, cure crooked teeth and baldness and make you younger, smarter and better looking?" Marnie sat and crossed her legs, sighed dramatically, placed a thumb under her jaw and tapped her cheekbone meditatively with a delicate forefinger as she gave the Ambassador a smoldering look. "And I stripped down to my frillies and gave the entire crew of a sailing-ship a free show." The Ambassador's expressions were fluid across his face; Marnie followed the man's changing seasons, from amusement to embarrassment to incredulity to skepticism, and finally to reluctant acceptance. "Madam Ambassador," he sighed, shaking his head, "if it were anyone else -- anyone else! -- I would scarce credit the veracity of their words." He turned his chair to face her squarely, nodded. "You, however ... my dear, somehow I cannot doubt your words when you tell me this!" Marnie chuckled quietly. "Back home," she said softly, "addressing someone as 'Madam' was almost an insult, a formal way of verbally insulting in a backhand manner." She smiled gently and said, " 'Madam Ambassador' still sounds funny, but I think I wear it well!" The Ambassador nodded, considered her sculpted legs, her trim waist, and what he knew to be her attire from her younger years. "You're wondering about my boots," she smiled. "I've worn red cowboy boots since I was four years old and divulged the location of funds stolen from a bank, and the bank -- in lieu of a cash reward -- sent me a pair of red cowboy boots. Mama had to pry them off me, I wanted to wear them to bed!" The Ambassador chuckled, nodded, as Marnie shrugged. "I was only four year old at the time." "And you've worn them ever since?" Marnie smiled. "It became my trademark. All through school, except when cheerleading or dressing up." The Ambassador blinked at the unfamiliar term. "Cheerleading?" Marnie laughed. "I'll take you home for a football game sometime," she said. "Give you hot chocolate and popcorn and let you watch twenty-two idiots kick a windbag back and forth between two snowdrifts." The Ambassador gave her a genuinely confused look. Marnie waved her hand, shook her head. "Never mind. Story at eleven." The Ambassador leaned back in his chair, rocked a little, blinking as he realized that -- as well as he knew Ambassador Marnie Keller -- as well as they worked together, as magnificent as her achievements were -- there was apparently a great deal about her he did not know. He decided to change the subject. "I take it," he began cautiously, "you represented the Confederacy with decorum ... other than your ... activities." "Oh, yes," Marnie smiled. "Once I got the salt washed off me --" She stopped, smiled, leaned forward: knees together, feet together, hands clasped on her knees, she bent toward the Ambassador as if delivering a quiet confidence. "During the morning deckwatch -- our time, I would estimate, maybe five AM -- I went up on deck with mugs of coffee. Fresh ground, my own crop, freshly roasted, ground and brewed. "It's an old custom back on Earth to have a Mug-Up, and on a chilly predawn, when you pass a hot mug of Old Wakemup to the duty crew ..." She smiled at the memory: a warm mug was a welcome thing to damp-chilled hands, and fresh hot coffee was an ancient and most welcome tradition to canvas-and-sail men, back on Earth. "I've arranged to have Wavecutter supplied with coffee," she said softly, and he saw a memory in her eyes, saw the gentle smile that started deep inside and fairly glowed as it emerged. The Ambassador blinked. Marnie's interest in the man sharpened: she studied his face, her eyes bright, penetrating. "Wavecutter," he whispered. "You know her?" "Know her?" he blurted. "My brother is her Captain!" "Have you spoken with him?" The Ambassador shook his head. Marnie smiled, rose, stuck a pose, one hand on her hip. "You might want to ask him about a certain troublemaking Ambassador who handed out mugs of hot coffee while wearing a corset and stockings."

Proper charcuterie board. https://www.instagram.com/reel/DCzK06isnWw/?igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

Yes but very few. They are shot more for fun than serious competition. Most people use the factory grips as there are few aftermarket grips. Not many people work on them. You will have to shop around. Matter of personnel preference. The shorter barrels balance better. The longer barrels are muzzle heavy but look "cool." The trigger is not a safety. The fact that the hammer won't cock when you are touching the trigger is part of the design of the gun. On a Colt style revolver the cylinder locking bolt operates off a cam on the hammer. On the Scholfield the bolt operates off the trigger. There use to be a smith that would convert the S&W to operate off the hammer. He retired many years ago. About all you can do with them is lighten the springs but the built in hammer block safety makes that problematic as you will start getting misfires. If you want to improve the action you can remove the internal passive safety. The gun will then operate just like an original with a half-cock and full cock notch. The firing pin will protrude when it is at rest just like a Colt so you can only load five safely. You can then lighten the mainspring a bit. There are no aftermarket parts so you have to use and modify the original springs. The internal safety is part #656 on this drawing. You can go to VTI and look at the schematic and parts nomenclature.

someone has done went and lost their mind

You don’t want to make coffee with ground mustard. Just take my word for it, ok?

Howdy Fellers, I got a pair of Schofields that had been slicked up (and engraved) but not modified to eliminate the trigger deal. I have small hands and shoot duelist (glacially slow) and rarely notice the trigger deal. I also shoot Colts and Remingtons and never notice a difference in the grip shapes. It may be that because I move my grip all the way up the stock so I can easily cock all my six-guns that this minimizes the differences in stock shapes for me. Rev. Chase

Just completed a quick transaction and shipped an item to WILL Burn Powder!

What do you call a retired vegetable? a has-bean

Cowtown Scout, I have 3 sets (four 7" & two 5". I have 2 problems: When cocking I sometimes just verily touch the trigger, thus freezing the cocking action. Two of my other sets are hard to cock, unlike my Navy Arms/Uberti which is supper smooth.

ROGUE Ambassador Marnie Keller gripped the railing, stared out at the sea: spume misted over her, dampened her fine gown, and she didn't care. Fine saltwater droplets gathered on her long lashes and she stood, staring, marveling, delighting: Is this how Sarah McKenna felt when she took her sea voyage to meet her husband? Marnie moved naturally with the ship, as easily, as unthinkingly as any saltwater sailor: she released the wet rail, turned, walked easily toward the Officer of the Deck, smiled. "Madam Ambassador," he said, touching his forelock, "the seas are unkind. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable below." "And miss all this?" Marnie's smile was broad and genuine: she lifted her eyes, gazed in wondering admiration at sails and lines, halyards and spars, at men with callused hands and squinted eyes hauling canvas -- seeing it, really seeing it! She'd read about sailing-ships, but this, a Confederate-built schooner, trim and swift, filled her soul with genuine joy! She saw something in the OD's eyes, turned, crouching a little: overhead, the lookout's shout, "ROGUE WAVE! ROGUE WAVE! -- the clamoring alarm as an anonymous hand seized the emergency bell's clapper-rope, punished the bell's shining mouth with fast, panicked clapper-strikes, alerting the ship to the incoming emergency. Men tied off their gathered canvas, dropped quickly, shot but one fast glance at the approaching green wall. Marnie calculated the distance to the nearest gangway, saw a line: she and the OD dove for it, ran it quickly around the both of them: they had no time to tie fast -- callused hands and feminine fingers gripped the line -- The trim little ship turned, her canvas caught the wind, she drove defiantly for this rising green wall-- Marnie took six fast breaths as the ship pitched upward, then she squinted her eyes shut and clamped her throat closed, ducked as water drove across the deck, over the deck, onto the deck: she felt Wavecutter turn, felt her fall, she shook her head and saw they'd crested the mountain, they were skating now, screaming-fast down its back side: Marnie's hands were white, death-gripped on the line wrapped around her and timber and the deck officer, and she could not help herself. Marnie remembered the first time she threw a leg over her Daddy's steeldust, how the horse shivered under her, how he just plainly came unglued, how it was the one hardest to stay a-straddle of horse ever did she ride, and she remembered as she clamped strong young legs around his barrel and fanned him with her Stetson, she felt this same exhilaration, this same savage rejoicing as she felt when an angry sea raised a great watery hand to slap these intruders onto its salty vastness. Wavecutter shot down the back side, skimmed into the calm sea behind, coasted swiftly: Marnie let go of the line, as did the Officer of the Deck. They unwound the line from their middles, stepped back, sized one another up: the OD reached up, grimaced: "I've lost me cap!" he declared in a distressed voice, then looked around: "A'RIGHT, WHO'S MISSIN'! WHOEVER'S NOT HERE, SPEAK UP!" Marnie looked down at herself and laughed. If someone put a drowned rat in a McKenna gown, she thought with a silent, rueful giggle, that's what I must look like! She took a long breath, then started looking out across the sea, looking for anyone washed overboard. The lookout whistled, shrill, wavering: "MAN OVERBOARD, TWO OF 'EM! TWO HUNDRED YARDS! OFF THE PORT BEAM!" "BOATS!" the Officer of the Deck roared: there was the sound of running feet, men untied waxed canvas from taut tie-downs, threw them back from the secured gigs. Marnie knew this was not a whaler. She did consider that perhaps this is how whalers must've responded. She did not know if the great cetaceans were part of this world's oceans or not. She did know there were fishes that duplicated the ecological niche occupied by sharks, back on Earth. Sails were set, Wavecutter bore for two specks on the calming sea, making her best speed to the rescue of two of their own. A soaking-wet boy ran up to the OD and touched his water-plastered forelock: "Two not accounted for, sir," he blurted, then followed the older man's gaze. Marnie felt her breath catch. "Have you a glass?" she demanded. "A glass?" Marnie thrust a bladed hand toward two swimming men, toward the triangular fin moving toward them. "REQUIEM!" she screamed. Marnie snatched up soaking wet skirts, ran for the gangway: she thundered down the heavy plank steps, shouldered into her quarters: she shucked out of her gown, stripped to her frillies, then unlocked a trunk. When Ambassador Marnie Keller charged back up the stairs, she went to the rail, levered a round into her Winchester, her eyes pale, her jaw set. "CLOSER! GET ME CLOSER!" she screamed. The Captain turned from the OD, stared at an enraged woman wearing scandalously little, holding a Winchester rifle and raging at the distance separating her from two possibly injured men. Sarah looked at the Captain, looked at the boat being lowered. The Captain nodded, shouted "GO!" Sarah didn't need to be told twice. She swung over the rail, two men stood, held out their arms: she dropped easily into their grip, then she stood in the prow, snarling impotently as the boat hit the water, as davits were released, as oars were thrust into oarlocks. On a saltwater ocean on a planet she'd never seen before, a soaking-wet Ambassador in stockings and high-button shoes and a long corset, snarled like a deadly, enchanted figurehead chained to a ship's prow. Men grunted and hauled against their oars. Two men swimming saw the boat. One turned, looked abeam, saw the approaching fin. Marnie brought her rifle to shoulder, fired. 450 grains of cast lead, driven by a healthy charge of soft coal, seared across the water, splashed, skipped: Marnie rocked forward, slammed the lever open, then shut. The boat turned, coming between the oncoming threat and the men in the water. Marnie knew she'd have to be much closer, she'd have to have a much better angle -- Oars slowed, men reached: Marnie's legs moved of their own accord as she stood in the prow, as she waited, as she watched the fin turn, aim for the second man. She fired again. The fin disappeared. Marnie swore between clenched teeth, cycled the action, thrust two fresh rounds through the loading gate from the leather rearstock loops. The boat surged forward again as the second man swam with the desperate swiftness that comes with knowing Death was coming and coming fast. Callused hands reached desperately for the gunnel -- Callused hands reached down in reply, seized their fellow's wrists, hauled -- Marnie swung her muzzle down, fired three times, fast. Smoke and thunder filled their world, a man dropped, limp and bleeding, rough gashes in one calf. They pulled for Wavecutter, slowed as she came alongside, seized dangling pulleys and fast them to the lifting-eyes: four men and an Ambassador were hoist aboard by sweating, swearing, chanting men with sun-darkened faces and determined expressions. "I'm not a surgeon," Marnie said softly as she held a man's hand, as he sipped broth from a pewter mug with the other. "I've still me leg," he said in a husky voice. "I've ye t' thank fer that." Marnie looked at the neat bandage wraps. "I'll take that off and have a look tomorrow," she said. "Ocean water generally carries infection. I cleaned the wounds as best I could, and" -- she looked left, looked right, leaned close, as if imparting a confidence -- "and I used some of Sister Angela's Genuine Patent A-Number-One Ackumpuck to kill any infection!" Marnie winked and smiled a little as the man chuckled: she released his hand, planted her knuckles on her belt, cocked her hips saucily and added, "Besides, I don't undress for just anybody!" Captain, seaman, Ambassador and cabin boy all laughed. Marnie bent over, kissed the man's forehead. "Once you've finished your broth, there's grog," she whispered -- she looked at the Captain, winked, turned back -- "for medicinal purposes only!" She patted his hand, drew back, stepped up to the Captain. "I'll have another look at those wounds tomorrow." The Captain nodded solemnly, took her elbow in a careful grip, turned away from the injured man. "When ye shot, out there --" Marnie gave him a big-eyed, innocent look, blinked. "Once th' boat was away from where ye'd shot, more o' the Requiem came up an' tore int' the one ye killed. The ocean looked a-boil behind you." Marnie blinked, swallowed hard. "Ye were barely in time, Madam Ambassador, but in time ye were, and for that ye have the thanks of a grateful man!" Marnie nodded, once, carefully, for she knew there was something else, and she was right. The Captain looked past her, swallowed something sticky, harrumphed, and looked at Marnie with haunted eyes. "Yon man's my son," he whispered, then he turned and hurried up the steps.

Would you be kind enough to pass my regards and seasonal greetings to Jeff and Jimmy. I still listen, but usually the podcasts. The broadcast is Monday from noon (my time) and I can't always hear it. Thank You wbj 🙃

The reproductions do not have blast shields on the front of the cylinder. The cylinder gap is directly over the base pin. They do not do well with heavy loads of BP.

Remember Rube Goldberg? He invented a better Mousetrap! Unfortunately, his Medical Career was not as successful...

Luckily it never caught on!

well I ain't sure , I don't see no SMLEs at hand

Good choice. Ma Deuce can be very musical. I love that old gal!

I'd keep the steak!

Ah! The cookies are on the chopping block and he's going to chop them with that tomahawk

Trump's pick for Health Secretary, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. He is a health enthusiast that wants to campaign against junk food.

well now , they ain't pointed in the same direction