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We ask for the SASS # to verify active SASS membership, not gender. The vote is restricted to active SASS members only. Misty

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DFicvCyNBfb/?igsh=ZmVrOWZxNGJzbTlh

A SUDDEN ATTACK OF GOOD SENSE I'm a-gonna give my Mama a genuine B'ar Skin Rug! His finger curled back, around the rear trigger. He felt more than heard the set trigger engage. He'd struck a b'ar track in fresh snow. Youthful confidence and a rifle in hand and he began to follow the big round tracks, looking ahead, listening. He heard the creek running in the holler below, a few birds, the wind was carrying from his left, and his scent would be going to the right: the b'ar was going straight ahead, roughly north, and so was he. The flint rifle balanced well in his hands. It was a late Bedford County rifle -- slim, graceful, handmade: it came to shoulder like a feather on the breeze, he took only head shots on squirrel with it: he knew exactly where it hit from here to yonder, and he'd stretched "yonder" out a number of times. He moved quickly, silently: he knew how to move in the hill country, in the woods: he faded back against a tree, pale eyes busy. Like as not the b'ar was passing through, unless it wanted to investigate their chickens, or maybe the hogs. The south face of the ridge descended to the creek: he paced upstream several feet, took a long legged stride across the small, cold stream, labored up the other side, where the sun was working on snow and leaves -- and he lost the track. There was enough sun to ruin the snow, the tracks were melted away: he stopped, considered where he'd been, where the b'ar had been headed, looked ahead, expecting to see a black rump heading away from him -- Nothing. He stopped, listening, looking toward the ridgeline above. Was I to take out a-runnin' I might catch sight of him. Then what? He thought of the moment when he loaded his rifle, he thought of the ball he'd patched and seated with the striped maple ram rod, he considered the last b'ar he saw hangin' from a gambrel, and he recalled men telling him how hard a b'ar was to kill. Could he slip that round ball -- the size of a sweet pea -- right down that b'ar's ear, he could drop it, one shot. Could he put a bad shot into one, why, it might get unhappy and allow as it was goin' to get impressive with him, and he'd seen what a b'ar can do to a good dog. Linn Keller stopped, looked up hill, considered all this, and recalled attair preacher sayin' that all things worked together for the good of them that loves the Lord, and he decided that maybe the Almighty was keepin' him from a right poor decision. Besides, he'd only the one knife to skin it out with, and that would be an awful lot of meat to have to bone out, and how'd he get all that back home, he'd not let that much good eatin' go to waste. Pale eyes considered the browned octagon barrel of his flint rifle, and a combination of Divine Intervention and maybe a little bit of good common sense combined to guarantee the pale eyed blood line would not end in Perry County, Ohio. He might not be a-gettin' attair b'ar skin rug for his Mama's side of the bed, but he'd be alive to complain about it!

Got email.....vote cast.

It was an email to all active SASS members. If you have unsubscribed to our emails in the past, send a direct email to me and I'll reply with the voting form. Misty

I've only known one other person that knew about the crockagator. When we wrote our book, we used it as the school mascot.

Ah yes, the ole Flab Bag. Keep a pistol in it and it gives a whole new meaning to "belly gun".

Sunday I'll be wearing a mask again.

THE WORLD’S WORST LIAR Sarah Lynne McKenna was her usual self. Contradictory. She absolutely loved being her Mama’s fashion model – corsets and frillies and face paint, wigs and gowns, cleverly made to look like the full-sized McKenna gowns her Mama’s dress-works manufactured and sold to the fashionable: Sarah was sternly admonished to stay away from the theaters (everyone knew actors were people with loose morals!) which, of course, guaranteed Sarah sought them out at the earliest opportunity, at every opportunity, learning from them tricks of makeup, of presentation, of the quick-costume-change – skills which even her skeptical Mama had to admit, came in very handy indeed when her Mama paraded her ten-year-old daughter on stage for the buyers to see the very latest fashions from the great houses in Paris and London. The fashion exemplars were rushed by express train across the continent, beating the sailing-ships that had to fight their way around the Horn to get up to Frisco: by the time San Frisco got their hands on exemplars from overseas, the McKenna Dress Works were already satisfying the market with the very latest in high-demand fashion. Sarah also very much enjoyed the relief that came with returning to Firelands and being … well, being “just Sarah,” as she confided to the very few schoolmates in whom she reposed enough trust to speak of such matters. It was on one such day when “Just Sarah” was flouncing happily up the boardwalk, dressed like the little girl she was. Her mind wandered elsewhere, as will happen when the guard is lowered. The Bear Killer padded happily behind her, watchful, making as much noise as a passing cloud. Sarah blinked, nearly stumbled, startled by the sudden appearance of a long set of legs, a very black coat, and a pair of startling-pale eyes: her mind returned from elsewhere, realize with astonishment that she honestly did not see the Sheriff step out of his office, draw the door to and secure it, then turn to see a happy little girl skipping up the boardwalk with what looked like a very young bear cub, dark and menacing behind her. Sarah stopped abruptly, almost stumbling: she blinked, then she did what came naturally to her. She pointed a shiny-slippered toe, gripped her skirt and dropped an absolutely flawless curtsy. Sheriff Linn Keller, seeing this gesture of femininity and of respect, did what came naturally to him. He removed his Stetson and gave her a grave, formal, half-bow. The Bear Killer, observing these solemn proprieties, danced forward, jumped up and licked the Sheriff’s chin, fell back, jumped up and did it again. Sheriff Linn Keller, Chief Enforcer of Justice and Law in Firelands County, veteran of war, violence, joy and sorrow, laughter and heartbreak, could keep a solemn face no longer: he rubbed The Bear Killer vigorously, squatted, looked at Sarah. He saw an apple-cheeked girl with bright and pale eyes, looking at him with an expression of beatific delight; she saw the face he kept hidden behind a professional mask, a face seen but rarely, and only by those he trusted implicitly – the face of a delighted man who was exactly where he wished to be, doing exactly what he wished to do. The Bear Killer’s expression was one of unadulterated canine delight, affected not in the slightest by the bright-red ribbon Sarah tied loosely about his neck. Linn looked at The Bear Killer and remembered screams and gunshots and the sound of a wounded grizzly, swinging its one uninured paw and sharp, black, curved claws, a grizzly laying about like Samson with the jaw bone of a jack mule; he remembered Charlie Macneil stepping in close and drawing a brace of Remingtons and driving their contents into the b’ar, close enough to feel the wind off that swinging meathook. Linn closed his eyes and remembered Twain Dawg – as he was known then – black as sin’s beating heart, screaming defiance and flying like a loosed arrow from the Reaper’s bow – launching off the ground, seizing the grizzly by the throat, jaws closing on part of the damage Macneil’s revolvers caused. Linn closed his eyes, shivered, remembering. Twain Dawg’s eyes were blood red, his young voice high as a pup’s but low as a Mastiff’s, the sound of rage, with fangs, at least until his jaws crushed shut the bloody wounds at the grizzly’s throat: long barrel Kentucky rifles, Linn’s Sharps, lead from several directions, the b’ar was dead as he fought but like most creatures of the kind, the b’ar refused to admit the fact until the Eternal seized its eternal soul by the scruff of the neck and yanked it out of its mortally wounded carcass. Only then did the b’ar fall over and die. Linn shivered a little as he remembered Twain Dawg, jaws still locked, unmoving, silent. He remembered how Macneil’s strong fingers prized canine jaws apart, how he laid a broad hand on the young mountain Mastiff’s flank, searching for breath, until he seized Twain Dawg’s hind legs and spun, fast, slinging the dog out level with the velocity of his rotation. Men stared, wondering if Marshal Macneil was parted company from his sanity. He hadn’t. He slung Twain Dawg around fast. Centrifugal force dislodged the clot of hot, fresh, b’ar blood from Twain Dawg’s windpipe. Macneil brought him to a stop, went to one knee, less to bring the curly-black Dawg to earth and more to keep himself from falling over from the dizzies. This, Linn knew, was how Twain Dawg shed his puppy name and became who he was known as now. The Bear Killer. Linn looked up at Sarah, blinked as his mind returned to the here-and-now. “He doesn’t let just anybody touch him,” Sarah said quietly, her eyes big and sincere, as if imparting a confidence. Linn nodded. “He won’t come near Mama’s husband.” Mama’s husband, Linn thought. Not Papa. Linn looked at Sarah’s pale eyes, aching with a knowledge he dare not speak. He wished mightily this pale eyed little girl was his. “I know,” he said, his voice just as quiet. “He doesn’t trust just anybody.” He looked seriously at Sarah, the smile gone from his face and from his eyes. He trusts you.” Sarah blinked, as if the realization was honestly a surprise to her. Daisy felt the air shift. She was stirring the stew – it was a good, thick, rich stew, she’d cut her taters up fine rather than chunking them up, this made it thick and pulled in all the flavors of the several spices she used – she rapped the wooden spoon edgewise on the lip of the stewpot, turned to scold whichever man dared interrupt her kitchen, stopped with a startled blink when she saw it was no man. Sarah stood uncertainly in the doorway. Daisy recognized the look on Sarah’s face. “I be needin’ yer help,” Daisy said briskly, “come o’er here, th’ both of ye” – she picked up a bowl, dipped up a short ladle of stew, set it on the little table behind her with a spoon – a second bowl, cracked, kept for this purpose, and The Bear Killer found that he, too, was being recruited for quality control. “Ye were no’ here when I put this together,” Daisy said quietly in that delightful Irish accent of hers: “I need an outside opinion.” The Bear Killer was very evidently of the opinion that Daisy’s stew was quite good; he polished the bowl clean and looked hopefully up at the Irishwoman, tail wagging encouragement. “Oh, all right,” Daisy muttered, pretending to speak crossly: she tossed The Bear Killer a roll, which he caught easily. Sarah tasted the stew, considered, tasted another spoonful, frowned. “There’s something wrong with this,” she said decisively, then looked at the startled chief cook of the Silver Jewel’s kitchen, her expression serious but innocent. “And wha’ wuid tha’ be?” Daisy demanded, knuckles on her apron. “I’m not sure,” Sarah said, “but there’s something wrong with it, so I’d better eat it all so nobody else gets sick!” Sarah’s pronouncement was solemn, sincere, delivered with a beatific expression that belied the outrageousness of her words: she and Daisy cracked at the same moment, Daisy bent and hugged her, kissed the top of her head and whispered in her ear, “I may need help wi’ testin’ m’ pie!” The Bear Killer looked hopefully at the pair, tilting his head a little, trying to look as adorable as possible. Sheriff Linn Keller knocked at his wife’s office door, waited for Esther’s reply before stepping inside. The Z&W Railroad maintained its office directly above the Silver Jewel Saloon, a little to the right of the main front door: if you climbed the stairs, the office door was first on the right, with Z&W RAILROAD, E. KELLER, PRESIDENT AND OWNER in neat, hand painted letters. Esther tilted her head, smiled as her husband stepped into her space and put his hands around her slender middle. Esther tilted her head back with that gentle smile, and the merriment in her eyes that warned him she was in fine form: “Mister Keller,” she said quietly, “I saw you carousing with that younger woman across the street!” “Mrs. Keller,” he said quietly, tossing his Stetson on a convenient chair, “I have been a rake and a scoundrel, and I shall be so again!” She raised his face to his, and he accepted her invitation: their arms tightened around each other, and when they came up for air, Esther whispered, “Mr. Keller?” “Yes, Mrs. Keller?” “You, sir are the world’s worst liar.” She felt his silent laughter as his mouth met hers again.

I like to leave a little to make the reader think.

I'm around. Don't post much though. We still have a lot to do getting the place ready. Now that's warming up, going to get the shop in order and finish unpacking. The reloading presses are still in boxes, all the tools. Need to get the guns in the safe still. Yard cleanup. We moved here when the ground was covered in snow, and bought the place based on what the realtor said and the listing pictures. There's so much junk turning up with the snow melt. And a few repairs are still needed, including the roof $$$$$

No grass? No mowing!!😎 Pellet gun for some gopher gettin’ amusement! 😜 I hope you flourish in your new digs!!

A guide was explaining to his client that the meanest animal in the world was nearby and he must be aware of it. “It’s the crocagator, head of a crocodile at one end, head of an alligator at the other, mean as all get out”. Client: “If he’s got a head at both ends how does he poop?” Guide: “That’s why he’s so mean.”

The Aussie Custard Tart

Message sent with content provided in email.

In re: pocket gophers, you have to poison them - Gopher Gone. They almost never offer a target. Have never had a shot at one. The dogs do dig one up for a snack on occasion - that is another issue - The Pitts!

Hey Doc... Good to see ya on the Grumpy thread... Jabez Cowboy

Snope returns to conference this Thursday, April 17th. Still no current scheduled conference for Ocean State. B&L under discussion on the 25th.

Why would you post that? Even understanding that you have issues.