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https://www.santafenewmexican.com/news/local_news/governor-wants-lawmakers-to-take-up-assault-weapons-ban-in-2024/article_de2bc436-d3dd-11ed-af21-97dab16c2705.html

That is some pretty sweet swag and Champion buckles and medal if you’re registered for the 2019 SASS New Mexico State Action Shooting Championship! Are you in? Register at www.riogranderenegades.org #riogranderenegades #fallfandango #pewpew #singleactionshootingsociety #cowboyactionshooting

Buffalo Stampede - the New Mexico 2018 State Cowboy Action Shooting Championship, will be Friday through Sunday, September 21 to 23, 2018. This state match revives the great parts of the Buffalo Stampede matches from a few years ago, right on Founders Ranch in Edgewood, NM. This year's theme - Adventures of the Lawmen of New Mexico Details of the match, the application form, schedule and details at: http://buffalorangeriders.org/statematch.html Hosted by Buffalo Range Riders. See ya there!

Note: The following story takes place in 1933. There are historical figures included as well as fictional characters. Words in common use at the time and attitudes common to the time may be found within and are used as a matter of historical accuracy. Such words and attitudes are not put forward as desirable or acceptable examples, only as artifacts of the past. -ECS ----- “You don’t have to leave, Sterling.” Without looking up from the cinch strap he was tightening, the younger Smith brother replied, “Nothin’ left here for me, Luke. You’re a better rancher than I could ever be. You have Sally and the kids. You need this place.” “Its your place, too. It’ll always be here for you.” Gathering the reins, Sterling stepped into the stirrup and swung easily to the saddle before looking at his brother Lucius, a tall, broad-shouldered man who could have posed for a Remington painting. “I’ll be stopping at the Patterson place tonight,” he said briefly. “Reckon I’ll head over to Arizona after.” “Let me know where you are, at least.” “I’ll do that. Adios.” He turned the wiry grulla mustang from the yard and rode toward the mountain looming over the Turkey Foot, never looking back. It was near dark when he brought the grulla down the back trail into the Patterson place past the stable and the famous stone chicken coop to the house where his grandparents had met. His Uncle John glanced at him from a rocker on the front porch, saying, “Luke called and said you’d be this way. Light and get washed up; supper’s about ready. One of the boys’ll tend to your horse.” “Luke say anything else?” Sterling asked briefly. “Other than you’re a damfool? No. I’m not going to try to change your mind, Sterling.” John Smith rose from the rocking chair, tucked the crutches under his arms, and swung his one leg between them with the ease of long practice as he stumped his way into the house. He knew it was likely to be the last time he was going to see his nephew… “Hey, you! Cowboy! This isn’t Dodge City, bub! You can’t wear a gun here!” The policeman on the near platform of the South Pacific/Union Pacific Central Depot grabbed a stranger by the arm, spinning him around. The object of his ire dropped a portmanteau and a carpet bag turning without resistance while drawing a nickel-plated, engraved, single action Merwin & Hulbert .44-40 WCF Pocket Army and jamming its three and one half inch barrel into the Los Angeles policeman’s ample belly before he could react. His face expressionless, Maricopa County, Arizona, Deputy Sheriff Sterling Smith thumbed the badge pinned to his vest saying with an icy calmness, “This says I can, fatso. You go layin’ hands on people ‘thout askin’, you just might get shot.” Panicked eyes showing white all the way around, the terrified policeman swallowed three or four times trying to keep the bile down before he was able to choke out, “I didn’t think…” “I know,” the deputy said coldly. He returned the Merwin & Hulbert to the floral-carved Threepersons holster, leaving the safety strap pushed forward before stepping back. “Now, pick up my bags, fatso, and hand them back to me real gentle like.” With his own surprise fading and the removal of the threat from his belly, the policeman started to recover his composure, blustering, “You have no call to call me ‘fatso,’ mister! I don’t care what kind of badge you’re wearing!” A man with fading red hair wearing a black suit and wide brimmed sombrero approached along the platform. “You’d better care, Cooper,” he said. “That’s Deputy Sheriff Smith from Arizona. He’s no one you want to prod. If you would put his bags in my automobile, I would appreciate it. We’re parked on the corner of Fifth and Central.” The rotund officer looked doubtful, but replied, “Whatever you say, Marshal Clark,” before picking up Smith’s bags and stomping up the platform towards the Fifth Street end of the Southern Pacific/Union Pacific Central Station. Smith watched Officer Cooper for a moment before turning to Robert E. Clark, United States Marshal for the Southern District of California and extending his hand. “Good to meet you, sir,” he said candidly. Marshal Clark took the proffered hand, shook, and answered, “Good to meet you, too, Deputy Smith. Marshal George Mauk speaks highly of you.” He tilted his head in the direction Cooper had departed through the crowd before turning to follow. “Cooper is pretty typical of the Los Angeles Police Department, petty and corrupt, but a good man in a scrap.” “If you say so, sir,” accepted Smith, unconsciously falling in to step with the older man, his battered brown campaign hat, faded blue shirt, weathered walnut canvas vest and trousers a stark contrast to the dapper Clark. In comparison to his clothing, Smith’s floral-carved gunbelt, holster, and riding boots were in first rate condition. Clark chuckled, “I just hope you do not have anything fragile in your luggage.” “No, sir; I heard they have whiskey, rum, and beer hereabouts. Didn’t have to bring any with me.” “You could have had any of that straight through Prohibition, Deputy,” the Marshal smiled as they passed through the station onto the street. “Los Angeles was flush with booze straight through the ‘noble experiment.’ Here’s the automobile.” A young Chinese man wearing a gray three piece suit with matching fedora and a slight bulge under his coat below his right arm leaned against the right spare tire cover of a red and black 1932 Pierce-Arrow Model B Dual-Cowl Phaeton with the top down listening to Cooper complain about unidentified people carrying guns like it was still the Old West. He straightened up as soon as he saw Clark and moved to open the back door. “This young reprobate is my driver, Eddie Rickenbacker,” the Marshal said by way of introduction. “This is Deputy Sheriff Sterling Smith, the man William S. Hart wishes he could be.” The young man grinned and stuck out his hand. “Danny Chou. It’s a pleasure,” he said. Smith smiled and shook hands. “Nice to meet you. Who is William S. Hart?” he asked innocently. He thought Chou was going to laugh out loud when Cooper’s mouth fell open in astonishment. The driver managed to keep his his reaction to a grin, answering, “He’s just a movie star,” leaving the LAPD officer spluttering. “If we are going to find your Japanese girl, time’s wasting, gentlemen,” Marshal Clark reminded them, climbing into the back seat.