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  2. Linn Keller 12-26-10 The gloves were well padded, unusually so: Sean insisted on it and had them custom made, ordered in from Sullivan's gym in New York. It wasn't that the big Irishman was interested in sparing his scar-knuckled fists. It's that he wished to spare any sparring partners unnecessary damage. Boxing was a blood sport and participants not infrequently fought one another until bloody injury made the spectacle so gruesome the bout was called off -- unless one party or the other just plainly cold cocked the other. Sean regarded his opponent, gloves up, moving easily on the balls of his feet. The Sheriff did likewise. Both men were bare to the waist; they circled warily around each other in the privacy of the Sheriff's barn. Usually the Sheriff and his son sparred there, in a variety of fighting styles, and with a variety of simulated tools of ungentle pacification: today, though, it was knuckles. The arrangement was unusual in that the big Irishman had asked the Sheriff if he would do him the honor of a bout or three -- "just for practice, y'understand" -- and so it was just the pair of them. They were both warmed up: in fact, their bare torsos steamed in the cold air, and their breath hung in clouds as they exhaled powerfully. "Did ye notice the Parson wasna' his usual self?" Sean asked, then launched a right. The Sheriff dropped his head to the side, swatted the incoming forearm and took a counterpunch in his high ribs: staggering back, he bared his teeth, stepped back in. "I noticed." Sean tried the same punch and took a left to his wind that he never saw coming. The Sheriff barely had time to put up a blocking mitt: it wasn't enough, and Sean punched through the lawman's block: the Sheriff's own glove came back and flattened lips against even white teeth. Blinking back the stinging pain, the Sheriff waited, gloves up, ready. Sean stepped in. The Sheriff thrust himself quickly to the left, then suddenly to the right and hit a left-right-left to the big Irishman's belly and soft ribs. A fist grazed the side of his head and he scored a solid right to the Irishman's armpit. "Good," Sean grunted, backing up a pace and raising his gloves. The Sheriff raised his; they touched gloves, then wrapped their arms around each other and stood there for a moment. Each man had taken the other's measure: both were in pain, and each recognized the other as a warrior in his own right. "Ye're as fast as ye e'er were," Sean gasped, thumping the Sheriff on his shoulder, to which the Sheriff grunted "You hit like a Missouri mule," and they went over to the blanket covered hay bale and sat heavily. "Misfortune will weight a man's soul," Sean said, his accent more prominent, and the Sheriff knew he was troubled by more than he was letting on. He nodded, leaning elbows on knees, ignoring his aching ribs as best he could. He spat blood, bright and gleaming, to the straw covered floor, rubbed his lips with the back of a glove. That last blow had caught him for fair and for sure. "Now th' Parson ..." Sean leaned his own elbows and worked the bend out of his back -- "there's a mon I admire." The Sheriff nodded, turning his head a little, listening. "He an' Brother William." Sean's voice was distant and he touched his nose carefully. The Sheriff had given a good account of himself, all right. "The Parson was out all night." "Didn't know that." The Sheriff looked sharply at the big Irishman. "What happened?" "'Twas over't Carbon, a fire." "How bad?" Sean glared at the greying lawman. "'Twas no' good. They sent f'r th' Parson soon as it happened." The Sheriff worked his jaw a little. "Go on." Sean's eyes were haunted: old ghosts hovered just outside his vision, unseen but real, and he shivered. "The family Voormann ..." he began, and his voice trailed off: he hung his big head and shuffled one booted foot in the fragrant straw. "'Twas a two story house. I remember seein' it." He picked up a shaft of straw, turned it end for end between thumb and forefinger, dropped it. "They got out, th' husband an' wife an' their wee child." Sean's voice was tight, almost strained. "The mother went back in. "'Twas said her girls were screamin' t' death in th' upper bedroom. "She fought her way up th' stairs an' she got t' the daughters. "She had one under each arm an' started down th' staircase when it collapsed on 'em." The Sheriff had known Sean for some years: he'd known the man in joy and in sorrow, in laughter and in raging, furious anger: he'd never seen Sean's hands tremble before, and he knew this was not a good thing. Sean swallowed hard. The Sheriff looked away quickly, for he'd seen a streak of saltwater spill down one florid cheek. "She -- they -- " Sean swallowed again. "When th' coals were low enough they could start t' rake 'em away, they found what was left of 'em, fused int' one lump. "The husband ... God almighty, what th' man must'a felt! --they sent f'r the Parson, an' he was wi' the man all night long." The Sheriff nodded. "You've seen that before." Sean's eyes were bleak, the look of a strong and capable man who realized his own helplessness. "I was that man, once, back East. B'fore I was a fireman." He snorted, chuckled mirthlessly. "I joined th' Brigade th' nex' day an' I've fought th' dragon e'er since." He took a long, shivering breath. "Yon Parson was strong enough t' keep th' man from killin' himsel' an' I don't think he got a wink o' sleep in four an' twenty hours f'r the doin' of it." The Sheriff nodded, remembering how dark the man had been under the eyes. "Now you," Sean said, his mood changing abruptly, his hand squeezing the Sheriff's shoulder companionably, "I don't think yu' heard word one o' the Christmas sermon!" The Sheriff chuckled. "We heard o' the coats an' th' clothes," he said in a quiet and approving voice. "An' the other too." The Sheriff shook his head. "An' here I tried not to let my left hand know what my right hand did!" "When ye include th' deed free an' clear t' the ranch an' a note that says "Merry Christmas, it's all yours," Sean declared stoutly, "it's no' somethin' people will keep under their hat!" "I shoulda stuck to coats an' socks an' knit mittens!" the Sheriff complained good-naturedly. "There's somethin' else, isn't there?" he asked Sean, and Sean nodded, his face troubled. "Daisy lost th' child," he said in a hoarse whisper. The Sheriff sighed, nodding. He'd suspected as much, but there had been no announcement: he knew Sean would make mention of it in due time. He just didn't expect this would be the time. "She blamed hersel', Sheriff. Said she musta' been an evil woman t' be punished so." Sean squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. "My fault it was, no' hers, an' I told her so. "She took m' face between her hands an' threatened to beat me wi' a hitch rail if I e'er said as much again!" The Sheriff stood, picked up his own shirt and Sean's as well: both men slipped into a little insulation, for they were both getting chilled. "I don't doubt she could, too," the Sheriff said with a small smile. "I've seen her temper." Sean grinned. "Ye've no' seen th' half o' the woman's temper!" he laughed, then melancholy flowed back into his eyes like fog off a quiet sea. "Th' Parson set with her an' listened, an' I don' know the words he spoke, but 'twas of comfort to her." The Sheriff twisted a little, one way, then the other: he frowned as his ribs settled back into place with rather ill grace. "She's a strong woman, ma Daisy," he said, and there was at once grief for their loss but admiration for his wife, and the Sheriff nodded. "Aye," he said. "She is that." Silence grew long between the two as the Sheriff shrugged slowly into his shirt and vest. "How you holdin' up, Sean?" the Sheriff asked, and at the answering silence, he added quietly, "It is not easy to lose a child. "No," Sean said, equally quietly. "It's no'." Sean's fingers fumbled with their task. The Sheriff cocked an eye toward the fire chief, who was buttoning up the bib front, red-wool shirt. "There is one thing." "Aye?" Sean thrust his shirt tail into his waist band, turned to face the Sheriff. "At church today," Linn asked. Did I snore?"
  3. Could be... Maybe check to see if hammers are rebounding to safty notch. Examine primers in fired hulls to see if they look excessively deep or marks where firing pins plowed out. Check firing pins to see if they have mushroomed or otherwise sticking. I seem to recall someone selling hardened replacement firing pins for these guns.
  4. Decide on whether you want to shoot Modern or Traditional. PM me. I may have a Colt frame or two.
  5. Tennessee Williams is correct about the anvil.... a junk anvil will work you to death. I found that out the hard way !! A good one is worth the money.
  6. Ha!!! Uh, yeah...know that. It of course was...still subjective. Phantom
  7. Your concerns should be taken to the MD
  8. The last time I computed the costs was before the Obama regime. Reloading saved me $40 a match, $80 when the son shot with me. The Dillon Square Deal paid for its of in a short time. Sold it and purchased a 650 XL, now I save money AND enjoy reloading.
  9. 357: Okay, yes he did. Notice that I am NOT on the trigger of that SxS. It's on a sofa static. MG
  10. Here I am being dense again. How does the size of the magazine tube have any effect on whether a bullet will accordion back into the case? Some people may have a feed problem because of the mag tube, but I do not. My feed problem is because when the bullet backs into the case a second cartridge follows the one already on the carrier. This second cartridge prevents the carrier from rising, thus the jam. In my original post, I stated that I cut about .050” off of the bottom of the resizing die in order for them to work on my Dillon 550. But in Levi Littleton’s pictures, it’s obvious that his dies are sizing his brass to a smaller diameter than mine are. His bullets are effectively expanding the brass where mine are not. What kind of dies are you using Levi? I had tried Starline brass before with poor results. But having 100 rounds of new Starline, I loaded them up to give them a test tomorrow. Also used the 30 Carbine expanding die on the Starline brass and the 100 rounds of RP brass as well. I’ve heard that some dies are made for loading 32-20 with .308” diameter bullets. I am not going to load .308 bullets for my 32-20’s but the sizing die might work better. Except for the cartridge length both brands of brass have similar diameters and wall thickness (.006” wall thickness). The further I get into this, the more I’m thinking it’s the dies. I’ll give y’all an update after some range time tomorrow.
  11. Doc noticed a horse lingering around his stable, he was saddled but not tied up. He went up to the horse and checked the saddlebags, there was release papers from Yuma prison with the name Gordon "Bull" Riddle on it. Doc had no idea who's horse it was but guessed it might have belonged to the man Rye gunned down in the saloon. Bull Riddle didn't sound familiar to him at all. He checked with Mayor Dawg and the mayor said." Bull Riddle's two sons were shot by the previous sheriff, Cole Alan, who left the town just before Sheriff Tyrel took over. It was also before I became mayor but I'd heard the story from some of the townsfolk. Bull was in prison for armed robbery. He did 6 years and heard his sons were shot by Sheriff Alan in a bank holdup. Bull had no idea Sheriff Alan left town and had taken a job as a Wells Fargo detective. He was drunk and determined to find revenge for his sons being killed. I've gotta tell Rye who this maniac was" said the Mayor. The Mayor went down to the saloon where Rye was hanging out talking to the piano player. He explained to Rye who the crazed shotgun wielding lunatic was and who he was after. "I know Cole Alan, he was a sheriff in Sandstone which is where I found the Steinway piano. I knew Cole from a few years ago before he became sheriff here. We were on a cattle drive together. I forgot all about that whole Bull Riddle incident. I heard about it when I first got here to Stone Creek" said Rye. He poured a drink for the the Mayor and told him about his leaving to join the Arizona Rangers. The Mayor agreed that it was a good opportunity for Rye. He had been kicking around pushing cattle and playing piano and doing a couple temporary deputy gigs here and there. This Ranger job sounded like some stability which was scarce in the west. If you landed a job you hung onto it. "Good for you Rye, I hope you'll come back from time to time if you can, don't you be forgettin' about us now" said the Mayor. Rye said, " Mayor, I've made some good friends here that I won't forget and I'll be back when I can. I still have a few loose ends to tie up before I leave so you''ll have to put up with me for a couple weeks yet". The Mayor smiled and held up his glass and said, "I'll drink to that".
  12. Fantastic match, worth coming too t his one from Nebraska
  13. Sent PM back. I will have to go check the chokes & length. They are either 26" or 28". I recollect that they are 3" chambers (Full & Mod?). I won't know until I get to town. MG PS Right now I'm looking for my cell phone. I have either lost (or possibly was swiped) my cell phone with all of my pics, etc.
  14. Hopefully you will be healed by then. Glad to hear you enjoyed it.
  15. Shoot went well. All 50 cartridges went boom. No real problems. The guns did seem to be binding a little more than usual. Not sure if that was the papers fault, probably caps. When I cleaned them, some debris washed out of the chambers. Overall, way better than handling loose powder. Maybe I could use a jag to clean the chambers between loadings, like the worm for a cannon
  16. I check all my AA shells before a match. The Super Sizer will fix not all but 9 out of 10.
  17. I've seen non-overlapping targets deemed too close for a "Clean" miss. That's the problem - subjective. Phantom
  18. And you know they had to use Wikipedia to find out who they were. Kinda like doing a cover and not knowing it was a cover or who made it famous.
  19. While APP does not rust my guns, the residue buildup can stop them from functioning. After every day at a major match the buildup gets washed off. It is removed quite easily.
  20. Congrats JM and I appreciated your input and help with the walk thru. I’m still learning the ins and outs and ups and downs of writing matches. I’ve only written a couple of matches including the one you just shot so advice in the form you gave it is much appreciated.
  21. I love Clays. It's all I currently load with. Whenever I get down to two 8# tubs I buy another.
  22. From the thread title I was hoping for a photo of you with a big fish!
  23. i had looked for a few years for a lower to mount my kimber conversion to so i would not have to be switching it back and forth - i finally gave up and bought a sale item and cannibalized it [put the stock upper in storage in the original box ] i am happy - sorry this wont add to your happiness but you might be luckier than i in your search ,
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