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  2. Where did you work? I might have to dust off my resume
  3. Well I tried the box of TCFP cartridges in my Henry Rifle this past weekend and found I could only load 9 instead of 10 because the OAL was too long. They ran just fine in my Vaqueros, so now I will shoot the 125 grain RNFP cartridges in both my pistols and my rifle. Thanks to all who posted their opinions to my OP. Since I don't reload, I am purchasing my cartridges from Choice Ammunition in Montana. I like their product and although it costs more to shoot their cartridges they run just fine in my guns with no problems. They use new brass, coated bullets and Federal Primers and are a SASS vendor.
  4. Hang the spurs, if you must. BUT DON'T EVER HANG UP THEM GUNS!!
  5. I had a shed that was 8'X20' back in the '80's. I bought it on a farm auction and slid it home 20 miles on utility poles behind a tractor. I used the unfinished half for a feed shed and the other end for my reloading. I only had a fan for cooling in the hot months and a small (15 gal) wood stove for winter heat. I always oiled the dies, press and what I left out there, but they still rusted. The primers and powder were sealed in ammo cans. We deal with high swings in temp and humidity in S/E NE and the shed was definitely not the ideal set up for me. Now the whole shebang is in the house again. MG
  6. One hand filling the tube as the other works the lever??? Me????? In the words of Harry Callahan "A man has to know his limits"
  7. I will take 1000 if available, thanks Slick ...crosscut hardy
  8. I made good friends with Lash and shot with him several times...... real fun to shoot with and also he had a great testimony for our Lord Jesus Christ.
  9. Popular? Is that an issue? When it comes to shooter safety, and when I'm the individual elected as the Club's "Sheriff" and therefore am formally identified in our Bylaws as responsible for our club's safety program, damn right I'm going to look into our host range safety regs and any conflicts, and you can bet I'll sound off here to question and, when appropriate, object when I believe something is less than safe, regardless of how long it may have been in place or who supports it. Popularity here has little to do with it. The simple fact is, if/when an accident occurs, nobody will care whether or not the rules require the shooter to receive a DQ. Other priorities will quickly overshadow those petty concerns. All prevention options are gone after it happens. Our concern should be how to make the game and our rules of operation as safe as practicable and prevent that accident occurring. A neighboring club has already seen one shooter put a pistol bullet through their hand. We don't want or need that kind of tragedy. Popular or not, that's the reality I have to address.
  10. Today
  11. It was www.sassdecals.com Joplin Jim 937-849-9646 I don't think he is in business anymore, but you might want to give the number a ring. His website does not work --Dawg
  12. Take that same group and ask them to fold up a paper road map....If they know what they are..... Texas Lizard.
  13. Hey Preacherman Are you interested in the Two Rugar Black Powder Chrome cylinders for the same price you paid for the other ones. ( It includes the nipples) Just hink about how nice it would be to shoot four stages, without reloading. Two Ponies
  14. I Have been reading through all of this and I am very pleased to see this very brave woman’s progress, coming back from a stroke. Who knows how and why these things happen? Much of it brings sadness and tears to the eyes, but In many ways, Michelle’s difficult journey back is very positive and inspirational. Keep pushing back, Velvet. My prayers are with you. That good fight is one you can win. You are an inspiration to all of us. My prayers have gone out for Michele, her family, and circle of close friends. And, thank you Allie Mo, for transferring these updates on Michele’s progress to the Wire. Cat Brules
  15. I am always impressed with the knowledge certain people have about guns used in CAS. These files are so detailed and imformative. Thank you very much for posting these. I know not all of the suggestions are going to be perfect but they make understanding the gun that much better. I love the detailed inspectiona nd suggestions for improvement. A lot to read but interesting for the owner and shooter. Russ the Red
  16. If I recall correctly, wasn't there a SASS member that offers custom SASS decals and business cards? I did a search here and didn't find anything. Anyone have any info? Thanks!
  17. I'm a Swiss Army guy for everyday. Toothpick keeps me from going crazy when my crowns collect food. Yeah, I have lots of other knives, but rarely carry them. The corkscrew is handy if I am attacked by a wine bottle.
  18. Linn Keller 8-30-12 Annette gazed long into the shimmering purple depths of the wineglass, much as a swimmer gauges the depth of water before making a high dive: she put the delicate glass to her lips, closed her eyes and drank, slowly, until the glass was empty. Esther took her son's elbow and steered him gently to the door. "In wine there is truth," she quoted, "and there is talk that must remain between women." "Yes, ma'am," Joseph said, looking back at his bride: Annette's head was still bowed over the empty wineglass; she might have been carved of close-grained oak, or perhaps from marble, for she was utterly without movement of any kind. Jacob looked back at his mother and said "Thank you," then turned and stepped out the door. Esther discreetly placed the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the outside of the door, closed it quietly, and turned the key soundlessly in the lock, guaranteeing there would be no interruption. Esther settled Annette into a chair, taking the wineglass and placing it on the tray: her own was untouched, and would remain so, at least until such time as she poured another glass for her daughter-in-law. Esther took Annette's hands, then released one of them to place gentle fingers under the younger woman's chin. "Tell me what happened," she said, and Annette looked at Esther. Esther saw a young woman, a frightened young woman, a woman who blamed herself for something yet unsaid. Annette saw a kind and motherly soul who reminded her very much of her own mother, and of her grandmother, and her eyes fell away and to the side as her hand came to her mouth and her eyes screwed shut, trying without success to stop the salt water from spilling over trembling dams. Esther leaned forward, drew Annette into her: sometimes a woman just needs a good cry, and Annette did: hers was like a summer storm, brief and intense, leaving echoes of its passing and a general dampness, and she began to talk. Esther listened patiently, without interrupting, nodding occasionally: her eyes were fixed on Annette's, and Annette's were fixed on her knees. Esther listened to Annette's discovery of her little boy's fever, her quick exploration of his throat, the discovery of swollen glands; she looked into his mouth, down to the back of his throat, then bundled the fevered little boy and with Jacob's help got his fever down: they two got him to the hospital, where she made an utter fool of herself by mistaking tonsillitis for diphtheria: Esther saw her cheeks turn absolutely scarlet with humiliation as she admitted the mistake. Esther nodded, considering before replying. "You never knew my family, back East," Esther began. Annette shook her head quickly. Esther smiled sadly. "I was very ... intimidated ... by my mother in law." Her voice was quiet, patient, the voice of a woman who'd ridden a rough trail and saw something of herself in the soul before her. "My little baby boy was not well, and I did not know what to do. "I was a young mother and when I married ..." Annette looked up and was surprised at the sad look on Esther's face. "It was said," Esther continued slowly, "that I was just a gold digger, marrying as I did." Her head came up and Annette could feel the older woman's spine straighten. "But I did marry him, and for all the right reasons, and a year later we had a fine little boy, much like your Joseph." "What happened?" Annette asked hesitantly. "He was fevered and fussy and he wasn't teething yet, and I ... I was very young, and very frightened." Esther looked off to the side, looking into the past, remembering, and Annette saw her shiver. "I had nowhere to turn, except my mother-in-law." Annette's expression changed: she felt concern for the woman that Esther had been, someone much like herself, someone facing the unknown, and afraid for it. "She came over -- I remember they had such a grand carriage, and the driver was a dignified old gentleman with grey hair and a shining top hat -- she came in and took one look at our son and said to draw some hot water, and I did." "Hot water?" Esther nodded. "She opened his mouth and we looked at the roof of his mouth. "It was just polluted with little white speckles. "We put him in a tub of nice warm water and the red speckles fairly shot out onto his skin. "He had measles." "Oh!" Annette's hand went to her mouth. "He was a fine, strong boy, much like his father, and he came through it." Esther patted Annette's hand between her own. "Now I've told you my story. You tell me yours. What happened?" Dr. Flint slid the steel ring over the swollen tonsil, working it a little until the swollen gland popped through. "Do you know," he said conversationally, "that dentists make the best surgeons?" "Oh?" Dr. Greenlees dipped the cotton ball into the styptic solution, tapping it against the heavy glass neck to drain off the excess. "They are used to working in confined spaces" -- Dr. Flint frowned a little, then thrust the two-pronged steel fork into the tissue to impale it in place, preventing its escape -- "they are used to making very precise cuts in that very limited space" -- he worked the tonsil from its socket, gently, patiently: when it was withdrawn to his satisfaction, he pressed the guillotine blade home, freeing the tonsil, brought it quickly out, and Dr. Greenlees thrust the cotton ball into the bleeding socket. Dr. Flint placed the second tonsil beside the first in the little steel pan, placed the tonsillotome in the pan beside it: he turned a little, fastidiously washing his hands yet again. "Do you know," Dr. Greenlees said offhandedly, "you wash your hands more than any doctor I know?" "Including you?" Dr. Flint asked, his eyes betraying the smile he didn't quite permit the rest of his face. "No, I'm as bad as you are," Dr. Greenlees admitted, "which is why we have the least infection complications of any practice in the Territory." "Precisely." "There, that's stopped." He nodded, placed the bloodied cotton in the pan with the excised tissue. "We'll just watch him for a bit to make sure he doesn't have any breakthrough hemorrhage." Dr. Greenlees looked up at his fellow surgeon. "Now what was that about dentists making the best surgeons?" he asked with a quick grin. "I believe that was one of the most precise tonsillectomies I've seen, especially on a patient this young!" Sarah was indeed as contrary and as hard headed as her father. Fortunately she was not as stupid as she was contrary. She worked her arm and shoulder but not to excess; she stressed her young muscles to reasonable limits, but not beyond; she tired herself out, then she went back to the house and took a nice hot bath, and then a nap. As she was falling asleep it occurred to her that this may be the first time in a very long time she'd done something ... something normal. She smiled a little as she slipped under the dark waters of the Lake of Slumber. "You old enough to drink, kid?" the dusty man in the worn coat sneered. Mr. Baxter casually placed the glass he'd been polishing, back on its shelf; he casually moved down the bar a few feet and began burnishing the mahogany bar top. Conversation at the near tables stopped: chairs scooted back, cards dropped to the green felt, the roulette-wheel stopped with a clatter of its bouncing white marble, and the piano player, seeing alarm spread like ripples in a pebble-dropped pond, stopped his playing. Jacob turned slowly, regarding the stubble-faced stranger with cold eyes. The stranger hesitated, seeing those ice-pale eyes, so mesmerized that he did not hear the front door open, nor the cat-like gait behind him. "Can I buy you a drink, mister?" Jacob asked quietly. "Drink!" the man half-barked, half-laughed. "Why, you can buy the whole billy-be-damned house a drink!" "No, sir," Jacob said, never raising his voice. "You need a drink, but just you." "And I say you'll buy for the house!" the man roared, taking a step toward the slender deputy. Jacob was never a man for halfway measures. Nor was he stupid enough to let a large and strong man get in arm's reach. He sidestepped quickly to his left, away from the bar, slinging his beer up the man's middle, dousing him from belt buckle to broke brim hat: the man blinked, then opened his eyes just in time to inherit the bottom edge of a heavy glass beer mug right between the eyebrows. Jacob never stopped moving: he stepped in, swung, danced back: the mug was heavy and strong and had not broken, and Jacob, not being a wasteful man, set it down on a table. Mr. Baxter reached under the bar, fetching out his bung starter and tossing it in a high arc over the snorting, bellowing stranger: his other hand was welded to the wrist of his double gun, and he held it across his body, hammers back, ready as needed. Jacob caught the bung starter and belted the man behind the ear, dropping him like a head shot beef. Jackson Cooper nodded, raising one eyebrow in approval. "Shame about that," he observed, his voice rumbling as if struggling through rock fill in a deep well. "How's that?" Jacob asked, picking up the beer mug and returning it and the bung starter to Mr. Baxter's bar. "Shame to spill good beer like that." "Yeah, I know," Jacob agreed. "A man told me once he'd ruther burn a church than spill good beer." Jackson Cooper bent down and seized the man by the back of his belt, straightened. "Well, since he's takin' a siesta, I reckon I'll fetch him to his room so he can snooze all comfortable-like." Jacob picked up the limp man's hat and handed it to the big town Marshal. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate that." Lightning excused himself to change into something dry, and Daciana set me down with a big mug of coffee and some of those light rolls, and butter she'd pressed into those cute little molds women-folk are fond of. She knew I had a weakness for light rolls, for I'd said once to her that my Mama used to make them. Now I knew something was not as it should be, for Daciana was wearing ... well, I know about as much about women's fashions as a paving brick, but it struck me she was dressed a nickel's worth better than she usually did. Lightning, too ... I had no notion a'tall why he'd been a-wallerin' in a horse trough, nor why he acted kind of uncomfortable, but I reckoned if neither of them spoke about it, why, 'twas none of my business, and besides, I'd never had coffee made with cinnamon and a little honey before. Daciana had the loveliest accent, and she asked how Esther was carrying, and I grinned and allowed as she was the happiest woman in the world, that she was delighted to bear my child and said so every day. Daciana gave me a long look and said something in Romanian and I recognized that gesture she tried to hide. She made a quick finger-sign to ward off the Evil Eye, and I knew she had some knowledge that she wasn't going to give me.
  19. Oh hell, Pat, lots of people like you anyway.
  20. Kinda makes me want to go out and buy a bottom feeder!
  21. I am jealous. I never had anything like the meals some of you describe. I worked for the US Forest Service during the summer of 1965, packed into the Sangre De Cristos in southern Colorado. We packed 5 or 6 miles into the mountains at sun up Monday morning, hiked out on Friday afternoon to spend the weekend in town and restock our supplies for next week. Three guys surviving together, repairing trails during the day and cooking supper after an exhausting day of work. One iron skillet on a Coleman stove, a can of tomatoes, a can of pork and beans, and a pound of hamburger, all cooked together was as good as it ever got. Frequently it was something less appetizing. Canned soda kept in the stream below the tent to wash it down. I was glad to get back to college. Screw camping. I like hotels.
  22. Gas tank was in the cowl of some cars just ahead of the windshield, and there was no carburetor, just a "sponge" drip system. Always crank it clockwise and NEVER wrap your thumb over the crank handle...unless you enjoy broken or bruised thumbs.
  23. Is there a funnel that works with 38 special? Not sure which one to try while googling.
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