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EVO

gone fishin'

Couldn't even put Carol Burnett or any other show from that era one...and that Is a crying shame.

Here's a little trick (tool) that saved me some time and kept some rifle ammo out of my "practice box". I loaded about 600 rounds of .38 rifle rounds with a seating die that had moved out of adjustment. The 1.455 COAL rounds just wouldn't work through my 1873. I re-seated the rounds to shorter length, but because they had already been crimped, re-seating left a thin collar of shaved lead around the crimp on each round. I was concerned the collars would be dislodged in clambering, fouling the chamber and feeding. I did the following, which has worked very well, so I thought I'd share it here for others with similar situations. First I took an empty, unprimed .38 case and belled the end, using a cheap 3/8" HFT drift punch, ground to a slight taper at the tip 1/4". (I first tried using the powder die belling feature, but it didn't bell the end deeply enough down the case) I filed four shallow notches in the end, leaving them rough, as teeth. I chucked the belled round in a screw gun and inserted the re-seated rounds tip first, running at very low speed (wear good gloves). The rough brass easily removed the shaved lead collars, leaving me 400 perfect rounds of correct length. When it wears or stretches too much, I can cheaply make another or roll the edge against a hard surface to restore it. Occasionally, someone here posts about re-sizing cartridges, so I thought I would share. This works better than grinding the tips off of bullets, and I once discharged a round in my hand from the heat of that kind of grinding.

PM sent

I like number one. Everyone should know how to swim at least a mile. I know how to swim a mile. I can't do it, but I know how to. It's like running a marathon. I know how to run a marathon. I can't do it, but I know how. On the first episode of Bones, Zack says that he is halfway through two doctorates, so that should count as having a full doctorate. Using that thinking, since I know words and phrases in well over a dozen different languages, I should be considered fluent in a foreign language. Right?

It shot well. Randy

I believe it was THE GANG THAT COULDN'T SHOOT STRAIGHT. Italian gangster. Mafioso. Big fat guy. And whenever he would go to a restaurant and order spaghetti, he would take off his suit coat, and then his neck tie, and then his shirt. And he would sit there at the table wearing his undershirt which had red stains all over the front of it. Apparently it liked to taste his dinner too.

GET OUTTA HERE NOW The Sheriff was not a trusting man. He’d been lied to often enough and badly enough that he trusted very few individuals: those of his inner circle were trusted implicitly and without hesitation, but those who were not part of that inner circle … weren’t. When word came to him that three men with lready stained reputations wished him harm, he considered the information was probably correct … though it could be just hot air, bluster, bragging, the way men will in careless moments. When two of those men came riding toward him, the Sheriff looked at the lay of the land, gigged his stallion in the ribs, ran on ahead to where he’d have the advantage of terrain. The pair saw him and reacted, and the three ended up a mile or so distant, playing cat-and-mouse with each other, until one disappeared and the Sheriff had no idea where he was. His stallion stood, sleepy-looking as was his habit: the Sheriff knew his golden Palomino was anything but drowsy, and when an ear swung to the right, horse and rider both spun and surged forward. “DON’T!” the Sheriff yelled as his left hand Colt came to full cock. One of the men he was after had his rifle in hand, and halfway raised: the stallion’s head started to move. Linn never remembered drawing his right hand revolver, only that his left hand Colt fired, his stallion spun under him and he fired a second round from the engraved, gold-inlaid, left-hand Colt. Part of his mind, sitting well behind his eyes, stood on the quarterdeck of a sailing-ship, wearing a Captain’s hat and watching the enemy’s ship: he heard his own voice, distant and faint, “Fire as they come to bear!” – and his left-hand Colt did just that as his stallion completed his surging turn. Linn gigged his stallion into a gallop, he dropped into a gully, stopped, turned. They’ll expect me to ride downhill, under cover, he thought. Yonder’s where they’ll expect me to come up. He turned the Palomino’s head upstream, walked him quickly, then gigged him into a jump and he was back up on the flat, a revolver in each hand, ready – One horse stood looking at him, ears swinging, the other was a quarter mile distant and still moving. Two men lay on the ground, face down. Linn holstered his unfired, right-hand revolver, kicked out the fired hulls and reloaded the other: he holstered, walked his stallion over to the watching horse, looked down. As there was a bloody hole out the back of the man’s head, he concluded there was little threat to be had from this one, and walked Rey del Sol over to the other unmoving form. The saddled gelding followed him, apparently anxious for the company. Linn swung down. Don’t see any holes out his back. “You alive?” he asked uncharitably. The other outlaw made no reply. The Sheriff squatted, picked up the dropped pistol. “Be damned,” he muttered as he checked the loads, then sniffed the muzzle: “You got a shot off!” Part of his mind reminded him his earlobe was stinging just a little. He reached up, brushed it with the back of his finger, and it came away wet and red. Well, hell, he thought, I’m gettin’ my coat bloody! He grabbed the outlaw, rolled him over, ready for an arm to punch up, ready for a close-held pistol to come to bear – The Sheriff grunted. The man’s life was soaked out into the sandy ground. One hole in, no holes out. He looked up, looked around, squinting a little against the sun’s glaring brightness. He put two fingers to his lips, whistled, a high, shimmering note, the kind that carried well in the thin, high air. He reached into a pocket and drew out a plug of molasses twist tobacker and shaved off several generous curls, bribed the dead outlaw’s horse into coming closer: once he had hands on its reins, the horse followed docilely. His whistle brought the departing equine’s head up: the Sheriff saw it coming back toward him, as he’d hoped it would. “Daddy,” Angela said, her big blue eyes wide and innocent, “did you get hurt?” Linn smiled at his little girl, squatted. “No, Princess, why would you ask that?” “Your ear’s bloody.” “Yeah, I kinda scraped it on something.” “Ow,” Angela grimaced sympathetically, then turned and looked at two carcasses bent over their saddles. She looked at her pale eyed Daddy and said skeptically, “Daddy, are you sure you’re not hurt?” Linn’s voice was gentle as he nodded. “I’m sure, Princess.” Five year old Angela Keller drew herself up to her full frilly frocked height and shook her little pink Mommy-finger at her Daddy and scolded, “Daddy, if you gets hurted real bad an’ killed, I’ll never speak to you again!” Hard men remain hard men when they are faced with danger, with enemies, with confrontation. Hard men will not infrequently melt like butter on a hot skillet when a pretty little girl shakes her little pink Mommy-finger and admonishes her Daddy in a high, sincere, little-girl voice: Sheriff Linn Keller laughed quietly, went to one knee, wrapped his little girl in a big comforting Daddy-hug and murmured gently in her little pink ear, “I’ll keep that in mind, Princess,” then she felt him change and he released her, leaned back. The Sheriff rose, his eyes hard and his voice matched his eyes. “Get out of here, now,” he said, his voice low, urgent. Angela was Daddy’s Little Girl. Angela was a blue-eyed child of the Kentucky mountains, orphaned in a train wreck. Angela had been Linn and Esther’s daughter for just over one year, and in that one year, as children often do, she was a highly observant, extremely attentive, sponge. Angela knew her Daddy’s voice and her Daddy’s hands and she knew when her Daddy said to scoot, it was time to scoot! – and she did. Her Daddy stood and her Daddy’s coat was open and Angela twisted between her Daddy and the front of the Sheriff’s office, she ran a-scamper to the end of the boardwalk and jumped, landed flat footed and ducked to the right. She was halfway down the alley before she realized she’d just heard two gunshots, sudden, shocking, slapping at her as they echoed down the alley between Digger’s funeral parlor and the Sheriff’s log fortress. Angela kept running, turned right again, skidded a little as she came to her Daddy’s little bitty stable behind the Sheriff’s office. Angela stopped, looked down the alley. A man was just falling off his horse – limp, boneless, he fell and hit the ground like a sack of sawdust and just laid there, his foot falling from the stirrup as his horse danced sideways, eyes walling. Angela ran to the mouth of the alley, looked around, then she strutted out in the middle of the street, her little pink hand extended: “Come here, horsie,” she cooed in her little-girl’s voice: “ ’Mere, horsie.” The horse’s nostrils were flared, its ears laid back, but at the approach of this little frilly creature with a gentle voice, the horse stretched its neck, snuffing loudly at the little pink hand. Angela giggled and gathered the reins in her hands, reached up and stroked the horsie’s damp pink nose, chattering quietly to it the way a fearless little girl will do. Angela was enamored with the snuffy horsie, so much so that she honestly did not see running men, curious onlookers: it wasn’t until she heard the clatter of Digger’s dead wagon that she looked up and realized the fellow who fell from the horsie was picked up from behind her, and loaded into the dead wagon. Angela looked up, all bright eyes and white teeth, smiled as Esther dipped her knees, gripped her daughter’s shoulders with motherly hands, regarded her with wide, frightened eyes. “Hi, Mommy,” Angela laughed. “I founded me a horsie!” An empty brass hull fell to the boardwalk. The Sheriff did not hear it hit through the red ringing in his ears, but he felt the impact of the brass rim hitting the weathered, warped, dusty board through his bootsole. He replaced the fired round and holstered his engraved Colt. He looked at his wife and at his little girl, and he was flat forevermore grateful that when he told her to get out of here ... she did.

If I recall, back in the day, folks from outside of the particular unit in question using those terms often suffered consequences.

The bloody bucket I've heard of, but I thought that one fourth from the left in the middle row was the electric strawberry?

Please see page 8 of the Cowboy Clays Handbook for information regarding chokes. I assume you are asking about a trap side match for Wild Bunch as the model 12 is not legal for cowboy action.

Crushed beer can - 7th Infantry

Hey Windy, you got a double tap on your posted question my friend! TB

Nor The Jeffersons Blazing Saddles would be about 2 minutes long.

Still looking. Sent you a message yesterday right after you posted this. Did you get it?

TODAY!!! The Tennessee House of Representatives passed legislation this afternoon providing for an avenue for teachers in our classrooms to be armed to protect their students and other staff members! The bill requires teachers to receive approval from their school superintendent, the local sheriff, and pass a mental evaluation, obtain an enhanced carry permit, and take forty hours of training specific to use of a handgun in protection of themselves, their students, and others in the school. This bill is now headed to the governor’s desk for his signature!!

Squish, you're right

I have had this box of shells a few years and have no idea where I picked them up. Any shot shell collectors out there interested in adding them to your collection. Saw a wide range of selling prices over the years and am asking $90.00 plus legal shipping to your address. Thanks for looking. DC

Can a model 12 with variable choke at end of barrel be used in cowboy trap?

Good stuff. I'll take Jiu Jitsu. Practiced and used it most of my life. Not all men qualify as a man - true then and now.

Can a model 12 with variable choke at end of barrel be used in cowboy trap?