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  2. These things are everywhere in California...Just ask any wannabe politician or media moron...
  3. I see lots of data but I am curious to what is actually USED to get results. For example - I hear lots of chitter chatter about Trailboss being great for CAS pistol work - but when looking up starter loads for my .38 the velocity is 753 for a 125 gr bullet. It isnt hard to find a few other powders that provide lower velocity with both 125 AND 158 grain bullets. I would rather manage a bit more recoil if it is cheaper and cleaner than Trailboss - I just dont know where to start. I am new to reloading so I dont know. The rounds I have been using are advertised to run about 850 with 125 gr flat nose bullets - they seem to have less felt recoil in my pistols than the 158's that I was using but it is barely noticeable. I have sen a few folks shooting 105s but I haven't seen any reloading data for 105 gr bullets. The same goes for shotgun - I hear all kinds of chatter about loads that replicate the Winchester Low Recoil rounds but all of the table I have found tend to show FPS number in the 1100 range. I dont think I have seen handload data that gets 12g shells down around 980.... What am I missing?
  4. So sorry Dave. She was the best. She could pop an ego like a balloon and lift spirits at the same time with a joke and a laugh. We never laughed, smiled, and cheered so much ever as when she was with us, anywhere. yer pard, joe
  5. Rolan : So sorry for your loss , thoughts and prays. Scrub Oak Willie and Garnet Gal
  6. Ha!! You're an instigator!! According to these guys ... (assuming you are associating sight lift w/ recoil) ... Article Quote - "a rule-of-thumb formula to achieve less recoil is to choose a heavier bullet with the smallest charge possible to achieve the desired PF." https://tigersharkballistics.com.au/pages/recoil-heavy-or-light-bullets Heavier projectiles also retain more energy the further they go.
  7. They've actually been out for awhile and I handled one at a local gun shop. They're just as bizarre as the pictures indicate. About the only "cool" thing about it is that you can stick a 33-round mag in it, fold it up and end up with something you can stick in a backpack that looks and feels like a folded camera tripod.
  8. Pot sniffers are pretty much limited to schools and correctional institutions now.
  9. My condolences Rolan. I met you and Bea many years ago at an early Mulecamp.
  10. Trimming? Separation? When you separate your brass do you also change the depth on your both your seating and crimp die to match brass OAL? Different length brass would require it to load reliable ammo. If brass is the same thickness I would have to wonder about the difference in annealing processes. Harder brass cracks easier. Work hardened brass cracks very easily. Crimping and shooting both work hardens the brass to eventual failure. Reducing crimp? Reducing the crimp will work your brass less and stave off brass failure/cracks. What I found is that 32-20 brass wears out pretty quickly compared to other caliber cowboy brass. But all WCF brass gets worked pretty hard with the tapered case shape. I suspect the higher pressure of the 32-20 by comparison to the others makes it even worse. I have a lot of 32-20 brass. But I shoot it in 500 round lots. When that lot of 500 starts cracking or as common splitting at the neck base I put it aside for practice and it is now a batch to sort through and see what is cracked. I suspect my attempts at humor wasn't appreciated prior. My apologies. Just my opinions on what it takes to get a Uberti 32-20 to be reliable. Hope some of the info helped.
  11. Maybe not in Colorado, Washington and Oregon? But some court just ruled that police may NOT make an arrest using pot-sniffing dogs, unless there was probable cause to investigate a potential crime! Now a lot of those poor pot-sniffing dogs may be out of work!
  12. It's a long drive by yourself. We still have some openings for those that haven't signed up. Usually the last few days of May and beginning of June is a mad rush. The snow we just got should be gone soon. It's pretty sad when we have to wait for the snow to melt in order to mow the lawn. We started cutting grass at work a couple weeks back and yesterday they had to remove the mowers from the tractors and reinstall the plows. Springtime in the Rockies.
  13. Linn Keller 3-1-11 It stayed cold that day and the ice held most places. It melted and dripped off roofs and eaves and built up underneath and little boys snapped off icicles and sucked on them, or threw them underhand across the ice-finished ground, seeing how far they would skid. One little fellow got mad at another and belted his erstwhile playmate over the head with one, which prompted an instant knock down drag out fight, with the pair rolling over and pounding inefficiently on each other. Nobody interfered. When they got tired they got up, wiped bloody noses on coat sleeves, looked at one another and laughed and ended up playing together for the rest of the day. I watched, from a distance, and considered that a philosopher may draw some deep and meaningful conclusion from what had just been seen. Me, I went back over across the street and tended what little business there was. Jackson Cooper stopped in and told me about a stranger passing through, a good looking young woman searching for her brother: I opened my mouth to mention the fellow I'd put on the eastbound train, and Jackson Cooper raised a forestalling palm. "She saw him," he said quietly. "She saw the carcass first and neither was her brother." I closed my mouth and nodded. "Did she give a name?" Jackson Cooper shook his head. "No forwarding address, no way to contact her?" Again, a slow turning of his ponderous gourd. "She must not want our help." "Must not." I looked over toward the stove. The little gas stove was lit, and the tips of the stone backing were glowing a happy cherry color as they always did, but I still fired the cast iron stove, and the coffee pot simmered on top the way it always did. "The coffee ain't bad," I said. "I didn't make it." Jackson Cooper nodded slowly, stood. "I'll risk it. You want some?" "Yeah." I drew open the bottom right hand desk drawer, pulled out a pint bottle of water clear, not over thirty days old: as I added some to each steaming granite cup, I intoned, "Old Soul Saver, to ward off the Devil." Jackson Cooper grunted and let his cool for a bit. So did I. Was I to try takin' a sip hot as it was, why, it would likely peel the enamel right off my teeth.
  14. Linn Keller 2-27-11 I leaned against the bar, comfortably slouched with one boot up on the gleaming foot rail. Vanilla coffee was fragrant in the back of my throat and the heavy mug warm in my hand, and Mr. Baxter, having polished every single piece of glassware in the house, flipped his bar towel expertly over one shoulder and leaned his forearms on the bar, loafing companionably toward me. "So 'twas slick?" he asked, eyes bright and merry as they always were in such moments, and I nodded, contemplating eternity in the gleaming ripples of my mug. "My poor old black horse just did not like it a'tall." I took a slow, savoring sip of the fragrant brew. Mr. Baxter accepted a mug of his own from the girl, smiled his thanks. We slurped noisily together. A man learns much in a lifetime, and a man meets many people from many places. One fellow who'd come through was a blue water sailor, his hands half-closed and horn-callused from years of pulling lines on board ship: he walked with the rolling gait of the man who expected the ground underfoot to list suddenly to port, then to starboard. He'd been an interesting fellow and we'd ended up talking long into the night, periodically sharing a drink. He'd had a truly remarkable capacity for distillate, and though at first disappointed that there was no rum to be had here either, he'd happily decided the Daine boys' amber lightning was much to his taste, after he cut it half and half with good spring water. "Grog," he explained, and allowed as he considered it bad luck to drink undiluted rum, alluding to personal experience in the matter. I'd had rum, good dark Jamaica rum, back when I was still in Union blue: I recall it set me down on my back side and I smiled all night, though the next day was nowhere near as pleasant. We'd finished the night with coffee as the eastern horizon was starting to lighten and streak some, and stepped outside to see the sight. Our breath came in clouds that very early morning and our coffee steamed curling tendrils into the thin mountain air as we stood out in the middle of the street, watching. The man thanked me for the mug-up, and explained that on board ship the cook would bring out heavy ceramic mugs of scalding coffee, bitter as a widow's tears and black as the Captain's heart, and all hands would take a few moments from the unceasing labor that is sailing a canvas sail ship, and share a "mug-up." I thought of that as Mr. Baxter and I shared our companionable mug-up. "Your horse didn't fall, now, did he?" Mr. Baxter asked at length. I laughed quietly. "No," I said, "but if it weren't for those good sharpened shoes Shorty put on him, we'd have both busted ourselves! No," I sipped again, "he didn't fall but a few times he came near to it!" Esther and Bonnie, upstairs, were sharing a companionable cup themselves, though their drink of choice had been preceded by bitter powders extracted from willow-bark, and followed by a rather potent wine, taken from delicate, long-stemmed glasses. They had delighted in skating to town, each had been able to find flat and level areas in which they rejoiced to practice the piroutettes and curves they'd danced as girls. Now, upstairs in Esther's office, in knit slippers instead of high-laced skates, the ladies laughed quietly as they admitted to one another the onset of aches and pains unknown to them as girls. In the little stable behind the Sheriff's office, the black horse loafed, hip-shot, content to be out of the wind and with straw to stand in and a little grain in with the hay: the local stray, having scrounged a meal, then another, came snuffing in, looking for a warm place to curl up. He and the black horse sniffed noses: satisfied, the dog curled up in the hay, and was soon warm, and asleep; the black horse, too, drowsed in the quiet, content.
  15. Today
  16. Media is making a big deal out of a couple of Tu-95 Bear bombers flying off the coast of Alaska. They, undoubtedly were testing when our radar picked them up, just as we have and do to their air defenses. This has been going on since the Cold War. As was shown in the photos, several pair of F-22 fighters intercepted them and escorted them. The Bears stayed in international airspace the whole time. One false move and the -22's would have been all over them! This reminds me of the photo that the Denver Post published on the front page, a number of years ago, when some Bears flew down our East Coast, escorted by IIRC, F-4's. The photo, taken by the backseater in the F-4, shows the Russian tail gunner with his hand upraised with the back of the hand showing, and the index and middle finger spread. The caption read, "Russian tail gunner flashes a "V-for-victory sign" to our pilots". Except that "V-for-victory" is done with the palm outward. What the gunner was flashing was the European equivalent of the mighty "bird"!
  17. Linn Keller 2-26-11 I sighted down the length of the blade. The edge had to be kept absolutely true: I held the file in both hands, laid it across the shining steel, kept it flat, held my thumbs against the side of the blade and drew the file slowly, carefully, toward me. Jacob sat on a folded blanket laid on a stump, watching. "I was of a mind," I said absently, drawing the file toward me again, "to dig up the floor in the storeroom out in the barn, and use the dirt to make a walk way." I regarded the shining steel, nodded, placed the file at the far end for one more pass. "Then I figured it would make a low place in the floor and likely it would hold water once it thawed and I didn't want to make a muddy mess." The file whispered near-inaudibly as I drew it, flat and level, toward me. "Then I thought maybe to throw some hay out and I thought no, if the winter turns long I'll need it all for feed, or straw for bedding, and I must have had thunder on my brow sitting there at the breakfast table considering. "Esther" -- he shot a glance at his son -- "Jacob, your mother is a wise woman." "Yes, sir." "She is as intelligent as she is beautiful." I set the file down, unwound the vise and removed the skate. I handed it to Jacob. "Take a look at this one." Jacob accepted the skate, turned it, tilted his head a little as he looked longways down the blade. I clamped the other skate in place. "Esther" -- I picked up the file, took it in both hands, then carefully set it on the flat of the skate's blade -- "said I was about to melt my ears off from thinkin' too hard and asked what was on my mind, so I told her." I placed my thumbs against the sides of the skate blade and drew the file toward me. "She said for me to stand up and I did and she put her dukes up and said "Slowly, now, I want to show you something." "She threw a punch at me, dead slow. I straightened set the file down. Can't talk without my hands, y'know. "She punched -- so -- and I blocked, so -- and Esther asked why I deflected her punch instead of stopping it. "I told her I was using her punch against her, that it would draw her into me so I could counter-punch. "She lowered her arm and stepped back, folded her hands in her apron the way she does" -- Jacob grinned, seeing the very move in his mind's eye -- "and she said "So you don't stop it, you work with it." "Yes, ma'am." "Then I have an idea." I looked at the skate Jacob still held, then the one in the vise. "It got warm yesterday and thawed just enough to melt the snow on top, then it rained and froze as it hit." Jacob made a face. "Yes, sir." "Esther is going to town, but she's not taking sled nor buggy." Jacob blinked, looked down at the skate he held. "Yep," I said. "She's figuring to skate." Turns out Esther was not the only one with the notion. Bonnie, too, made the trip to town on a set of flashing blades; some half-dozen schoolboys as well discovered the world had been coated in shining, liquid diamond, ideal for their free travel, and they, too, whooped and laughed and streaked across a world that was suddenly, universally open and without limit, rejoicing that their efforts were no longer confined to a frozen body of water. Me, I figured it was a fine day for a ride, so I saddled that black horse and checked his shoes carefully and he did just dandy until we got out of the barn and onto that slick surface: he slid a little and froze, then he took a few more steps and skidded and he muttered, but directly he got the hang of walking on ice and we walked to town. I'd like to have seen me riding that black horse on ice. I've never worn a woman's high heeled shoes but darn if it didn't feel like that black horse was walking like a girl wearing high heels for the first time. Esther, now ... I heard Esther's laugh behind me and she came streaking past and I will never forget just how absolutely graceful she looked: she had her fur muff on her left hand, but her gloved right hand she was swinging for balance, curved and graceful and utterly feminine, not so much skating as ... as flying, flying on the earth, and that black horse stopped and stood there and muttered to himself. I patted the black horse's neck. "I know, fellow," I said. "Show-off." Jacob had waited until I'd finished sharpening Esther's skates before asking about the fracas in the Jewel, and he listened carefully as I recounted Sam and Clark's reception of the erstwhile outlaw. His eyes veiled themselves as I told him of the long talk the kid and I had, and finally he asked quietly, "You turned him loose?" "Yep." "Sent him back East." "I did." Jacob considered this for some time. "Sir?" "Yes, Jacob?" I stroked the file with the file card, cleaning bits of metal out of its teeth. "Sir, did you just get hood winked?" I set the file card down, tapped the file's edge briskly on the side of the work bench and propped it up with its fellows at the back of my work bench, then I turned and faced my son squarely. "It would not be the first time," I admitted frankly. "Was he a girl I'd say probably." My expression was probably quite rueful as I admitted, "For whatever reason, the female of the species can pull the wool over my baby blues fast and easy. I have been Bam Boozled faster by women than by anyone." Jacob tilted his head, closed one eye and considered something in the distance: he shifted in his seat and grunted. "He's got kin folk back East, and his brother was ever getting him in trouble -- not because the brother was all that bad but because the kid was a follower." I leaned my palms on the edge of the work bench and pressed, taking the weight off my lower back until something popped. I groaned. Anymore I can't stand for any length of time without my poor old back giving me billy Hell. I un-clamped the other skate and handed it to Jacob. "Your mother said she knew a pond nearby and she'd love to skate again. She'd visited kinfolk in the yankee North -- New York, I think she said -- and she skated as a child, and loved it, and she asked me to sharpen these." "Yes, sir." Jacob's eyes were troubled. "You're thinking I should have kept that kid locked up." Jacob considered, then looked square at me. "I have thought you wrong in the past, sir," he said frankly, "and turned out you were right." He rubbed his chin. "Sir, you know more about these things than I do." "There's more." Jacob turned his head as if bringing his good ear to bear. "I believe seeing that strong leader brought down and then getting his hat ventilated, by getting caught and figuring he was gonna get beat plumb to death, by spending the night in the Hoose Gow" -- I ticked each item off on my fingers, can't talk without my hands -- "he woke up and learned he ain't the outlaw type. "I give him a chance." Jacob nodded. "I told him to head back east and get honest work. I told him to save his money and buy a store, marry a sweet girl with a good business mind and raise a pack of children. I told him there was nothing finer in this world than the shining eyes of a little child lookin' at you nor to wake up with a pair of bright eyes staring into yours and a little voice saying "Daddy, you 'wake?" Jacob laughed, for he'd heard Esther describe Angela doing that very thing with me. I stood. "No, Jacob, I don't reckon I messed up." I grinned at my fine, tall son, who stood when I did. "You hungry? I believe the coffee's still hot." "Yes, sir." Jacob grinned, slowly rubbing the flats of his palms together, creating a dry, raspy sound in the quiet work shop. "I'm so empty, the sides of my stomach is sand paperin' together."
  18. Heck, I thought that was the purpose of poached eggs, period.
  19. I think we have already discussed how you can get rid of her body.
  20. Linn Keller 2-24-11 The prisoner woke several times through the night. What little sleep he had was filled with nightmares ... His brother, in a pine box, sitting up with wide, blank, dead eyes, shouting "DRAW!" and laying back down ... A hand, hard, squeezing the life from his throat as he was hoist off his feet, dangling a thousand feet over the edge of a cliff ... With every nightmare, every new terror, he woke, starting at the sight of steel bars and stone wall: he was beyond even a whimper of sorrow, and curled up fully dressed under the wool blanket, shivering on the thin mat covering the jail's pallet. Dawn came finally, though he could not see more than a few streaks through the cracks in the shutters that held winter's chill from the barred window: he had no real idea it was morning until the Sheriff came in, grim-faced, to open the barred door and escort him to the outhouse. The Sheriff fired the stove back in the cell block and heated a basin of water, invited the prisoner to wash up and shave: trembling, the prisoner did both, not stopping to wonder that the Sheriff allowed him the use of a straight razor. When he was done he returned to his cell and sat. He had never been so thorougly demoralized, so totally cowed, in his entire life. He'd never spent the night in lockup before. He had not been a praying sort for many years, but he found it easy now: no man wants to be utterly alone in such circumstances, and so his thoughts, and his words, turned to the Almighty. The front door opened, closed; measured tread, hard bootheels came nearer, and he knew the Sheriff was coming again. The tall lawman bore a tray and set it on the little wooden table outside the cells. "Well, come on out and eat," he said, his voice colorless as a washed-out winter sky: "I've never starved a man to death yet." The prisoner sat down uncertainly; the Sheriff sat easily, relaxed, a blue granite coffee cup in his left hand. He's left handed, the kid thought: I saw him shoot Scott left-handed. He reached for his fork. His hand trembled, fine tremors making his grip uncertain: he dropped the fork, picked it up, dropped it again. "The food's good," the Sheriff said, his voice not entirely unkind. "Best eat before it gets cold." "Y-y-yes, sir," the kid stammered, picked up the fork again, willing himself not to drop it. He cut a chunk off a fried egg, folded it over and speared it, ate: his stomach rejoiced as he swallowed, and he suddenly realized he was near to starved out. The Sheriff sipped coffee, slowly, watching the kid from under his hat brim. When the last bite -- and truth be told there had been enough for two men on that tray -- when the last bite was down the kid's hatch, he set his fork carefully on the plate and nodded. He took a long drink of black coffee, swished it around his mouth, savoring the last of the flavors, swallowed. "Thank you," he said. I'm still alive, he thought, surprised at the notion. The Sheriff sat there, silent, unmoving. The prisoner fidgeted in his seat. He looked at the lawman, looked around, scratched his neck, shifted in his seat, looked at the Sheriff again, looked at the floor, back to the Sheriff. "Well?" he finally blurted. "Well what?" the Sheriff asked mildly. "Well whattaya gonna do with me now?" he demanded, half angry and more than half afraid. He was certain he would end up wearing a hemp necktie, but he was equally certain that not knowing would kill him quicker and less mercifully. The Sheriff blinked like a sleepy lion and the kid realized this was a ruse, a dupe: the man was fast, faster than Scott had ever been, and Scott had been fast! The Sheriff's bottom lip pushed up a little as he considered. "You ever advance in line?" he asked, pale blue eyes burning through the kid's ribcage and carving scorch marks on the prisoner's spine. "Nnno, sir." He shook his head. "Ain't that what sojers do? Scott, he was in the cavalry -- he deserted out -- but I heard him say somethin' about that advancin' stuff and lines." "Hm." The tall lawman nodded. "I ain't no deserter!" the kid blurted. "No, didn't figure you were." "Then why you holdin' me?" Winter-bleak eyes nailed the kid to his chair as effectively as if he'd been harpooned. The Sheriff rubbed his chin. "Tell me about Scott." The kid stopped, considered, then he began to talk.
  21. the heavy slow bullet will hit higher,,, a slower bullet takes longer to leave the barrel thus hitting higher as the barrel has begun to lift from the recoil. not sure about report from the target
  22. With all the mention of crimping above, I was starting to doubt my limited experience of half a century at the reloading bench.
  23. So if my maid, who comes here once a week, disobeys my instructions to NEVER GO IN THAT ROOM, and while I'm at work she sneaks a look in the door, and sees my hydroponic pot farm, I don't have anything to worry about?
  24. Linn Keller 2-22-11 Sam kicked the empty out of the action, levered a fresh round into the chamber. The kid's hat didn't fly dramatically off his head, but a hole did appear in its front, near to the top crease. Sam did not say a word. She did not have to. The kid just stood there looking like he'd been speared. "Clark," Samantha said, "get his rifle." Clark sauntered up to the kid, picked up his dropped carbine. Hoofbeats, fast and approaching, prompted Clark to fade back into the bunk houses's shadow. The front door of the main house opened, a slight figure flowed out and into a pool of shadowed black: Clark noted the brief glint of starlight off a rifle barrel, and knew Sarah was practicing stealth. The rider came pounding down the driveway, under the iron arch that said MC KENNA, drew to a fast stop: the rider was out of the saddle, rifle in hand, running before he hit the ground. "Uncle Linn!" Sarah's voice was urgent, tight as she stood. "Report!" The Sheriff's voice was brisk, businesslike, military. Sarah pointed to the bunkhouse and Sam curled her lip, whistled. The Sheriff and Sarah advanced, separated by some fifteen feet. The kid groaned. He took in the tableau: Sam, with her rifle at low ready; the kid, with his empty, tied-down holster, standing pale and shaking in the washed-out moonlight; Clark, flowing out of concealing shadow, carbine across his arm. "Sam?" he asked, not taking his ice-pale eyes off the kid. Sam had calmed down some but her temper was still not inclined to charity: she preferred to dress for the task at hand, and her task had been to get a good night's rest, and she intended to do so in a flannel nightgown, one of her few concessions to femininity: when an intruder had thrust through the door, leading with a carbine and followed by a hunted expression, he found himself met with the business end of two rifles, and now Sam stood barefoot in the snow, stating her case in brief, clipped syllables. The Sheriff stepped close to the kid: he was half a head and better taller than the youth and it was clear he was irritated, to put it mildly. "Anything to say?" he asked quietly ... too quietly, Sam knew, for when the Sheriff got quiet, the Sheriff was unhappy, and it profited no man to make the Sheriff unhappy. "I, I," came the stammered reply, "I needed to bunk --" The Sheriff's hand shot out like a striking viper, took the kid by the throat. Sarah felt her stomach twist a little as she listened to the choking sound, shivered as she realized the intruder's boot soles were starting to separate from the ground. "Why don't I take you to jail," the Sheriff grated. "You'll be warm there, I'll feed you and we'll talk about this in the morning." He released his grip under the kid's jaw bone and seized him instead by the front of the coat, hoisting him off the ground. "You try anything," the Sheriff growled, "I will rip your head off and kick it all the way back to town, I will skin your carcass with a spoon and then I'll get mean with you!" Sarah's blood ran cold. She had never, ever heard her Uncle Linn speak with such utter, cold, plainly stated anger in her entire young life.
  25. Linn Keller 2-21-11 It wasn't terribly cold and my black horse was restless so I pointed his nose due east and headed vaguely toward the sunrise, or where it would rise come morning. It was near to full dark, or as dark as it would get with half a moon and an uncountable number of stars and good snow to reflect them. We did not travel quickly, nor did we have a destination: we followed the road for a ways, least until my head cleared enough to think again. It ain't good for a man to get good and mad. He don't think too good with a good head of bull-mad between his ears, and I drew the black up, turning him. The black started to dance. He knew something just hit me between the eyes like a hard swung club. I was headed east. That damn fool kid Miz Fannie spared had headed west. It was cold and it was night and he'd want to lay up someplace. What was the first place west of town? I thought, and my stomach tightened. I leaned into the black and he leaned into a gallop and we headed back for town. Bonnie's place was the first estancia west of Firelands and I'd just run that fellow straight towards her. I will not record what I called myself in that ride, for if I admit to using language like that, I will never be considered fit for decent company ever again: I prayed the black horse would not wind break nor lung-frost, but if need be I would ride it into the ground. Not Bonnie, I thought desperately. Not Bonnie! Sharpened steel horseshoes bit into the packed snow: the black was sure footed, doing the one thing in the world he loved more than anything else, and that was run, run just as hard and as fast as he could go: we shot through town like an arrow from a drawn bow: my weight was in the stirrups, my hands on the gelding's neck, wordlessly begging more speed, more speed, more speed! I'd just come in sight of Bonnie's place when I heard it: A rifle shot, carrying clear on the cold night air.
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