All Activity

It is important to me that the Person that was handed a Real firearm, did not take the responsibility of checking that firearm, assumed it was unloaded, cocked the hammer, pulled the trigger, resulting in a fatality and wounding another. The charges should have nothing to do with semantics, it should have to do with personal responsibility, or lack thereof, one's actions.

BTT

BTT

BTT

BTT

BTT

Just heard through the grapevine that Allman Brothers original member, Dickey Betts, has crossed the devide. No details as of yet.

I worked on a number of 1866s and Henrys that were completely clapped out. Trigger Spring and Hammer were just fine. The usual culprit was the wear of the Trigger Sear. My first look would be the Trigger. the next worse wear point, as mentioned by Slim is the thru bore for the Extension Rod. Parts have already been ordered so best of luck.

Back to the top

And the cinematographer would not have been there! serious question: Is it more important to you (or anyone else) how he is held accountable or just that he in some way is held accountable? The SAG guidelines for handling firearms on set will pretty much ruin any chance of him being held accountable as The Finger that pulled the trigger, but those same guidelines and the laws of NM can and should be used to hold him accountable as The Producer that created the circumstances that predictably led to that gun being in his hand and everything else that went wrong on the set

Hey Doc. Post some pics of your models! I used to build them also. Still have some of the race car models because they were the most recent (30 years ago). Still have all of the air brush stuff and other modeling tools, paints, etc., etc.,, in a tackle box. REAL good chance that all that stuff is dried up and rock solid now. Lost the tanks, ships and airplane models somewhere along the road of life. I'll get some pics up when I can although none of them say Pat Riot!

Now if his name was Blue Bird...I would have to wonder.

Howdy All, Registration for High Noon at Tusco 2024 will be open on Monday April 22nd. It will be posted here: https://www.tuscolongriders.com/high-noon High Noon will take place September 27th-29th, 2024. Please mail in your registration form to Prairie Dawg or give them to Prairie Dawg at a shoot. If you are planning on joining us, please get your forms in as soon as possible to help us plan. If you need to cancel, you will get a full refund if you cancel before September 20th. Thank you for the continued support!

Whose index finger on his right hand belong to? The Producer...or the Actor? Oh, Hey....Maybe it was Alec Baldwin's finger!

PM sent!

Looking for factory style Pawl Ruger New Model Single Six 32 mag.

Blue side of the mountain

FROM HERE TO BREAKFAST “Fitz?” My heart dropped to about my boot tops. I knew what I was seeing, my mouth was dry, my hand clamped down on the Fire Chief’s shoulder. He turned suddenly, the way he did when he was aggravated at being interrupted, then he saw what I was seeing. The truck was over on its side, it was afire, the smoke coming off it was a dirty yellow and getting thicker, and my wife was on top of the laid-over cab, just muscling the door open. “PULL BACK!” Fitz yelled – it was little short of a full-voiced scream, then he grabbed his talkie, raised it, squeezed hard. “DROP HOSES AND PULL BACK, GET SOME DISTANCE, SHE’S GONNA BLOW, GET A QUARTER MILE BACK, NOW!” I turned, thrust a boot in Outlaw’s stirrup. I didn’t bounce and boost into the saddle like I usually did. I drove into the hurricane deck and Outlaw spun under me and the spirit of the century-dead Cannonball must have gone rip-roarin’ out of the grave and into his living soul because we launched toward that burning wreck like a ball out of a Napoleon field gun. I’m screaming like a madman, I’m screaming “SHELLLEEEEE!” and she’s already in the cab and I’m thinking Easiest way in is the windshield, bust the corner and rip it free and there was a hiss and that old ugly yaller smoke started out almost like a jet and I’m a-comin’ up beside the laid-over road tractor and I see the windshield peel away and someone is kickin’ it free from the inside and Midnight he comes around and we’re off the pavement and throwin’ clods as he was diggin’ in and we launched toward Shelly and she’d got a man around under the arms and I recht down and grabbed her and someone else was there and got the driver and I hauled my wife up across the saddlehorn and I’m yelling “GO GO GO GO GO!” and Midnight he lays his ears back and punched his nose out and we’re bustin’ a hole in the wind and I reckon my Guardian Angel was streaming along behind me like a gauzy kite-tail and a madman between my ears is screaming SHE’S GONNA BLOW GET SOME DISTANCE DISTANCE DISTANCE and something kicked Midnight and me in the backside and the both of us flew forward and he’s trying to keep his legs under him and we went over a fence and ‘twas to no effort of my horse that we went, we just kind of got booted over the bobwarr and he landed and we landed and I rolled over and I had a death grip around my wife and I heard her grunt and I heard me grunt and we come to a stop and I let go and just laid there and the wind was plumb knocked clear out of me – I couldn’t hear – I blinked, confused, looked up at the sky, the clouds – Shelly – I fought to get some wind in me. Damned if I was going to die a-layin’ there so I rolled over and Midnight, he was layin’ over on his side and not movin’ and Shelly was dead still. Dear God I’ve killed ‘em both! Midnight’s hind hoof twitched and then he grunted and r’ared up his head and I got a little more wind in me and retcht out and I grabbed Shelly’s hand. She brought up her other hand, rubbed her forehead and she had this funny puzzled look about her and then she looked at me and I’m still tryin’ to breathe and she looks all concerned and I rolled over and fought up to knees and elbows and I taken as much of a breath as I could and that warn’t much and then I stood up on my knees and so did Shelly and Outlaw, he’s workin’ his pins under him too and I got my feet down ag’in the ground and stood up and Shelly she come up with me and we looked around and I staggered over to Outlaw and ten thousand field crickets were singing in the hot August sun and every last one of ‘em takin’ up residence inside my skull and Outlaw he got to his hooves and I leaned ag’in him and got an arm over his neck and I sagged some and then we walked over to Shelly and I got my arm around her and we walked back towards what was left of that truck. I squinted. It felt like my eyes were full of dirt. I pulled out a bedsheet handkerchief and wiped my eyes. I was dizzy as hell. I had one arm over Outlaw’s neck and one around my wife, for she didn’t feel none too steady neither. I handed my white hankie it to Shelly. Movement, left -- Who in the hell is that? When I turned my head to the left, the earth took a hard list to starboard underfoot and then went down hard by the bow. Had I not an arm over Outlaw’s neck, I’d have hit the ground for sure. I reckon that’s the truck’s driver yonder up by the ridge line but how in the hell did he get that far away that fast? The boxy red rescue truck was coming around the crater, around the wreckage, stopped. I saw fire coats and the men that wore them, pouring quickly out of every door on that machine. One raised an arm toward us, pointed. Men ran toward us. I pushed Shelly toward them, I got a boot into the near stirrup, I swung up. Outlaw turned under me and we headed for the driver. I squinted some and could have sworn there was another mounted rider, someone else on a black horse. A big black horse. I looked again and all I saw was the truck’s driver. It took a while for the red ringing in my ears to subside. Me and the driver both was talkin’ at one another in a loud voice, I found out later he was hard of hearin’ to start with so he was used to it. He allowed as he got his bell rung when his truck blew a tire and bit the ditch and come to grief, and he was wonderin’ why he was standin’ up inside the cab of his truck and why was it over on its side when this blond haired keg of dynamite ripped his door open overhead and jumped in with him, she took him in a bear hug and brought up both her feet and kicked the windshield at its edge – she kicked it twice, both feet at the same time – she taken a two hand grip on him and spun him around and slammed him into the glass and busted it out and then he said he got grabbed by someone on a big black horse, and next thing he knew something went BOOM and the world shivered underfoot and he was near to a quarter of a mile away, up on the ridge overlookin’ the explosion, and no idea how he'd got there. We walked back, and it took a while. He walked on my left, and my right arm was hung over Outlaw’s neck. That-there hard of hearin’ truck driver walked considerably better than I did. Outlaw wasn’t doin’ terribly good neither. I recall bein’ grabbed and laid down on something padded and I looked up at a black handlebar mustache with a man attached to it, and I said “Shelly?” and I recall a man’s hand laid over on mine and I read his lips, he said “She’s fine,” and I had to close my eyes and reach down to grab the side rails on that aluminum ambulance cot to keep it from spinnin’ around underneath of me. That’s the last I recalled until I woke up and reckoned I was in a hospital bed. I recall there was a young flock of lovely ladies around me, all of ‘em in pin striped dresses and winged nurses’ caps. I felt a gentle, cool hand on my forehead, a thumb pullin’ my eyelid up and there was a bright light shinin’ in my one eye. I twitched my head away, blinked, frowned, looked up. “Angela,” I whispered. She laid the backs of her fingers against my cheek, across my forehead, like Mama used to when I wasn’t well. “How do you feel?” she asked in a professional voice. “Shelly,” I whispered dryly. Angela leaned over, tilted her head to look very directly at me. “Look at me, Sheriff,” she said quietly. I looked at her. “Shelly,” I repeated as fear tried to claim my stomach. “She’s fine,” Angela said in that quiet voice of hers. I frowned, blinked. “I can hear.” Angela looked up, smiled, patted my hand. “Story at eleven,” she said. “Get some rest.” Something cold and hard pressed against the side of my neck, there was a hiss, and I didn’t wake up until the next morning. I woke up, looked around. A tent-folded card was on the hospital bed’s sidetable. Get a shower and get dressed, I read in a familiar hand. Your wife requests your presence at breakfast. Debrief afterward. I raised an eyebrow, set the card back on the sidetable. I laid there for a minute, gathering my memories, looking at what I recalled happening, then I sat up, stood. A shower, a shave, and I felt a new man: my clothes were clean, folded on the bedside chair and hanging up, even to my pocket watch, my Stetson and my gunbelt and boots. I came out of the hospital room fully dressed, my hat in my hand, looked around. One of the pretty young girls I remembered from – last night? Yesterday? – hell, it might’ve been a week ago or more – looked up and smiled. “I beg your pardon,” I said gently, for wherever I was, it was no hospital I’d ever seen, and that made me a guest, and a guest’s duty is to be polite – “I am expected for breakfast?” “Yes, Sheriff,” she said, and damned if she didn’t come up and claim hold of my arm like she owned me. “This way please.” I can’t say I was displeased. The attentions of a lovely young lady are guaranteed to warm the heart of an older man. We walked down a shining, spotless hall, turned: a set of stainless steel doors opened. We went either up or down, I’m not sure which, but curiosity was working on me. “Would you know,” I asked carefully, “about my horse?” She inclined her head slightly, smiled quietly, then turned and looked up at me. “I understand,” she said carefully, “he is not only well, he is being outrageously spoiled!” I smiled, nodded. “Thank you,” I said quietly, and the doors opened, and of a sudden I had a double armful of wife, and I can’t say I was at all displeased.

Had Baldwin the Producer followed the written in blood industry standard procedures for shooting that scene, The only thing that bullet would have killed was an expensive mirror

That one says Pat Riot II. The II is smaller than the rest of the name. If that one is number two, then obviously our Pat is the original.