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  2. That was awesome. Years ago I did the same to an original Sharps 1863 percussion carbine in similar condition, but not quite as extreme. I posted the results on the Wire and was summarily admonished for having destroyed it’s “patina” and historical value. I sure like shooting it though. Something it couldn’t do when I got it.
  3. Linn Keller 7-12-12 "Charlie." Charlie's knees bent, he turned, twisting on the balls of his feet, boot leather whispering as his weight ground them into the sand: he dropped his center of gravity, feet spread slightly, shield hard against his body, ready to take a blow, sword cocked over his shoulder, ready to give one. The figure was in black, its coat open, waving a little in the hot breeze; the broad black hat brim was pulled low. The figure pushed the brim up with one finger and looked at him, but made no other move. Hot ... it was hot ... what little wind caressed him, sucked the moisture from the man's hide, from his tongue, made his eyeballs feel gritty ... Charlie blinked, swallowed: adrenalin sang power in his veins, a warrior-surge rolled like ocean's waves through him, he was ready, he was ready, he was ready ... The figure took a step, another, black cavalry boots almost soundless in the obsidian sand. Behind her, sunset seared scarlet bands across the horizon, stacking one above the other, clouds burning in the distance. He could see every detail about her, sharp, clear, hard relief, distinct: the black belt buckle, the black belt, the black coat and shirt and black buttons, the black vest, the braids wrapped around her fair throat ... hands and face were ivory, pale, barely limned with pink, the lips were a rich, dark red, the eyes bright, bright, and ... and blue, a distinct blue ... "You held," she whispered. "Against all odds, you held." She stopped, nodded. "Thank you." Charlie's eyes opened again. The whisper, the disyllabic sibilant, echoed in the bedroom's silence. Against all odds he'd fallen asleep again -- not a thing he would have thought possible, given the ready-to-fight charge that woke him earlier ... Charlie lay still, eyes busy, tracking in the dark: it was near to dawn and certain persistent aches and pains told him it was near enough to get-up that he'd ought to get up. He lay still a moment longer, considering ... She's never been there except in a silk war-gown, he thought. No lance, no horse, no hell-dog ... no war-ice in her eyes ... Sarah shivered, hard, staring at the night-dark ceiling of her upstairs bedroom. She swallowed, tasting sand, feeling grit in her eyes as she blinked. Tossing back the covers, she cradled her forearm for a moment, willing its old ache to go away, then sat up and looked out her window. In the distance, dawn was reddening the horizon in broad horizontal bands, level cloud-streaks stacked one on top of the other. "You saw my dreams," she whispered. "Now I have seen yours."
  4. Plus high blood pressure from the salt loading.
  5. Charlie MacNeil 7-11-12 Coarse sand, glittering ebony and crimson in the guttering light of distant fires, grated beneath the soles of his boots. The rough sharkskin grip of the gleaming broadsword was clenched tight in one gauntleted fist, oaken shield held tightly in the other, both weapons raised and ready for defense or attack as circumstances required. His heavy black cloak, clasped with gold cord at the throat, swirled in the fitful, sulfurous breeze that surrounded him, teasing with molten fingers as he stood glaring his defiance at the shadows confronting him, shadows whose glowing eyes burned crimson and orange in the darkness. Behind him stood an opening in the rock, the beginning of a passage to a world much more hospitable than this, a passage which he would defend to the bitter end of life itself should such be necessary... Charlie lunged awake with a gasp, his eyes wide, lips curled in a snarl that would have done the Bear Killer justice. His startled gaze took in the familiar surroundings of his room at the Silver Jewel and he settled back onto the pillow, shaking from the mass of adrenaline surging through his bloodstream. "You can't have him!" the ex-marshal growled deep in his throat. "You can't have him!"
  6. Linn Keller 7-11-12 Jacob was waiting for her when she came out of the church. He stood patiently with the horses; they were both ground reined -- or, rather, Jacob's was ground reined. Snowflake wasn't even wearing a bridle. Snowflake was, however, bumming an ear rub, and as Apple-horse was jealous in these matters, Jacob was caressing one horse with one hand, and massaging the other horse with the other hand. Sarah flipped her black, broad brim hat on her head as she crossed the threshold, and carefully closed the door behind her: her steps were loud and hollow on the wooden step as she came down to dirt level with the acting Sheriff. Jacob let off loving on the horses and took a step toward Sarah. She stood, a little uncertain, rebellion in her eyes and wet streaks on her cheeks, and Jacob took her in his arms: he ran his arms under hers, picked her up and set her on the church step so their height would not be quite so disparate, and he held her for a long moment. Sarah hugged him back, rubbing her face in his shirt front like she was trying to bury herself in a child's rumpled bed-linens after a bad dream. "How you doin', Little Sis?" Jacob whispered. Sarah stiffened, then pulled back. "How did you know?" she whispered, her eyes big. Jacob rested his hands on her shoulders. "I'm a lawman," he said simply. "I find things out." "Who else ...?" "Who else knows?" Jacob smiled a little. "I reckon Charlie and Fannie know. Pa and Mother know, of course. I don't reckon many more folks ... well, your Ma and the Judge of course, they-all -- we-all -- were at your place when Pa handed you your Mama's Bible, and that's when we-all found out." Sarah pushed back from her big brother, pushed back to arm's length, glared at him with big, round, vulnerable eyes, then she leaned against his front again, hugging him hard around his strong young ribs, her left ear pressed against shirtfront linen. "That's right," she mumbled into his shirt front. "You were there. I forgot." "You've been worried," Jacob said softly. "I kind of like having a big brother," she whispered. "I kind of like having a little sis," Jacob murmured, laying his cheek over on top of her head. "Papa --" -- Sarah pulled back abruptly, the flat of her hand on Jacob's breast bone -- "will he be all right?" "I reckon he will," Jacob said reassuringly. "He's a tough old bird." Sarah fisted her hand and thumped him not ungently in the middle of the chest, her eyes lightening noticeably. "He's our father!" she hissed. Jacob paid no attention to the sudden temper, nor to the temperamental, sisterly slug. "Here, have a set." Jacob turned around, parked his backside on the church's front step. Sarah frowned, looking around: even in this private, personal moment, her eyes were busy: she watched her Snowflake and the Appaloosa, watched their ears, knowing their senses were sharper than hers: satisfied, she, too, sat. "Wily as a curly wolf, aren't you?" Jacob asked quietly. "Or a white one." Sarah parked her setter, set the rifle's steel crescent between her black cavalry boots, the barrel projecting between her knees and thrusting toward the darkening zenith. "You saw the white wolf." "Which time?" "You, too." Sarah nodded. Jacob looked around. "Wonder where the Bear Killer is." "Angela was putting a new bow around his neck." Jacob chuckled. "Hasn't she learned the Bear Killer eats those things?" Sarah's elbow pressed slowly into Jacob's ribs and he froze, turning his head dead slow to the left, following his little sis's gaze. Silent, glowing a little in the evening's dim light, the white wolf stood and looked at them. It was less than twenty feet from them. Sarah swung her eyes -- just her eyes -- to the horses. They stood, hip-shot, relaxed, unconcerned. She looked back. The wolf was gone. "There's your answer," Jacob whispered. Apple-horse's ear swung toward the labiodental sibiliants. Sarah looked curiously at him. "He's not leading us toward something, that doesn't feel like a warning, he's not singing of death to come. "I reckon that was to let us know Pa will be all right." The Sheriff managed to put up a good front for his worried bride. Esther was a wife and a mother, a successful businesswoman and a respected member of Firelands society. As such, she could put on a good face when need be. The Sheriff knew she was worried; he knew he needed to reassure her that he would be fine, that all would be well, and the best way was to be as normal as possible. He did so. Until he just plainly ran out of steam and his green eyed bride took him by the elbow and said quietly, "My dear,you look tired, perhaps you should rest," and Angela stood with her lips pressed together and shook her Mommy-finger at the man. The Sheriff laughed and ran an arm around Esther's shoulders. "My dear," he said in that familiar, reassuring voice, "I have profited many times by listening to the good advice of my wife. I believe I shall take your sound advice and thank you for it." Esther gave him a knowing look, as if to say he was full of second hand horse feed and she knew it, but being a Lady, she did not speak the words. Her look was enough, and they both knew it. Later that night, as Esther finished her ledger and removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, she realized she hadn't seen the Bear Killer in a little while: he'd been curled up on a rug not far from her, as he not infrequently did when visiting. Curious, she got up and went back into the parlor. Esther stopped, tilted her head a little, smiled. Mary, the maid, glided in behind her; Esther raised a hand, put a finger to her lips, shook her head: she pointed to the door, and both ladies walked carefully, quietly, into the hallway, and Esther leaned her lips near to the maid's ear. "Let them rest," she whispered, and the maid nodded, then both women looked back into the room. The Sheriff had managed to slip cat-foot down the stairs, Angela with him, apparently: the Sheriff was in his nightshirt, Angela in her flannel nightgown; the Sheriff lay on the floor, Angela lay sprawled over his chest, her head resting on his breast bone and one arm thrown over his ribs: the Bear Killer lay beside him, his big head on the Sheriff's belly, and Angela's draping hand just touched the Bear Killer's big, black-furred head.
  7. I know where you're coming from. Son and I joined 20 years ago and competed against each other. Off to college he went. Then his marriage, family and a career down Atlanta way ended our competition. i spent a lot of money and time helping a SASS club to relocate. When there was a forced administration change I lost heart. Thought about letting my SASS membership expire...local club ask if I'd design and maintain their website, I said yes. Been shooting with them since. More for the friendship and feeling useful.
  8. I think I just felt an artery harden up...
  9. Local authorities would have the Notch Clerk, and it would be monitored by the Notch Police
  10. In my state it sure would be done...But would impound the said item while it was done....Can not have it on the streets....Someone might get hurt..... Texas Lizard
  11. Hey Preacherman What would be your top price be for Old Army Cylinders; Black and Nickel all have nipples--I think there are Tressow? Two of each. Two Ponies
  12. Linn Keller 7-10-12 "Perhaps, gentlemen, if I explained the possible sequelae," Dr. VanSchoor suggested. "I realize you are both well known and well trusted by the family, but there is the very definite chance of a relapse. Should that occur, should a vigorous and aggressive exploration of brain tissue be the only option, there would be no hope, for with such a dissection there is always damage." "So you are saying ..." Dr. Greenlees said slowly, his mind following Dr. VanSchoor's projection to its unpleasant termini. "I suggest that I explain to the family all that can go wrong, all that can happen that ... what I am saying, gentlemen, is that I am the stranger here. Should the patient not recover as the family hopes he will, they will blame me, for it was I who operated. You two will have your reputations intact." "You are making yourself a disposable commodity, then," Dr. Flint said slowly. "Exactly." "As much as I dislike the idea," Dr. Flint began, "I must concur, and for the reasons given." He looked sharply at his old teacher and mentor. "Dr. VanSchoor, your work is nothing short of exemplary and I have every confidence --" Dr. VanSchoor raised a forestalling hand, closing his eyes and shaking his head sadly. "Dr. Flint, thank you for your kind words, but we must face reality." Dr. VanSchoor hesitated, then continued. "We were lucky, gentlemen. The infected splinter was in the sulcus. It had not actually penetrated the mater; had it driven into the grey matter the man would be dead by now. As is, he will have a difficult enough time fighting the infection in his system. As with any head injury we are looking at probable -- not possible, probable -- personality changes, there may be partial paralysis on one side, the infection alone could compromise taste, hearing, eyesight, coordination, mentation. "Or" -- Dr. VanSchoor took a long breath -- "or there could be very nearly no sequelae." Dr. Flint looked over Dr. VanSchoor's neatly barbered head. "Gentlemen," he said, "may I present Mrs. Esther Keller, wife of our patient, and a leading citizen of our fine town." Esther sat very straight, her hands folded properly in her lap; her attention was wholly on the neatly-tailored, immaculately-barbered surgeon who sat uncomfortably before her. "Doctor, please feel free to speak frankly," Esther said in a pleasantly modulated voice. "I assure you, sir, my head will not split in two and reveal a fanged and scaled man-eating dragon." Dr. VanSchoor, surprised, blinked, then chuckled politely. "No. No, of course not," he murmured. "Dr. VanSchoor, you have already warned me of the possibility of ... I believe your term was, 'personality change.'" Esther tilted her head a little, regarding the surgeon with lovely, bright-green eyes. "I have seen such happen, sir, from falls from a horse and from ..." she hesitated -- "from other causes." Dr. VanSchoor closed his eye and bowed accession to the matron's words. "Can I expect to see any ..." Esther hesitated, looked at Dr. Greenlees and Dr. Flint, seated on either side of the surgeon -- "any physical ... changes?" Dr. VanSchoor steepled his fingers, considering his answer. "The brain," he said, as if beginning a classroom lecture, "is so marvelously complex ... if it were possible to inflict the identical injury to three brains, there would be three differing results, simply because of the individualistic development of each organ, and to its complex construction." Dr. VanSchoor frowned a little, then continued. "The bone splinter which infected was driven down between the left and right hemispheric lobes ... imagine, if you will, rolling two watermelons together and laying a small stick between them. The invading component is where it should not be, so the body infects it to try and sweep it away, yet it has not penetrated the tough covering adherent to the brain itself." He weighed his words carefully, not wanting to talk over his hostess's head, yet not wanting to speak as if she were uneducated. "Given its location, there may be weakness or paralysis on one side or the other. Given the infection, other areas of the brain may be affected. There may be a weakness in vision or hearing, coordination or even reasoning ability." Esther nodded. "There is one more thing you must consider." "And that is, Doctor?" "Your husband has had a head injury. He may possibly be seized by epileptic fits. I cannot say without a lengthy study of the man whether this will prove to be so." "Is there anything we can do, Doctor?" "Yes." Dr. VanSchoor nodded. "A darkened room for the first few months, absolute quiet, no sudden noises, no flashes of light. No surprises. Not even a slamming door." Esther nodded, digesting this newest information. The Sheriff threw back his covers, impatient to be out of bed. His head still hurt, he still felt like he'd been run over by a freight wagon, but he was tired of lying in bed. He sat up -- carefully -- gripped the side of the bed as a precaution. For a miracle, the room stayed where it belonged: it neither rolled, pitched, nor did it yaw; he stood, cautious, careful, then grinned. He stood up straight. "I can not believe," he said quietly, "just how good I feel." He took a step, took another, raised his hand, lowered it. His grin was slow and broad as he walked around the end of the bed, over to the window, looked outside. "I removed a panel of bone from the top of his skull," Dr. VanSchoor concluded, "and it will need to knit; I can't imagine it will be weak -- a fracture will heal stronger than the original material -- but out of respect for the underlying injury, he should avoid blows to the head." Esther sighed. "Dr. VanSchoor," she said patiently, "I have told him that very thing, time and again." Esther looked at the surgeon almost mischievously. "As a matter of fact, I have told the Sheriff more than once he really needs to consort with a better grade of criminal." The Sheriff buttoned his shirt, knotted his tie: he drew on his drawers and socks and thrust into high, stitch-top boots, slung his gunbelt around his trim waist and reached for his hat and his coat. He hesitated; a moment's dizziness advised caution, then passed as if it were never there. The Sheriff spun his coat around his shoulders, ran his arms in the sleeves, grinned at the fellow in the mirror, then winked: the reflection winked back, and he reached for the doorknob. Esther closed her eyes, bowed her head, considering all she'd just heard. "Gentlemen," she said at length, "I thank you for your many kindnesses, and for your frankness. Difficulty is less ... difficult ... when one speaks frankly." She looked up, from one man's eyes to the next, to the next. "Dr. VanSchoor, you have gone to personal inconvenience to tend to my husband. I am a businesswoman, and I believe in conducting oneself in a businesslike manner. Let us discuss your fee." Dr. VanSchoor blinked, surprised, then looked a little to his right. The surgeon's jaw hung slack, his eyes widening. "I presume," the Sheriff asked, grinning, "there are wound care instructions?" Esther waited until the physicians were departed before turning on her husband. "Do you know what you're risking?" she hissed, her eyes snapping with anger; her husband laughed, reached for his wife, and Esther twisted away, her back stiff. She whirled, glaring. "Do you know how close you came to dying?" she demanded, her voice sharp. The Sheriff blinked, his expression innocent. "Dying?" he asked, feigning surprise. "Me?" "Yes, you --" Esther surged toward him, seizing the lapels of his coat, her nostrils flaring: Linn ran his arms around his wife and pulled her close. "You listen to me, you -- you --" Linn blinked innocently, looking down into the furious eyes of his beloved bride. "Don't you look at me like that!" Esther snapped. "I'm trying to be mad at you!" "Yeah, Daddy," Angela admonished, shaking her Mommy-finger from the doorway, "Mommy's trying to be mad at you!" The Sheriff threw his head back and laughed, then wobbled, grabbed for the doorway and missed: Esther steered him toward a chair and he landed in it with all the grace of a dropped anvil. "Maybe I'll just sit here for a bit," he said, looking up at Esther: she saw his eyes change, and he held out his hand, palm up. Esther took his hand, settled onto his lap. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I had no call to worry you so." Esther brushed his thinning hair back from his forehead. "You realize," she said softly, "if you'd died, I never would have spoken to you again!" The Sheriff began to laugh, and Esther turned red as she realized just what she'd said. "Why don't we get you back upstairs and back in bed," she said quietly. "Why don't we have something to eat first," he replied. "I smelled biscuits and gravy sometime, just don't recall when." Angela walked up to her Daddy, looking curiously at the man. "Daddy, what happened?" she asked. Linn looked at Esther, blinked; it was Esther's turn to look innocent. "She's your daughter," Esther said, to which the Sheriff declared, "You're damned right she is! Come on up here, honey!" -- and so saying seized Angela under the arms and hoist her up onto Esther's lap. Esther's expression was alarmed; Angela's, delighted: Linn wrapped his arms around his ladies, hugged them tight, then looked from one to the other and said, "I need to ride out to Charlie's." Angela slid off her Mommy's lap, and Esther very carefully got up from her husband's lap: Linn leaned forward, pushed up from the chair arms and stood, then wobbled and sat down again. "Maybe I'll rest a little first," he said uncertainly. Jacob and Sarah rode out later that evening. Jacob threw Angela over his shoulder like a sack of taters -- a giggling sack, to be sure -- and Jacob embraced his mother one-armed. "How is he?" Sarah asked anxiously. "He's resting, but I think he'll be fine," Esther said. "He's eaten and he's back in bed where he belongs." Jacob's ear twitched as he heard that tone of voice, something he'd heard his mother use, but not often. Sarah's eyes looked toward the staircase, then back to Esther. "Charlie looked worn out," she said tentatively. Esther nodded, biting her bottom lip: she looked quickly away, turning her head. Jacob looked at Sarah, cleared his throat. "If he's resting, then, and you've had enough company for one day," he said, "why don't we come back when it's handier." Esther nodded, still turned away from them. Neither Jacob nor Sarah hesitated. They bundled Esther into a hug and held her for a long, long moment. Sarah seized the brass handle on the heavy door, hauled it viciously open: tearing the hat off her head, she stormed into the building with all the subtlety of the herd bull heading off a rival. Sarah's boot heels were loud in the darkening stillness; her rifle was gripped tightly in her off hand. Sarah threw her hat to the floor. Pale eyes hard and bright, she spoke her piece, her voice as hard as the octagon barrel she held. "I CAME TO TELL YOU SOMETHING!" she declared: her voice was pitched to cut, to slice, to penetrate. She raised her head, glared at the altar in the front of the little whitewashed church. Swinging the rifle up and going to one knee, she drove the crescent butt into the floor: she bowed her head, then raised it, looked at the altar, two wet streaks running down her face. "I came to say thank you," she whispered, her lips quivering: "I was scared ... I was so scared!"
  13. Dawg I love Tusco and shooting with you. Hope to get there again soon. It is a 300-400$ weekend for me to attend but I sure enjoy everyone there.
  14. Would there have to be a background check for the transfer of notches?
  15. I like the use of the cheese slicer in the above video. If you can't see the FB video above, try:
  16. Hope to make EOT sometime before the nursing home. Plan on swing through California when I do.
  17. Maybe he went nuts and they had to kill him off?
  18. HD: Yer always be welcome at Tusco. I enjoy having you on my posse, and hope we can shoot together a few times this year. --Dawg
  19. The club that Hunt Mountain Drifter and I are currently running here in Oregon died a number of years ago. The venue was still there, the targets were still there, but the enthusiasm wasn't. We got tired of having to travel at least an hour to shoot and decided to resurrect CAS on our local range. We went and talked to the parent club's officers and started organizing for CAS. A couple of years later they were buying us more steel, etc. and two summers ago we put on our first multi-day match, which has so far met with enthusiasm. I don't know whether or not such a thing is possible where you are, or if you'd even be interested in doing it, but maybe what is needed is some new blood? Or you can tell me to mind my own business... YMMV...
  20. I'm in!!! And Tucker -- it will be great to meet & shoot with you! --Dawg
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