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  2. A cap rake is a common modification made to open top percussion revolvers in an effort to prevent spent caps from jamming in the hammer recess. I tried to put a cap rake post in one of my 1851s but I did not drill the hole correctly. So I figured out a different way to make a cap rake out of a coin. The post-style cap rake is simple, but this is an option if the post does not work out. I am not a gunsmith; if I can do this, anyone can!If you don't like to see a Dremel used on a gun, you should watch something else. If you don't like light classical music you can turn down the volume and not miss anything because there is no narration; but I let you know why I chose that piece as background music at the end of the video.Here's hoping you find it worth your time. Thanks for giving it a chance.
  3. Is anyone else excited about the Ocoee Ranger's Leadmine Shootout?

    It won't be long now! Yeeha!
  4. Do Not Attempt To Adjust Your Television! Images Added

    Throw-back uniform. Isn't that from the '30s?
  5. No proxy server?

    Howdy, Ive been battling Comcast for the last few weeks. Bad turned to worse, then it ran ok for a bit, then bad again. New parts, recheck connections, reboot and on and on. I kept getting a message about no proxy server. The guy at Comcast said that wasn't a Comcast server. Hmmmmmmm. So I actually followed the error message and reset connections to Automatic instead of the listed server address... TA DAAAAA. Service much better. Next day same problem but instead of waiting for hours I reset the connection. Service much better. So if anyone else has Comcast.... Follow the directions????? it did work, at least for now. Five second fix? I can live with that. Best CR
  6. A sincere Thank You! Barkeep line em up!!

    My hats off to you UB, that was very well done!
  7. Cooking At Sea

    Just watching makes me mad in regards what the Navy has become...I guess some moron CNO or Navy Sec'y thought "Hey, this 'talk like a pirate' thing is cool...let's lower our standards to the days of the actual pirates..." Sorry... Now, I'd like to see him do that on a real Navy ship, not a Bird Farm, in some heavy swell. Now that is "Cooking at Sea" The term "sliders" didn't come from some corporate office ad campaign meeting.
  8. WORDY WORDS 21

    Ness
  9. Oklahoma state scores ?

    Sprained neck with two compressed vertebrae, but all is healing well. Plan to shoot Sunday at Territorial Marshalls. Thanks for asking.
  10. A really weird gun idea that serves no practical purpose

    Howdy, Mares leg in .357 is a fun gun to shoot from the hip. After a few rounds from the hip I was hitting a hanging tin can at 20 yards or so. Ended the session when I cut the string holding the can. I found the sights terrible. Shootin from the hip? LOTSA fun. Best CR
  11. Thieves stole plaque on Big Note Kate's grave

    I saw this article on a Google news feed this morning. My first thought was meth-heads - "tweakers" - stealing recyclable metals. Than as I read it a thought came to me that made me think "Wow, there are lower life forms than Tweakers..." My thought was "I wonder if some dirtbag movie minion stole this just to get the name "Doc Holiday" in the news for promotion of the movie that's coming out?"... https://amp.azcentral.com/amp/687607001
  12. Wanted Over/Under Shotgun Citori, Red Label, Beretta

    I just sent you a PM and couldn’t include any pictures while using the iPhone. I can send more pictures of this SG if you are interested. HNH
  13. Newbie question on (re)loading strip/strap/block

    Howdy, Put ammo for the stage in a bag, load up, put bag in pocket. No need to walk anywhere except the fire line. Fancy leather if you like, Crown Royal bag will last years and may be free if the store has some laying around. Crown Royal has more colors too. Green or black are around. At one time they had an offer to put initials on their bags. Might still be available. Choices. Best CR
  14. Enough said. Crayfish
  15. 03A3

    Yes: the 03A3 is .30-06 the load i was using,-- was left from some years back when we used to shoot a "Mauser Match". You needed a WW I vintage military bolt rifle w/ iron sights. it was a 4 position match with targets at 100, 150, 150, and 200. a flat shooting load was helpful-- although my 8mm loads worked well too. 8mm are a lot like .303 British -- around 2450 -2500 fps range or .30-40 Krag ,rather than the 2700-2800 range for the '06 I used to shoot these 165's all afternoon but as I said-- the years have crept up on me. the thing I liked about the 03A3 is that -- even after repeated firing -- the group does not open up. this makes it a great target rifle as opposed to a light-weight hunting rifle. My old Buddy Hogg-Hartley works mornings up to the gun shop; I'll get him to get me one of them butt cushions for this thing Mybe I need a pink one -- who knows looks like he can get me a .45ACP Marlin Camp Carbine -- it's just a matter of CA$H -- them things is collector's items now !! I'm still shooting better with my new Sprg NM 1911A1 than with the 22/45 target pistol. Maybe I'm a natural .45 type guy ?
  16. Today
  17. Cooking At Sea

    ... just watching this makes me hungry!
  18. Put em' on my tab

    Congrats, Tyrel. Got one comin up Monday, myself.
  19. Put em' on my tab

    I'd say you both showed remarkable good sense, and you both have just as good a taste! Well done, pard, and proud of you both!
  20. Do Not Attempt To Adjust Your Television! Images Added

    My nomination for Supreme Ugly Uniforms in the NFL:
  21. A sincere Thank You! Barkeep line em up!!

    Actually, I think that's heptameter...very creative, UB!! LL
  22. Looks like EOT will happen this year

    Just saw all the people you mentioned @ the NY Championship and didn't think to ask, figures. Thanks for the advice. EMN
  23. HILLRUNNER

    1. “YOU ARE A NICE YOUNG MAN” Linn looked down at his arrest warrant. The name on the warrant was quite familiar to him and he surely did not want to ruin a perfectly good homecoming by putting a pretty young woman in irons and hauling her off to the hoosegow. His smile was quiet and not entirely pleasant; his mind had been busy and he’d made some inquiries, and he’d come up with information that led him to believe that this just might be a bad warrant. There was enough doubt in his own mind that he thought he might be able to finagle out of any unpleasantness, but before he was sure, he’d have to talk to Grace and sound her out. He raised his head as The Lady Esther’s whistle echoed in the distance, pushed the watch up out of his vest pocket, pressed the stem. A hand-painted miniature of his wife Connie looked at him from inside the hunter case’s cover, and he could not help but smile, for his son Jimmy had beautifully captured Connie’s quiet look of … wisdom? Tolerance, maybe … No. Amusement. He blinked, realized he’d looked at the dial three times and still hadn’t registered what time it was. “Right on time,” he said aloud, pressed the cover gently closed, felt the precise, delicate click, thumbed the nickel plated watch back into his vest pocket. Not three days ago, the old matriarch herself, old Gracie Daine, came into his office with her big purse and her old-fashioned silky big-flower-print dress and her old-lady shoes and seamed stockings, a dignified old woman as big around at the belt as the Sheriff was at the wrist … old Gracie herself came in and asked to see the Sheriff. There were those in town who were not entirely comfortable with old Gracie. She had a knowing way about her, and a woman who knows things is sometimes a woman who gets looked at … perhaps the word is … differently. Linn’s wife Connie told him once that Gracie could see the shadow of death on a healthy person’s face, and Linn did not doubt it; Gracie also knew herbs and the old ways of healing, she believed in doctors but not very often, and there were times when Dr. John Greenlees went to her and asked her advice on certain matters. Gracie presented herself to the dispatcher, tilted her head and regarded Sharon with bright and birdlike eyes: “You need to have that tooth looked at,” she said without preamble, “and if you could send that Nice Young Man out here.” Sharon looked up, unsurprised – she’d been doing her best to ignore what felt for all the world like an abscessing bicuspid, and at Gracie’s words, she realized the time for swimming in a certain North African river was over: she nodded, unsmiling, pressed a button on her console. “Sheriff, a visitor,” she said, her words very slightly slurred: she rubbed her hand on the leg of her slacks to warm her palm from friction, pressed it against her throbbing jaw. Gracie withheld comment; she knew the nearest dentist was in Cripple, and she knew him to be competent, and she knew that pain alone would prompt Sharon’s departure, and she was right: the dispatcher picked up her sweater and purse and stood as the Sheriff emerged from his office. He grinned that quick boyish grin and strode over to the skinny old woman in the old-lady dress, took her hand, held it between both of his. “Gracie!” he said quietly, his smile audible in the spoken word, then he turned to Sharon, his face going from delight to concern. “Sharon,” he said, releasing his visitor’s hand and placing a delicate fingertip just under Sharon’s chin, “did someone slug you? You’re swollen –” “Abscess,” she mumbled. Linn took her upper arm. “This way.” He looked at Gracie. “I’ll be right back, have a seat, can I get you some coffee?” – then he and his dispatcher disappeared into the Sheriff’s sanctum, and Gracie smiled to herself. Moments later they emerged, Sharon’s palm against her face again, but relief in her expression. “Here’s a railroad pass,” Linn said, pressing a heavy-paper coupon into her free hand: “get that taken care of, take time off as you need it, we’ll cover, don’t worry!” “I never knew whiskey would do that,” Sharon mumbled, the tingle and sting of something water clear and not over 30 days old still after-searing her buccal mucosa. “Feels good not to hurt!” “It works sometimes,” Linn cautioned her, “and it’s only temporary. I had an abscess in a front tooth and mouthwash helped, it was fourteen percent alcohol but this is quite a bit more potent. Swish and spit as needed and tell Doc Halterman that’s all you’ve done. He won’t work on you if he thinks you’ve been drinking the stuff.” Gracie waited until the Sheriff saw Sharon out the door and safely into a waiting cruiser: she correctly surmised that the Sheriff caught the incoming deputy and personally dispatched the young fellow on this mission of mercy, transporting their throbbing dispatcher to the train station so she could go get some relief: she was considering pulling her knitting from her voluminous purse when the Sheriff came breezing back in, seized a chair, spun it about and dropped his bony backside into the padded seat. “Now,” he smiled. “My apologies for the interruption. You were right about Wes teething and it worked and Connie and I were able to get some sleep.” Grace’s eyes smiled. The Sheriff’s little boy, she knew, was a couple of years old now (they grow so fast!), but her memory of advising the Sheriff on how to ease the lad’s erupting gums was still a clear one. “Sheriff,” Grace said without preamble, “my girl is coming home. I want you to arrange her passage.” The Sheriff didn’t have to ask who “my girl” was. There was only one soul in the entire world that Gracie called “my girl,” and that was the brown-eyed, auburn-haired, fiddle-playing child she’d raised as if she were her own. Young Grace was a Daine, but her Pa was killed in a timbering accident, and her Mama died of a sudden – Doc said it was a glioma, a fast-moving, aggressive and incurable brain cancer – it took the woman in just under two months, leaving a child orphaned, and Gracie swept in like a fluffed-up mother hen and nothing would do but this sweet, big-eyed child be kept safe under her matronly wing. Grace grew as did any of the Daine children, learning the things she ought from osmosis, and learning the things she desired from … well, from being the bright and curious child she’d always been. All this went through Linn’s mind with the speed of a passing comet. “Passage,” he repeated. “From where?” “She went East, to college,” Gracie replied primly, with all the quiet pride of a parent whose child has achieved a difficult goal. “Paid her own way, she did. She would not let us pay for it. She said it was too expensive, that if she worked her way through it would mean more than if it was given to her.” “Sounds just like her,” Linn admitted. “She will be leaving tomorrow,” Gracie continued. “I would like to have a car waiting for her at the train station.” Linn grinned – quick, broad, genuine – and he thought to himself that sometimes things just work out, for the Judge’s restored, private car was on its way back from an exhibit in Pennsylvania. “I think,” he said, “we can do that. Let me make a call.” Gracie waited with her usual quiet patience as Linn stepped over to Sharon’s vacated desk, picked up the phone, punched in a number; Gracie listened as Linn spoke with the Z&W’s dispatcher, and Gracie watched as Linn stood, straight, tall, shoulders back, the posture of a man who was getting something done, a man who was used to getting things done. My Charlie used to stand like that, Gracie thought, a twinge of longing searing her soul for a brief moment: her husband had been a wizened old man, desiccated by the dry mountain air, a man who timbered with a voice-trained team and with a tracked John Deere tractor; her Charlie was a moonshiner and a musician, and she missed him, missed him oh! – and for a moment, this nice young man with the phone to his ear and pale eyes distant, looking out the glass double doors, reminded her so much of her late husband – “It’s arranged,” Linn said, lowering the phone to its cradle. He opened one drawer, another: withdrew an envelope, a bottle of ink, a pen: dipping the steel nib quill, he addressed the envelope, removed a picture postcard of the Judge’s private car, turned it over, wrote on its blank reverse. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “There’s an air courier I use for priority correspondence. I’ll send this as official correspondence to their campus police department and have them place this” – he thumped his finger beside the ink-drying postcard – “into her hands. That will get this in her possession by noon tomorrow. Will that be soon enough?” Gracie rose, walked slowly over to the Sheriff, laid a matronly hand on his forearm. “Yes it will,” she said quietly, patting his arm in a motherly way, and added in her ancient, grandmotherly voice, “You are such a nice young man.” The Sheriff blinked, returned to the here-and-now, the previous day’s memories dissipating like a forgotten dream. The Lady Esther was coasting into station, her exhaust pure white in the cool, thin air, and the Sheriff grinned like a schoolboy. How many generations of Keller men have stood on this very platform and watched the train come in? he wondered, and just as quickly he thought, Six. With my sons, six generations. He grinned as the train eased to a stop, as the porter swung the step under the bottom of the passenger car's cast-iron stairs, as another porter strode back to the private car. He lifted his Stetson in greeting as a brown-eyed girl with her hair in a braid stepped out of the private car and looked around and then waved at him and bounced on her toes like an excited little girl.
  24. Reinforcement on why this game is great!

    These are my cow pals....The Tejas Caballeros....
  25. WV showdown

    John, load your sixth cylinders and keep your hand on your wallet when that low-down, dirty scoundrel B.S. is around! Fellas, I hope you have a wonderful time - I plan to join you next year. B.S., I hope to see you next weekend at the Cavalier monthly, the only thing that might stop me is if my neighbor manages to get his grubbies on a bucket truck so we can top some trees and take them down...
  26. Looks like EOT will happen this year

    Do you sell AA feather? EMN
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