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  2. Wrong On So Many Levels

    Sew, have you taken up making quilts or costumes?
  3. WTB Cowboy Express Sights for Marlin

    Need a better pic. This ain’t for cowboy shooting though, I like hunting with them. I think the flattop is a “U” Notch? I do have one of those on a Ruger with a green fire type front. Thanks
  4. Apparently mine is gone . . . Or was not in my IAC 97 shotgun when I picked it up I think this is the night part - although it mentions Winchester 97 Same thread on the crew ? Cartridge Stop Screw, Left Hand, New Style, Product #: 248140 Please advice ! Where can I find one - or who has one ?
  5. Annual CO Warning!!!!

    When I was a child, my dad messed with the heater. The next morning, I woke up on the front porch with my mother giving me mouth-to-mouth. It was so long ago, I don't remember if it was CO or what. Yep! Good post, Loophole!
  6. Welcome LOMAX!

    Welcome to a great game and the wonderful people Lomax
  7. Paper Cartridges in Frontiersman allowed?

    Some consider spending a night in the reloading room work .......some consider it therapy.......other look at it as a sanctuary ...... there are are few places i’d Rather spend my time than in my reloading room. got up early this am, turned a new mandrel, made a bunch of cases out of rolling papers. Made a cookie cutter out of a 41 Magnum case.....loaded up a bunch of cartridges and went to the range in 25 degree weather.......had a blast! the pistols are working great. Not it sure I’ll ever use them in a match. But I get great joy out of projects like this. You can see more of my “projects” involving firearms here: rvbprecision.com
  8. Welcome Archimedes Jones!

    Welcome Archimedes Jones to the best game and folks there is.
  9. FS Non CAS S&W 686 no dash 4"

    S&W model 686 no dash 4" barrel, Pachmayr grips, no box or papers. $650 plus shipping to your FFL.
  10. Annual CO Warning!!!!

    A timely warning: well and clearly explained, and thank you for this!
  11. High Speed Chase

    It's obvious none of the boats were made by American auto makers. That little one kept bouncing off the big one, and neither exploded.
  12. Wrong On So Many Levels

    Well at least we know Hu's on first
  13. New furnace

    Delighted to hear the good news!
  14. Wrong On So Many Levels

    Baseball game, apparently.
  15. 2018 SASS Florida State Championship

    There will be Outlaws there.
  16. Costuming question

    Ali, a Muslim camel driver, made the pilgrimage to Mecca - the Hadj - and was therefore allowed to rename himself Hadj Ali. The Americans spelled it like it sounds - Hi Jolly.
  17. High Speed Chase

    Boat said POLIS on the side. I'm with the Loophole, I vote Svensk!
  18. Gave Outlaw a go!!

    YeeeHaaa! Go Cowboy go!
  19. Welcome H.R. Finley!

    Howdy and Welcome H.R. Finley! Please tell us about yourself. Regards, Allie Mo
  20. Child letter to Santa

    Is there a professional or college sports team called the Sharks? #5 a sharks jaket & hat
  21. Welcome Archimedes Jones!

    Howdy and Welcome Archimedes Jones! Please tell us about yourself. Regards, Allie Mo
  22. Dovetails

    (admiring whistle) That would certainly maximize surface area for a good glue joint!

    83. TEATIME The Sheriff nodded and his eyes tightened a little at the corners. He tended to do this when he was looking at something that either gained his approval, or he was looking at something he admired, or at something he respected. In this case it was all three. The Sheriff was a man of many talents, of many skills, of many abilities: like his Mama, he had professional credentials and licensures most people didn’t know about – Willamina kept her nursing license up for her entire lifetime, though she hadn’t worn nursing whites since she told her facility back East to go straight to hell (to the director’s face, no less!) – today, the Sheriff was standing in the middle of the shooting range he’d built, expanded, and was in the process of improving. The Sheriff was many things: he was a gentleman, he was a warrior, he was a musician of absolutely no talent, in spite of having played first chair French horn in high school: he prided himself on his skills as a carpenter, but on a very small scale compared to the professional expertise of those long tall Kentucky moonshiners who were now Maxwell instead of Daine, and the Sheriff was both fast and good with a sixgun, just like his Mama, just like her father, just like every pale eyed lawman back to the legendary Old Pale Eyes himself. There was something that eluded this lean waisted horseman’s abilities, and today he watched as a younger man performed the task and made it look easy. The Ladies’ Tea Society would be here at the range today, and the Sheriff listened carefully when the ladies delicately refrained from actually complaining to him, but they expressed a preference: the wooden outhouse, they said, was … Inconvenient. That was the word. The Sheriff prided himself on being a gracious host. It was winter; the ladies wished to continue their expertise; the Society met in the back room of the Silver Jewel and presented their projects and taught what they’d learned about Firelands in the 1880s – the Sheriff was, at his heart, an incurable romantic, and he was of the opinion that women liked romance, and he aided and abetted their research into the era, because it was a romantic era in spite of its difficulties. The Ladies also recognized the dangers and difficulties, then and now, of being women in a dangerous time: after their tea, their presentations, their demonstrations in the warmth of the Silver Jewel, they would dress for the weather – whenever possible, in attire of the period – and adjourn to where the Sheriff stood now. The range was not for the exclusive use of the Ladies’ Tea Society. The Sheriff and his deputies, the Firelands Police Department, local competitors and casual shooters alike, all partook of the Sheriff’s range, and that’s what it was called – The Sheriff’s Range – and all who did, used the wooden outhouse, where toilet paper was kept in coffee cans to keep meeces and wood wasps from chewing up the tissue. Today, though, the Sheriff walked up to the young man who’d lowered the landing gear under the trailer he’d just positioned, unhooked the air lines, released his fifth wheel, and was ready to pull his tractor out from under the trailer when the Sheriff walked up, shaking his head and grinning that crooked grin of his. “Y’know,” he admitted quietly, “I can back a straight frame through the eye of a needle, but add a trailer and I can’t back it to save my life!” The driver looked at him curiously, then laughed a little as Linn continued, “I can’t back an 8N farm tractor with a baler on the back without jack knifing the damned thing! I have to admire a man who can drive a machine with a hinge in the middle!” Linn waved as the road tractor rumbled off, then he opened the well-insulated pump shed and began setting up the aluminum tubing frame, stretched the custom made canvas tunnel over it, attached it to the side of the trailer: this would stop the cold December wind, which would be enough, for the short time involved. He ran water line from the insulated little building and coupled to the trailer, went inside, checked the storage tank and valves, then proceeded to fill the on-board water tank: he connected the power, fired the propane heaters, tried the faucets, checked the individual tanks, checked the other necessary supplies; satisfied, he nodded, looked around. Coffee was a simple thing to set up: he himself had truly terrible luck making coffee, so here he took no chances: he had a machine that took those little individual cup sized plastic shot glass things. The ladies could choose which kind of coffee they wanted, or even a variety of teas: the Sheriff was taking no chances on individual taste. He even had a microwave and a stack of instant hot cocoa envelopes in a cute little wicker basket. There were flowers, fresh flowers, here and there in the ladies’ relief trailer. The Sheriff took pains to have an inside outhouse for the ladies, and to have it ready for them: now they would not have to use the old wooden latrine… now they would have a nice warm comfort station in which to take their ease. The Sheriff was an incurable romantic, but even he admitted freely there was little romance to parking one’s bare backside on a frosty wooden seat. Gracie wore widow’s black. Back when Firelands was still the frontier town on the edge of the gold field, a woman would have worn unrelieved black for a full year – at least she would back East; out West, where women were in short supply, she’d be in widow’s black for a short time only, until someone proposed to her and she put off the widow’s weeds for a married woman’s more colorful cloth. Today, though, black suited her. She missed her Roger, and she’d been out to his grave, singing to him with her fiddle: she knew it didn’t help him any – she knew he was long since gone, his essence flown like a blazing arrow shot from this world into the next – but it was a gesture, and she needed to make that gesture. She rode into town astride her Brindle-mule, her shotgun in its scabbard ahead of her right leg, her bulldog .44 hidden in her dress: like her beloved Grandma, Gracie had the gift of sewing, and she’d sewn the mourning gown with particular accesses to particular items, and the blocky, blunt revolver was not the only tool of un-gentle persuasion she wore as a matter of habit. Gracie knew what it was to be attacked, and Gracie knew what it was to fight for her very life, and Gracie knew well the Sheriff was absolutely right when he met with the Ladies’ Tea Society in the big round barn of his, when he had a thick layer of loose straw on the sawdust floor and a tarp over it, when he taught them particular techniques for fighting an attacker. “Cheat,” he shouted, his voice sharp and loud in the building’s quiet: “Whenever possible, CHEAT! To the greatest degree possible, CHEAT! At every opportunity, CHEAT!” He smiled a little. “If this little girl” – he indicated a high school freshman with a bladed hand – “was trying to keep me from hurting her, she would stand a better chance if she had a club” – she hoisted a length of broomhandle – “or a blade” – she set the broomhandle on the table and picked up a rubber practice knife – “or a gun.” She picked up the blue-plastic, injection molded block of plastic without a trigger guard, a monolithic molding that only incidentally looked like a common type of pistol. He’d showed them how to break a hold, how to block and punch, he’d had them practice: every one of the Ladies cycled through, for he had three others there to help him teach, and he made sure his Ladies could perform the moves he taught them. Gracie, in particular, took well to the lessons. She’d grown up the only girl in a stampeding herd of boys, and she’d had to learn fast and early how to prevent herself from being bullied or hurt: once she showed her bothers, older and younger alike (not to mention cousins and some surprisingly young uncles) that she would not put up with their foolishness, she was regarded with respect and acceptance … though she had to remind them on occasion, and not gently when she did. Gracie rode into Firelands, nodding pleasantly to the folk who waved, ignoring the ones who stared: she tied off her riding mule in front of the Silver Jewel, pulled her shotgun from its carved-leather sheath, laid the barrels back against her shoulder and hauled open the ornately decorated, oak-and-polished-brass-and-frosted glass door, and went inside. Both she and the locals regarded the sight of a woman in a wool skirt, knee socks and work boots, walking into a saloon with a shotgun propped up against her shoulder, as perfectly normal, ordinary and not worthy of comment. The Sheriff paced the catwalk, looking down into the shoot house. He’d put an immense amount of personal labor into building the house. The outer walls were stacks of tires, filled with dirt, proof against anything but a howitzer; interior walls were more lightly constructed – there were interior walls of tire-and-dirt, where shooters could wait inside, out of the wind, for their turn to go through the course – and the Sheriff had it roofed, walled, proof against winter’s winds: it was lighted, it had interior doors, it even had “windows” to an outer gallery to simulate an opponent attacking through a window. The propane heaters were pushing against the cold, and would for a while; it took some time to knock the chill out of the air, but by the time the Ladies showed up, it would be warm enough. Not room temperature, to be sure, but warm enough… especially when compared to the December chill outside. Satisfied, the Sheriff unscrewed the stainless steel cup from his heavy steel thermos, poured himself some coffee. He had a little time before he set up the first scenarios for them to shoot. He chuckled a little as he drank. Barrents was with him when the ladies first came out to the range, all in attire of their celebrated era, bright-eyed and anxious to try something new, and Linn had murmured, “Comes the Tea Society!” and Barrents asked, “Would that make this, Teatime?” – and ever since, when the Ladies arrived, Linn thought of it as just that. Teatime. He finished his coffee, then headed downstairs to start setting up targets.
  24. Welcome LOMAX!

    Howdy and Welcome LOMAX! Please tell us about yourself. Regards, Allie Mo
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