“The Gun Collector”
To Dad

 He sits among them day by day
They hang from every wall,
Flintlocks, hammerlocks, dueling pistols
Thick ones, slim ones, short and tall

They hang above his desk
His window, chair, and doors
You wonder how he could possibly think
Of putting in any more---

They stand in cases, racks, and stalls
In every corner and nook
And when he can’t find room for one
He’ll hang it from a hook---

You look at all this wood and steel,
And you somehow get the feeling
That the next time you visit his hide away
He’ll be hanging them from the ceiling---

He knows the history of every one,
And is known though out his sector
As being an authority in his field,
As a “top notch” gun
collector---!




William C. Dean



December 25, 1944

The day started out the same as the day before.  Hot, dry and humid.  None of the wranglers were in a hurry
to go out to start work right away.  They all lingered at the breakfast table for another cup of coffee.  We had another few days and the spring round up would be done.  All the cattle accounted for, branded and ready to head to the summer range.   By this day, next week we would have to have all the fences mended, new post put in the ground, and all the new wire strung and stapled in place.

Just as everyone headed out the door, Jim hallowed out that the postman was coming up the lane. The ranch
foreman walked out to greet the postman, and get the monthly mail.  As the foreman shuffled toward the corral, He was calling out the names of the men, to get their letters from back home.  As he got to the gate, he stopped and
picked up a hammer, and nailed a paper up on the post.   He then told us, that the paper was for all of us. 
It wasn’t but about two seconds, and everyone was reading, and talking, about what they had read.  With
everyone talking at once, I couldn’t understand what they were saying.  So I walked over to read the paper for
myself. It seemed that there was going to be a shooting contest, in a small town, south of here.  
The town was called Hallsville.  It was a far piece away and to go, I would need a few days off.  
 
The contest was a week away; we would have enough time to have the fences mended, and talk the boss into a few days off.  We have been working long days, in the heat to get the work done.  If things would settle down a bit, the ranch would run itself, for a few days

With a tired look on our faces, we went to talk with the boss.  We needed just a few days off, for the contest.  He looked up from his desk and said  “ You want to do  what?”  Come back when you have all the work done, then we will talk about a few days off, for such foolishness.

The following days seemed to just drag on.  All of us ranch hands pitched in.  On Wednesday, the work was all done, three days ahead of time.  It was just before four in the afternoon, when we got back to the ranch, all tired and dirty. 
We must have been pitiful sights to see, because the boss met us at the gate.  He looked us over and
said,  “you boys got more work done in the last week, then you did all last month.”  Go ahead, and go to this shooting
contest, but be back by the middle of next week, as this place doesn’t run itself, if it did, I sure wouldn’t have to put up with the likes of all of you.  As he turned and started toward the ranch house, everyone threw their hats at him, as we knew he was just trying to make like he was the boss.  He turned to look at us, and we could see he was laughing so hard; his face was as red as an apple.  You boys gave a good time, he said, as he entered the house.

It would be about 2 hours before supper, so we all headed down to the river, to cool down and get the day’s dust off.  After the evening meal, it was time to get the guns cleaned, and tuned up, and ready to go.  For some it took only a few minutes, for others, I wasn’t sure if they would be ready to go by morning.

Joe was hollowing he needed primers, powder, and casings. So he could get his shells loaded.  Slim hollowed
back, and asked Joe if he had read the contest rules.  No, just what I heard you guns talking about, was the answer. 
Slim answered back; the sponsor of the contest was going to be furnishing the cartridges for the shooters. 
This made Joe, very happy as he said he would shoot all day as long as it was with someone else’s ammo.

The next morning, all packed and ready, we set off for Hallsville.  It was a long ride, and our backsides
were about numb, when we arrived at Hallsville.  As we came into town, I could clearly  see right away, that it was an eight horse town.  There was a bank, blacksmith shop, schoolhouse, sheriff’s office/jail, and a saloon for the thirsty ones.   We settled in around town, campfires going, and the smell of food cooking.  And the coffee was always
ready.

Saturday morning, we got to meet the sheriff, Al.  Who gave us a good talking to on being safe, with the guns? 
The mayor of Hallsville gave a little speech to welcome us to the contest.  All shooting was to be
done right there on main street, between the blacksmith, and the schoolhouse.

By ten, every thing was ready to go. The contest was on.  As I looked around, I could see men and woman, all set to try their hand at hitting the target.

A half an hour later, the air was filled with smoke and fire from the muzzles of the six guns. Targets breaking and an oft time groan, as the target was still standing after the shot.  The contest went on all day.

That evening, the roll for everyone to got to the chuck wagon for the meal.  I looked at tables full of food and drink, and wasn’t sure where I should begin. But the decision came quickly as a plate was put in my hand, and a voice said,
“Eat”. So that’s what I done, until I was too full to move.

Sunday morning, at nine sharp, the contest started all over again.  As the previous day, the smoke filled
the air, and there was everyone who called that town home, standing around watching who would win that contest. 
Some of the shooters were cleaning their guns, others talking to old  friends, they hadn’t seen for a long time.

The day stretched out and the sun was three-fourth of the way through the day, when finally the last shooter was done.   It was time to see, what the out come would be.   The scorekeepers were busy double-checking everything. 
Then came the sound and smells of mealtime.  The yell came through “let’s eat”  Again the tables were stocked with food.  One table in view of where I was standing, was full of cakes, cobblers, puddings, and all the other good things,
I have always dreamed of.  I, of course, made this table, my first stop.

Soon it was time to head back, to the ranch, I call home.  I carry with me the fond memories of the weekend with friends, some old, some new.  I could tell the folks that enjoyed themselves, as to how many times, they said goodbye.  Many said, they would be looking forwards to the next contest, and hoped that they would place higher.


           
Sure glad the boss gave us extra time off, because I was tired when I got
home.  I must say, it was worth it,
and I would do it again, soon  (I
hope)


 

As daylight was starting to creep into the eastern sky, the Marshall woke up with a start. 
A noise had came from outside the office, the Marshall slipping on his boots, stuck his six gun in the holster, and went outside to investigate the noise.  In the dim shadows he saw a figure laying half on the ground and half setting up against the building.  It was ole Joe, drunk again, and looking for somewhere to sleep it off.  The Marshall helped him to his feet, and got him into the sheriff’s office into the jail cell, and on a bunk, so he could sleep it off. 
All the time the Marshall was getting Joe to the cell, Joe kept saying, “He’s here to get”, and that was all the Marshall could understand of Joe’s muttering.  Guess he would have to wait until noon, when Joe woke up.  Meanwhile it was the start of another day.

Daylight was here, the sky was cloudy, a north wind blowing, and making it seem colder than it was.  Looks like rain, the Marshall said to himself as he started to fix the morning coffee.  The fire in the pot bellied stove, was down to just red coals, but a few sticks of wood and a nice blaze was going. Sure feels good the Marshall thought, as he put the coffee pot on the stove.

It was 7:30 am; the town was coming alive with people getting their day started. Sally’s Beanery was open and it was time for the Marshall’s breakfast.  He picked up his hat and started across the street to Sally’s.  As he walked he was checking the street for anything that was different from the day before.  In front of the saloon was a paint horse, he had never seen before. All dressed out with a Mexican silver saddle and bridle.  Poor horse, he thought, carrying around all that extra weight along with the rider, should be a law again that.

As he stepped into Sally’s, he was greeted by the usual folks who stopped and talk each day.  What will it be this morning? Asked Sally as the Marshall sat down, at his usual table with his back to the wall.  The usual Sally, old habits are hard to break he said.  I know, was Sally’s reply

With a full up feeling and several cups of coffee the Marshall walked around town talking to folks like he had done for the last 10 years.  Seeing what was new at the hardware, to check if the new 45’s were in yet, have been waiting to look at one of them new guns for weeks now, don’t reckon I could ever afford one, but it don’t cost nothing to look at one he said as Silas was unlocking the gun case.  Well Marshall, I know you are good for the cost, so if you decide you want one let me know said Silas.

The first half of the day was passing rather quickly.  The Marshall headed down to the blacksmith shop, to check if anyone new had stopped in.  As he walked into the stable, in the second stall was the paint horse; he had seen this morning on Main Street.   It had been brushed and wiped down and was happily eating some oats. At least, the owner does take good care of his horse, he thought.  As the Marshall walked into the back part of the blacksmith shop, he could see barney fixing a wagon wheel for someone.  Anything new, he asked as he walked over to where Barney was working. “No” was the reply from Barney. “ Who owns the paint horse out front?”the Marshall asked. 
Don’t know, was in there when I came in, they left two dollars for the oats, hay and a stall. But I haven’t seen no one, was the reply.

The Marshall thought it was time to check on Joe back at the jail.  As he headed back up the street, here came Joe, running as fast as he could, towards the Marshall waving his arms as if to help him run faster.  “He’s here, He’s here”, said Joe, gasping for air.  Slow down old-timer and catch your breath.  It seemed like half an hour before Joe was breathing properly again. But it was only about five minutes.  “Now, said the Marshall, Who is here?”   That Mexican you out shot last  time.  “He said he was going to take you down a couple of notches before he left town.” 
You had better go away for a couple of days, said Joe.  I can’t leave town just because some one is here looking for trouble, said the Marshall  I guess I had better check this out, and see what’s on this fellows mind, said the Marshall.

As the Marshall walked toward the saloon, he was thinking the best way to avoid trouble was to meet it head on, as he stepped into the saloon it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus due to the darkness inside.  Not a person was in there except for the bar keep, who was cleaning the glasses and putting them away.  “Morning Marshall”, said
the bar keep, “How’s everything today?”    Just fine was the reply.  Get me a beer will you; a cold one, if you have any, said the Marshall, as he sat down at a table, so his back was against the wall. Setting there sipping on his beer, a half hour passed, then the swinging doors opened, a short stocky man came in. A gold laced sombrero on his head, a neat black suit trimmed in gold thread, with gold conchos down the side of the pant legs, shiny black boots, white shirt and black tie, gun belt wore low on the right side, nickeled  .45 setting in the holster.  The Marshall slid his chair back so the table would not interfere with a fast draw, if it was needed.  The stranger looked around, seen the Marshall and walked straight up to him, hands held well above the gun, so a draw would be impossible to make.  
“Afternoon, Marshall”, the man said.  I hope I haven’t got here at a bad time.  You must be the owner of the paint horse, over in the livery, answered the Marshall.  I seen it out front early this morning.  Yes, that’s my horse you seen.  I got into town just before day break this morning, rode a long way just to see you, Marshall. 
I got some thing on my mind, said the Mexican.  “What’s that”, said the Marshall.  Last time you out shoot me and I said I would be back, well here I am, I think I can out gun you now, said the Mexican. “Only time will tell”, was the
reply from the Marshall.

The Marshall got up and walked out into the street, and across to his office, got out all the wanted posters for the last couple of years and was looking though them, but no one looked like the Mexican, so there was no reason to worry about it.  But he said, he was here to out gun me.  So I had better be ready, thought the Marshall.

As the Marshall cleaned and oiled his six-gun, and loading new cartages, just to be sure every thing would be prefect, if needed.  As he was cleaning and saddle-soaped his belt and holster, he was trying to remember who this hombre
was, and when he had out shot him.  Thinking back two years was a long time ago, to try to remember, names
  and faces of someone that you have seen only once.  Just then the door of the office opened and in stepped the Mexican.  “You don’t remember me”, said the stranger.  No I don’t think so, was the reply.  Well, Marshall, Smith
is the name, we met in Tombstone in ’85, and you out shot me bad.  And now it’s my time to get even, we will be shooting for high stakes this time, winner takes all, said Smith.  I’ll meet you on Main Street tomorrow at noon, for a showdown, he said, as he closed the door behind him.

The night was long and restless for the Marshall, but daylight finally arrived. As the Marshall sat looking at the bottom of his empty coffee cup, he was deep in thought, who was this Smith hombre, can’t seem to place him in my mind, or memory in the last two years, and don’t like to be pushed into a shoot out against someone I can’t remember. 
The Marshall got up, and walked across the office, sat down at his desk, and was shuffling around some papers, when a paper fell to the floor, as he bent over to pick it up a poster appeared from under the desk, must have fallen here some time back, he thought, as he pulled the poster out.  There was a picture of Smith, fastest gun wins shoot-out in Tombstone in ’84.  Johnson Smith wins all the money, was the headline on the poster.

I must have beat him in ’85, and now he wants revenge, now I know who, why, and when, thought the Marshall, as he tilted back in his chair, and propped his feet on the desk, he drifted off to sleep.

It was 10:00o’clock when the Marshall woke from his nap.  Two hours till showdown, he thought.  There were folks coming into town, as they had already heard about the shoot out.  All the folks were gathering on main street, so they could see better and tell the story later.  Ten minutes to twelve, the Marshall checked his gun, shells, and tightened the leg strap, so the holster would not slide up, when the gun was drawn.   The Marshall stepped out in the street, to see Smith, walking towards him.  The targets were set and ready.  The Marshall and Smith stepped up, hands ready to draw, the signal given, flame came from the muzzle of
their .45’s, but there is only one winner.  I guess you done it again, Marshall,
said Smith. Let’s go over to
Sally’s and have them high steaks that I got to buy.


  

OLD GUNSLINGERS    NEVER DIE

       LONG  AFTER THE SETTLERS CROSSED THIS GREAT COUNTRY OF OURS AND SETTLED THE WEST WITH DETERMINATION, FORTITUDE, BLACK POWDER AND LEAD. TELEVISION WAS INVENTED AND LO
  AND BEHOLD HISTORY HAS BEEN RE-ENACTED UNTOLD TIMES.   IN THE 1950’S WE HAD A MULTITUDE OF TELEVISIONS SHOWS DEPICTING LIFE IN  THE OLD WEST.  NOW DON’T GET ME WRONG, I’M NOT TRYING TO TAKE AWAY FROM THE MOVIE INDUSTRY WHERE ROY ROGERS AND
GENE AUTRY RODE ACROSS THE SCREEN.  WE HAD ON TELEVISION SUCH SHOWS AS GUNSMOKE, WYATT EARP, HAVE GUN WILL TRAVEL, RAWHIDE ETC.  EVERY WEEK A NEW SHOW DREW ME TO THE TV SET.  WE SAW MANY A GUN FIGHT SETTLED IN THE STREET BY THE GOOD GUYS VERSUS THE BAD
GUYS.
 
   I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A GUN ADVOCATE AND BEING STATIONED IN THE CALIFORNIA MOHJAVE
DESERTWITH THE USNAVY, I SAW IN A GUN MAGAZINE AN ADD ABOUT GUN FIGHTER RIGS.  THE ADD WAS BY ARVO OJALA OF HOLLYWOOD, CALIF. I HAD NO IDEA WHO HE WAS, BUT I WANTED ONE OF HIS RIGS.  I ONLY LIVED A HUNDRED MILES FROM THERE, SO OFF I WENT TO SEE ABOUT HAVING ONE
MADE.  I WAS VERY FORTUNATE AS THE DAY I CHOSE TO GO TO HIS STORE IN HOLLYWOOD, ORVA WAS THERE.  THE NEXT THING I KNEW WE WERE TALKING ABOUT LEARNING TO FAST DRAW.  FOR GENERAL INFORMATION, HE WAS THE PREMIER INSTRUCTOR FOR THE TV AND MOVIE INDUSTORY. NOT TO TAKE AWAY FROM ROD REDWING AND ANDY ANDERSON.  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER I WAS NOTIFIED MY RIG WAS READY FOR ME.  RATHER THAN WAIT FOR THEM TO SHIP IT TO ME I WENT BACK TO PICK I UP. ARVO WAS THERE AND WE ENDED UP IN A BACK ROOM WITH HIM GIVING ME LESSONS ON HOW TO THUMB.  I WAS HOOKED FROM THAT DAY ON.   THAT WAS IN 1956.  I FOUND THERE WERE OTHER PEOPLE INTERESTED IN THE SPORT AND I ATTENED EVERY MEET I COULD. IN THOSE DAYS WE SHOT LIVE AMMO, STANDING SIDE BY SIDE AND JUDGES WOULD DECIDE WHO FIRED FIRST AND THEN WE
WOULD CHECK THE TARGET FOR HITS.  MT ORIGINAL RIG ORVA MADE FOR ME, WHICH I STILL HAVE, HAS TWO HOLES IN THE BACK AND DOWN THE LEG BACK.  WE ALSO USED 5 IN 1 BLANKS LIKE THEY USE IN THE MOVIES.  AND WE  SHOT AT BALOONS   IT WAS SEVERAL YEARS BEFORE WE STARTED TO USE WAX AND LIVE AMMO WAS OUTLAWED. I WONDER WHY. I WAS HONORED TO GET TO DRAW AGAINST JAMES ARNESS OF GUNSMOKE, HUGH OBRIEN OF WYATT EARP, RICHARD BOONE OF HAVE GUN AND CLINT EASTWOOD OF  RAWHIDE.  THEY WERE DOING PUBLICITY APPEARANCES AT THE TIME.  I THINK
THAT IS ENOUGHOF NOSTALGIA.

      I DROPPED OUT OF THE SPORT IN THE LATE 1960”S AND THOUGHT THE SPORT HAD FADED INTO
THE ARCHIVES OF HISTORY.  BY THE WAY I MET TWO OF THE DEAREST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD IN 1965 AT THE WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP HELD IN TOLEDA, OHIO.  DALE AND SUSIE SEARLS.  WE LOST CONTACT AFTER THE CHAMPIONSHIP IN STANTON, MO. IN 1967.  I FOUND THEIR NAME AND ADRESS ON MY COMPUTER ON THE WEB PHONE DIRECTORIES.  AFTER GETTING TO SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN AFTER 35 YEARS, I FIND FAST DRAW IS ALIVE AND WELL. THESE BEAUTIFUL FRIENDS CAME THROUGH LEXINGTON, KY PICKED ME UP AND I GOT TO ATTEND THE SHOOTOUT IN DAYTON, TN ON SEPT 28 & 29 2002. 
I MET SOME OF THE FRIENDLYEST AND WARMEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD.  NEEDLESS TO SAY THINGS HAVE CHANGED TREMENDOUSLY IN THE SPORT, AS I WAS SOON TO LEARN.  RIGS HAVE CHANGED, TIMERS HAVE CHANGED AND THE RULES AND REGS HAVE
CHANGED. ATTENDING THE SHOOT WAS AN HONOR AND A PLEASURE.  I WISH TO
THANK RICK AND JUDY JENKINS FOR THEIR GREAT HOSPITALITY. AND THANK YOU EVERYONE
FOR MAKING ME WELCOME AND FEEL LIKE I HAD NEVER LEFT THE SPORT. 
I DID JOIN THE OFDA AND I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO BEING AT ALL THE SHOOTS I
CAN.  I AM AGAIN PRACTICING AND TRYING TO RE-LEARN A GREAT SPORT. 
AS YOU CAN SEE OLD GUNSLINGERS NEVER DIE------THEY JUST ARE A LOT
SLOWER-----ONCE YOU GET THE SMELL OF GUN SMOKE IN YOUR SYSTEM, SHOULD I SAY
MORE…



                                                                                                      
FRED  “HONDO”  BRATTON. 

     It was the spring of ’61, after the ice and snow had disappeared.  I heard of a shoot out at a big ranch, called the Silver Spur.  This shoot was for cash money, for the fastest draw and straight shootist cowpoke that showed up.   I had thought of who would be there, to gain a little more weight of coins, in their pockets.  Of course, I knew the Earps, would be there as they liked to show folks that their skill with a six gun was not just here say.

     The day finally arrived, so early that morning, a couple of friends and myself, hit the trail for the ranch.  It was not a great distance from where we were, so a few hours of hard riding got us to the gate of the Silver Spur.  It was a good size spread, with a long lane to the main house.  Off to the left was the bunkhouse, to the right was the corral, it was big enough to hold one hundred or more livestock, at branding tine.  No one would be in each other’s way, while working.

     As we stepped down, I looked around at a large gathering of folks who came to see, if they were as good at their shooting skills, as the next, or if they should leave their guns holstered and watch the rest try their hand at hitting the targets, that were set up.

     As I looked around through the crowd, I could see the Earps, Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan. Pat Masterson, Doc Holliday, Ringo Harden, Calamity Jane, and Annie Oakley, just to name a few.   There were others that I did not know by name, and some I had heard about, but had never seen in action.

     At noon the first shooter stepped up to the line in front of the target, the signal was given, the gunman’s hand moved in a blur.  The six-gun blew flames from its muzzle the target fell.  I stood in amazement of the speed and sureness of the shooter’s aim.  This continued for ten shots, for each shooter until they had all shot at the targets.  There were some who missed, and some who did not.

     One gunfighter in particular I watched very closely.  He was of slender build, rusty colored hair, and dressed as a gambler.  Wearing two guns.  As I watched his targets fall to the blast of his .45, I knew that he could handle those .45’s with the skill and grace that they deserved.

     Time had passed quickly and the sun was starting to set when all the shooters had finished their rounds of targets, the smoke was settling down, the judges were making their decisions, the scorekeepers were busy totaling the hits, and the misses, for each of the shooters, to find out who would be top gun.   Finally one of the judges from the Silver Spur, stepped up to the platform, and began to name the shooters of honorable mention, both men and women, shared the honors, but there could only be one Top Gun.  As I sat waiting to hear who would leave with the prize money, my thoughts were of that rusty haired, slender built gambler, who had impressed me with the ease and speed of his hand, and how the .45 found it’s target every time.  Finally, the announcement we had all been waiting for, Top Gun.

      As I reflect on the years since that day in ’61, it brings back fond memories of the thirty plus years I have known that gentleman.  Our friendship has grown into a strong bond, and the enjoyment of seeing if we could out shoot each other year after year, at the hundred of contests we have attended.  But the one thing I will always remember is that day in ’61, when I met Jerry Booher, and he was named Top Gun.  And  in my mind, he will always be.


- Rusty Hammer

     I was sitting at the bunkhouse table with my hog leg 45 laying there in a bunch of pieces, cleaning and checking parts for wear and dirt from the last two weeks of moving the cattle from summer range up high to the lower range for the winter.  I tend to daydream a little while doing jobs that do not require a lot of thinking on my part, and that old 45 could almost put itself back together with out my help.

     I was thinking back to the fall of ’85.  While I was doing the same task of cleaning and oiling that 45, when the bunkhouse door flew open and Jack came charging in like a bull in a glass factory.  All out of breath saying, we got two hours to get ready and down to the train station.  I just sat there looking at him wondering what he was talking about. Finally after catching his breath, he settled down and said, we have four days vacation, and I got two tickets to Chicago, we have to be at the train station in two hours to leave, hurry up.  I sat there looking at him, still wondering what was in Chicago, that might be of interest to me, as Jack was finally getting the idea that I didn’t have any intention of moving until I knew what for.

     Finally, he told me the story as he handed me a piece of paper telling of a fast draw contest in Chicago.  The prizes were silver bars from the local silver mine.  The contest was fifteen shots at a fourteen-inch square plate, and it was set up with some new fangled device that timed the shooter. There were judges to make sure the target was a good hit.  It sounded like fun to me, so I put my gun together, packed some clothes, got on my hat and boots, and said “Let’s go.”  Jack and I got to the train station with thirty minutes to spare.

     It was a ten-hour ride on the train to the big city, and a trip to the dining car made the trip even better.  Arriving in the big city was an experience by itself, all the tall buildings.  It put a creak in your neck just looking up to see the tops of them and we had one more day to get to the shooting contest.

     We had time to find our way around a little bit, and folks just knew we are at their mercy when asking directions, most folks were helpful, but some jokers thought it was fun to run us around in circles, one such fella, lost three teeth, and gained two black eyes for his trouble. (Jack done it.)

     Finally, we found our way to the shootout.  It had to be the right place as there were cowboys everywhere you looked, every size there is.   I saw one tall slim cowboy wearing a two-gun rig, talking to shooters as he walked around, checking everyone out as he went.  Finally he got around to talking to Jack and me.  We spent the rest of the morning talking.  I found out he went by the name of Lassitor and he could shoot with either hand very accurately.

     The contest started at 12:00 o’clock, right on the strike of the clock.  There were many shooters trying to hit that fourteen-inch square at fifteen feet.  Some were hitting at a lower time and others were just burning up the air around the target, with a fast draw and a miss.  Dozens of shooters were eliminated after the second round.  Jack being one of them, so he could watch and wait for the outcome.

     I was still hanging in there without a miss, but the times were not as fast as I would like.  But at least I was hitting what I was looking at.

     Most of the time I got to watch Lassitor shoot with a smooth easy draw, nice speed and not a miss so far.

     Finally, my turn for the last five shots.  Fourteen hits, one more to go, take a deep breath, get the signal, draw, fire, it’s a hit, fifteen shots, fifteen hits, now to wait for Lassitor.  He had not missed any either.  Twenty more shooters tried their hand, not one of them had all hits.  Next, came Lassitor, his first four shots were right on target, as he stood there looking at the target, I knew he was thinking of the next shot and how to make it count.  He sized up the shot, gave a nod of his head that he was ready.  The signal to draw, a cloud of smoke and flame “It’s a miss” hollowed the Judges.

     That left me as the only shooter to have all hits, and to have that nice cased silver bar of 99.9 pure silver setting on the shelf with the inscription” ’85 World Champion Thumber”

     I still have fond memories of Lassitor, whom I haven’t seen in a few years, but one day our paths will cross again, and we can talk of old times, one more time. 

 - Rusty Hammer