Know When To Quit

When I was about 15 years old I got on a Greyhound bus and took a trip from Phoenix Arizona to Seattle, Washington to visit my uncle. I packed a couple pairs of jeans, a shirt or two and some socks and underwear, and most important of all, my 1911 .45 Colt automatic, my Ruger .357 Magnum and about 400 rounds of ammo for each. I carried this on the bus and figured no one better mess with me. No one did.

When I got to my Uncle's we took his plane and flew over east of the mountains to visit the ranches of some relatives. One in particular was a shooter. Specifically, he was a Bench--Rest shooter. He was not real interested in handguns as they were not accurate enough for him. We flew to his ranch, landed on the road in front of his house and taxied into the driveway. After exchanging greetings we repaired to the bunkhouse, which was the firing line. We walked out to the 50-yard line and he tacked up a target, telling me he wanted to see what I could do with a handgun.

I was young and brash and felt I could do about anything so I put a thumbtack in the center of the X and said, "I will shoot that thumbtack out for you!" We walked back to bunkhouse and I fired 5 shots with my Ruger 357, standing up, using a two-hand hold. We then walked back to the target and lo and behold! there was only a slightly egg-shaped hole in the center of the target. One of my shots had driven the tack, nearly centering it. I said nothing about it. My uncle was greatly impressed. I let them shoot up the rest of the ammo and never fired another shot the rest of the day myself. I was young and foolish but I was not stupid.