Sixgunner.Com - Black Hills Ammunition - Belt Mountain Base Pins - Buffalo Bore Ammunition - Leverguns.Com

The "Wild Bunch"

I think most of us of a certain age went through this phase as kids growing up. We had the western movies, and TV series as inspiration, and it was just a normal part of childhood. Most

I met Bill Powell when we both worked at the GM plant in Arlington, TX. Our work stations were close, and we had exchanged pleasantries, but our friendship was forged out of the trouble we had to deal with by refusing to join the UAW. He had worked there much longer than I, and had dealt with the unpleasantness all before. When I refused to join, and the trouble started, he came around to lend a hand. I learned years later that he, and I had been the only two workers in the entire plant to refuse membership that anyone could remember. We began to run together, and one Friday close to quitting time, he walked up, and said "let's go to Graham." I asked why on earth would we do that at 11:00 PM, and he said "To do some shootin', and play cowboys, of course!" Hey, I was 24, single, and it was 1971. Hardly anything was considered a bad idea.

After finishing our shift, and going home to pack, Bill and I set out for Graham around 11:30. We took the back roads out of Mineral Wells, and as soon as we cleared the last lights of town, we stopped, and unlimbered all the guns, holsters, belts, ammo, and other gear. From now until Sunday evening, we were "bad hombres" out in bad hombre territory. We didn't shoot up the road, or do other stupid stuff. None of us were raised that way. Even then, we practiced a modicum of gun safety, and responsibility. It was just the height of "cool" to be cruising along in relative wilderness in the middle of the night with all of our treasures laid out in our laps, and on the seat. We all packed pistols back home, of course, but in the era long before CCL, we had to be careful, and well hidden. So far, this going to Graham idea was a great one.

Charlie closed the whiskey store at Midnight. He had a small living quarters built into the back, and retired there to do the day's accounting, and crack a jug of sour mash to wind down from the long day. His store was 30 mi. east of Graham, and we pulled in around 12:30, and parked around the side. As we were climbing out of the car, the side door banged open, and out stepped Charlie. He fired two rounds in the air one handed from an old sawed-off Remington mod. 11, and bellowed: "Stand fast varmints! I dunno who y'are, but it's after closin', and yer fixin' to eat a passle of buckshot!". I dove back into the car to await further developments. Bill bellowed back: "Belay that scattergun you crazy little *@$%#, it's Powell!" 

"I knew that." said Charlie. "I was just testin' ya!" I kind of eased back out of the car, and stood behind the door as Bill, and Charlie exchanged a warm handshake. Charlie looked over, and gestured toward me with the shotgun. "What's wrong with him?" Bill ignored the question, and called me over for an introduction. Charlie greeted me with a firm handshake, and a hearty "howdy pard!" That was my introduction to the one-of-a-kind Charles M. Graham.

We retired into the brightly lit quarters, and found chairs. Charlie reached into an old bank bag, pulled out two rounds of buckshot, and stuffed them into the old shotgun before placing it back on a wall rack by the door. As he pulled up a chair, and offered the jug around, I surveyed the place. The walls were covered with western memorabilia of every description. A hat rack contained several well beaten Stetsons, a sombrero, and three, or four pistol belts, with the butts of unknown sixguns poking from the holsters. After a sip, and some small talk, Bill, and I went out and gathered our guns, and brought them in, and scattered them out on the old single bed. We all did a good bit of trading, even back then, and by each trip to Graham, we all had new wares to show off. Charlie rummaged around in drawers, closets, and gun belts, and added his stuff to the pile. An hour or so of spirited horse-trading ensued, and I was in my element. Charlie, and I hit it off like bread, and butter, and by the time we shut the place down, and headed for Graham, we were old buddies.

Robert Youngblood probably had a report card in his past where a teacher had written in the comment section: "doesn't play well with the other children". He was a 25 year old class A curmudgeon. His recent tour as a grunt in Viet Nam hadn't improved his outlook on life. He was a born-and-raised product of West Texas, and all that that entails. Pure cowboy, but well read, smart as a whip, and loyal to a fault with those who earned his friendship. He had taken a job running Casburn's all-night gas station, mainly to keep from having to sleep.

Now Graham hardly needed an all-night gas station, but Bill Casburn had practically raised Robert from a pup, and knew the combination of a much needed income, and the solitude of a night shift was tailor-made for Robert. He could trust him unflinchingly, and the place probably did enough post beer-joint business to pay Robert's wages. As we rolled into the driveway in a cloud of dust, and dinging bells, he stepped to the door with a sawed-off 97 Winchester propped on his hip, and a scowl that any western movie bad guy would kill for. He didn't move until the engines stopped, and the dust quit billowing, and began to hang in the hot, still air. His greeting was heart-warming. "Now just what in the hell is all this shit!?"

We passed a couple of pleasant hours in the middle of the night, perhaps for our years prematurely aware of the values of good friends, good places, good guns, and good times. The reverie was broken only by the occasional customer, which unleashed a flood of profanity from Robert, highly indignant that some fool would interrupt his evening for something as silly as gas from a gas station. 

We left the station, and headed out to Charlie's place on the edge of town. It was 5:30, or so, and Bill, and Charlie agreed that we had better get some quick shut-eye, because Robert finished his shift at 7:30. At the time, I had no idea what this implied, but that would end soon enough. We piled up on couches, floors, etc. It had been a long day, to say the least, and I had met a couple of very interesting characters. We seldom drank to drunkenness, even back then, but I had no trouble dozing off. I slept the sleep of the innocent, brief as it was, having not a clue as to what was in store in less than two hours.

Dishes were cleared, and smokes were lit. After a bit of patter, Robert went out to his car, Charlie retired to the bedroom, and Bill rummaged in his gun bag. In no time, six, or seven Uberti replicas of Colt cap n' ball revolvers were laying on the table. They represented most of the Colt models Uberti copied, and were in various stages of condition, from well used, to near new. Most Ubertis at the time sold for under a hundred bucks, and littered the pawn shops for $35 on up to $75 for a good 1860 Army copy in .44 cal. I had been along when Bill had traded for a couple, but it was clear that these boys had a use for them. A couple of powder flasks appeared, along with a few cap tins, and loading began in earnest.

A wad of toilet paper from a half-roll went in in place of a lead ball, and I joined in the loading. I soon noticed that Bill was done loading, and was glaring at Robert. When he caught Robert's eye, he got all squinty, and declared in a low voice: "Yew arn't not to have done my daughter thataway you mangey $%&#$!!" Robert waited half a beat, and bolted for the door with Bill hot on his heels. Charlie, and I crowded to the door to watch as Robert sprinted out onto the weeded, dusty yard. Bill stood in the doorway, and bellowed: "Halt! you $@%!" "Stand and deliver!!" He punctuated this with a shot in the air. With amazing grace, and speed, Robert whirled around in mid-stride, and fired two shots at Bill, but it was too late.

 Sometimes we watched the last of the movie, sometimes we just chatted with the folks until closing. Charlie, Bill, and I then went back to Charlie's place, passed the jug with whoever showed up, and relaxed, and swapped lies until early morning. Even at that age, the last two days had taken their toll, and we were beat. We all bedded down for some real sleep, at least four, or five hours. We all knew that you-know-who would repeat his charming alarm ritual promptly at 7:30 in the morning.

Sure enough, Sunday morning was a repeat of Saturday. This time, however, Robert was taken aback by Bill, and I joining in in the spirited response, complete with the waving of pistols, and grumbled profanities. More Mulligan, and black coffee.

Today was live ammo day. Buddies Hardware sold Alcan 12 ga. shotshells for $1.98 a box of 25. We drove down there and bought 10 boxes each. As for centerfire, none of us reloaded, but seemed to trade into odd boxes of ammo at different times, and there was always enough for at least a little shooting of whatever pistols we had. The morning, however, was shotguns! Robert, Bill, and I each had a 97. Charlie had his Remington auto, and an old Stevens 520 pump. Assorted single, and double guns were scattered about Charlie's house. Few had barrels longer than 18". We shot up everything that Charlie approved as a target, and a few things he didn't. We lined up four abreast, and marched on an old tree, all of us firing from the hip as fast as we could.

By the end of the decade, however, it was done. We were in our thirties, and could no longer stay up all night, and fall off roofs, and tractors all day, especially with clucking women around reminding us of our age. I think "Breakfast Mulligan" was eventually banned as a hazardous substance by the EPA. Yes, it was "childish", yes it was macho role plating, but it had it's practical aspects as well. It was good practice. Blanks, or not, we all became reflexive "gunmen", learning to act, and react in stressful situations. It also forged an attitude in all of us, and only so much of that attitude was bluff, and bluster. The shooting, and the dying may have passed with our twenties, but not the nerve, and the grit. There were good points, and bad points, but above all else, it was great fun.

HOME -  SHOOTING RANGE  -  BUNKHOUSE  -  BRANDING CREW  - TAFFIN TESTS  -  GALLERIES - ORDER TAFFIN'S BOOKS