felt that he was really entitled to be called a “rifleman.”
The above is written as a partial answer to numerous queries, received from correspondents all over the country, as to whether I thought all the training and range firing and the annual competitions at Camp Perry were “worth while.” The answer, most emphatically, is
All the “rifle cranks” in this country are helping the cause. Their ceaseless experiments in reloading, devising new cartridges and components and designing new bullets, sights and various other mechanical improvements; their indefatigable industry in trying out everything new, both on the target range and in the hunting field; all are of incalculable value to the military rifle game. And of special value are the great National Rifle Competitions, held annually at Camp Perry, and similar meetings. Without such men, doing these things, and particularly without the continuous efforts of their splendid organization — the National Rifle Association — we would soon find ourselves far behind in the big parade of progressive nations insofar as military preparedness is concerned. And it is for these men that I have really written this narrative.
Chapter 1. How Come?
AS THIS is the story of an alleged rifleman, I suppose it is fitting that I offer some evidence to support the allegation.
My experience in this line really began some fifty-odd years ago when, as a little boy, I used to sit and watch my father get his outfit ready for the annual deer hunt. We lived up in the Northeastern corner of Indiana and the hunting ground, at that time, was just a few miles out of Saginaw, Michigan. Father had two boxes, which he had made himself. One of them contained the cooking outfit — everything from reflector oven to knives, forks and spoons — all especially made to nest and fit in the chest. The other, smaller than the first, carried his guns and all the accessories. In those days you “loaded your own” so, besides the usual cleaning tools, oils and so on, there were plentiful supplies of powder, both rifle and shotgun, shot, bullet moulds, cartridge cases, both for the rifle and shotgun and all of brass (that was before the advent of the paper shotgun cartridge case), primers and a goodly supply of lead. Of course, at the start, he had a plentiful supply of loaded cartridges for both guns. At first, his deer rifle was a single shot Remington, .44 calibre, rimfire. He later had it bored out to take the .45-70 U.S. Government cartridge.
For weeks before the time of departure for the hunting grounds, the crowd would get together every few days and pull off a shooting match, each one trying some new idea he had worked out since the last expedition. It was nothing unusual for half the merchants of the little town to shut up shop in the middle of the afternoon and, together with the lawyers, doctors and, yes, the preachers, to repair to some vacant lot and shoot impromptu matches with everything from old “pepper-boxes” to the latest rifles at that time available. At that time and in that place, practically all of the “men” were veterans of the Civil War and this shooting business was part of their gospel. Naturally, as a young boy, I became infected, and my father, believing in the idea of preparedness, gave me ample opportunities to learn the game; even to letting me shoot his heavy guns when he knew very well they would kick the stuffing out of me. He was a good and kindly man but he had no use for mollycoddles.
From time to time he bought me rifles, beginning with the little old Flobert; then a Quackenbush. Well, anyway, I remember that last one, with its heavy, round, nickel-plated barrel. When I was about twelve he had the local gunsmith make me up a
I made my own powder-hom and bullet-pouch and, of course made my own bullets. The caps — “Elys” — I had to buy, as I did the powder and lead, with what money I could earn by odd jobs, one of which was the catching of rats around our premises. Father gave me five cents apiece for every rat.
Well, there you have it. Any youngster brought up in such an atmosphere is bound to develop into a rifleman. As the years rolled ’round I graduated through the different grades. My father was Captain of a company of the old Indiana Legion, as it was known before the adoption of the designation of National Guard, and I was one of the privileged boys who ’tended target for them on the range which they had improvised at the edge of town. In those days the Militia companies were self-supporting. Even after I became a full fledged “soldier” we not only bought our own uniforms, but paid armory rent and all expenses.
On some occasions, we boys were actually allowed to shoot, the older men taking our places in the pits. How those old Springfields did kick. They were wicked. I have seen many of the old timers with black-and-blue shoulders after a day’s shooting and, curiously enough, I remember that most of the officers had their shoulder straps bent. That was before the idea entered anyone’s head to lie at the now commonly accepted “forty-five degree” angle. They lay straight toward the target and took the whole kick right on the top of the shoulder when firing from the prone position. The back positions, which were commonly used then, were not at all bad. Either the Texas Grip or the Stevens were easy, even for us kids, but when it came to the “belly-whooping” position, well, we did it, but every shot would set us back a foot or more.
At the age of fifteen I enlisted in and for several years remained a member of the Third Regiment. During that time, my father rose to the rank of Colonel commanding, and I became a sergeant. Then I went to work in Chicago and immediately affiliated with the First Illinois Infantry — Company I — Captain Chenoweth commanding. During the summer of 1893, having been informed by a wise medico that I had T.B., I put in my time ranging around in Colorado and New Mexico, part of the time as a cow-puncher and the rest working for a coal-mining company. (That is, I was supposed to be working for them, but, as a matter of fact, I was using them simply as a meal ticket, as I spent every minute of my idle time in scouting around looking for something to shoot at.) I met and got acquainted with a lot of the
Trinidad, near the mine (Sopris), was one of the hot spots in the old days and many a bad man had met his “come-uppance” there and along the Picketwire or, as the original Spanish name has it, the Purgutoire River. From these men and from my practical shooting with them in various matches, I learned just about how good they and their erstwhile friends — and enemies — could really shoot, both with the pistol and the rifle. Bat Masterson, Jim Lee, Schwin Box and Nat Chapin, just to name the best of them, were all good shots, but the best of them never could hold a candle to the amazing performances of a lot of hitherto unknown “experts” who are continually bobbing up in the moving pictures and the sensational stories published in supposedly reputable magazines in the year of grace, 1930.
I should have included Brown — Three-finger Brown — in the above list. He was as good as the best of them although he had to do all his shooting left-handed: due to the fact that he had allowed his curiosity to over-ride his good sense in the matter of investigating the doings of a band of “Penitentes” one might and, as a result, lost the thumb and first finger of his right hand.
All these men had grown up in the West and had lived through the various “wars” and ructions which flared up every now and then, all the way from Texas to the Black Hills. They all bore the scars of combat but the very fact that they had survived was, to my notion, the best evidence that they were
