OK, I told this one before but I'll tell it again...
Rugers have accompanied me through many of my best memories. I've owned a few...Blackhawks and MkIIs and Vaqueros and Deerslayers...and lusted after others...namely Red Labels. But the gun that holds a place deep in my heart is my .45 Colt Blackhawk.
My best friend of 32 years passed back in 2006. We met when we were 8 years old in Cub Scouts and played Little League together. As John and I grew up together, we egged each other on to become shooters. All through high school we stumbled through the sometimes confusing shooting world, learning as we went along but mostly trying to absorb everything every gun writer had to say. Elmer Keith and Bill Jordan probably influenced us the most...as a result each of us bought Blackhawks. John's was a 4-5/8" .41 Mag and mine a .45 Colt wearing a 7-1/2" barrel. John liked to call my pistol a pipsqueak because it shot "that old man's cartridge" but through reloading and relying on the strength of the Ruger design, we made that old girl ROAR! Most weekends were spent assembling loads and then testing them for accuracy (and often testing our young-ish hands for recoil). I swear that if the EPA ever tested the hillside on my family's farm that we used as a berm, they would immediately declare it a Superfund site from the lead content.
During college, John and I took a fraternity chum to Tennesee to hunt wild boar. Walt had his compound bow and John and I, of course, carried our Blackhawks. Walt shot his boar from a tree stand...well at least the first arrow. A quiver full later produced the requisite pork. John's keen eyesight and natural shooting ability allowed him to harvest a 325 pounder on the run. Me? Didn't see a thing all morning. So the guide suggested we get some lunch then take after the pigs on foot.
5 dogs led our charge (2 of them were new as the boars have a nasty habit of killing the dogs used in tracking them). The guide and I heard them ahead and we bolted up a hillside after them. As we crested the ridge, the boar saw us, charged, teeth popping...as my guide bravely scrambled up a low slung tree.
So there I was...alone, Blackhawk in hand and a rather perturbed boar barreling down on me. Wyatt Earp would have been proud. At 15 yards I had the big pistol up (I don't remember cocking it) and fired. The bullet contacted just above the boar's left eye and sent the pig reeling back. He jumped to his feet and proceeded to chase the dogs who had gathered to watch the show. A finishing shot in the boiler room put the pig down. The first shot coursed around the boar's hard head and travelled the length of this back, exiting near the rump...tough animals, wild boar.
John's gone now. Whenever I pull the Blackhawk from the safe, I think of him. The pistol's trigger is smooth and crisp...but not from a trigger job. It has a feel that you can only get from shooting thousands of full house loads on Saturday afternoons out on the farm with your best friend. The bluing is worn and there's a scratch or two...but I'll never refinish it. Those scars were put there when I tramped through the woods with my friend.
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