BIG GUN  

George Wallace was one of the local gents that spent a lot of his memorable evenings in the country store. Mr. Wallace owned a rare shotgun that was admired by everyone and it was so unusual he had to make his own shells.(Most of us were so poor we couldn�t afford to buy shotgun shells anyhow. They cost all of four cents apiece.)

His shotgun was a six gage and the barrel looked as big as a cannon. As I recall he had named his gun Old Blunderbuss. When he went duck hunting he would load his shells with an additional amount of powder and a little less lead short. The kick-back from his six gage was so powerful when he loaded the extra powder he couldn�t hold his shotgun to his shoulder. He�d put the end of the stock on the seat of his boat and aim the gun in the general direction of the flock of ducks. After he pushed the trigger down and waited for the smoke to clear he�d go collect his dead birds.

   Now, Mr. Wallace liked a good laugh as well as the next man and wasn�t opposed to taking a dollar or two from every city slicker he could; they were always fair game. Somehow all the young hunters that came to Maine to get in some hunting or fishing always heard about Mr. Wallace�s wonderful gun. They were always told he was more than pleased to show it to anyone that wanted to see it. Of course once the gun was in their hands they just had to fire it. The owner of this marvelous weapon always told the visitors he didn�t think they were strong enough to fire the gun, and when they insisted he�d always say,   �Well, if you want to break your shoulder that�s up to you, but it will cost you a dollar and just to be sure you do it right I�ll fire the first shot and you watch and see how I do it.� Mr. Wallace would get his dollar, pocket it, load a shell into his gun, take an open leg stance that made him as stiff as a board, place the stock tightly against his shoulder, and fire off in the direction of the woods. Then he�d reach into his pocket and hand the dollar back to the man waiting to shoot and say, �I can�t let you shoot this gun. I don�t think you can handle it.� The would-be-shooter was usually a lot younger than the slender sixty five year old man they had just seen shoot the gun and were positive he could handle this wonderful weapon. After a few minutes of begging and pleading Mr. Wallace would say,   �Alright, you talked me into it and I�ll tell you what I�ll do. I�ll let you shoot the gun for a dollar and I�ll bet you two dollars on the side she�ll knock you back a foot or two or she�ll knock you down.� This was a challenge most of them didn�t pass up and once the money was in Mr. Wallace�s hands he loaded his shotgun and passed it to the shooter. Everyone of them always took up the stance they had seen the owner of the big gun take, and once the gun was pointing in the direction of the woods, they�d pull the trigger. Eight out of ten would land on their butts on the ground and the other two would be knocked back two or three feet.

   It always amazed me that Mr. Wallace was so much stronger than all the younger shooters until my grandfather told me the secret of the gun. Mr. Wallace made up two shells. The one he�d fire had very little black powder in it and the one the victim fired was loaded to the hilt with black powder and no lead shot.

This particular evening Mr. Wallace had the floor and was telling us about an experience he once had with a deer. According to him he couldn�t afford to buy lead for his shotgun shells so he gathered and dried some chokecherry seeds. He had gone deer hunting and was standing as still as a statue waiting for a deer to walk by him in the thicket. After an hour had passed a beautiful buck, a doe, and a fawn stopped a few yards away and started eating. As Mr. Wallace lifted his shotgun the buck lifted his head and looked the hunter straight in the eye. Slowly Mr. Wallace squeezed the trigger and after a tremendously loud bang, and as the smoke cleared, he saw the rear end of the buck as it ran off into the brush followed by mother and baby.

   The following year Mr. Wallace was able to afford lead pellets to make his shells. He went back to the spot where he had seen the buck the year before, and after waiting just a few minutes a trophy buck walked up and started grazing. Once more Mr. Wallace lifted his gun, steadied it, and fired. This time the beautiful animal fell to the ground with a tremendous thud. Elated with his kill he walked up to the animal and a tear came to his eye as he looked at his trophy.    �You may not believe this,� Mr. Wallace said in all seriousness, �but I had just killed the same deer I had missed last year.�

Several heads in the room nodded in agreement but nobody uttered a word. I sat there as long as I could (I guess I was seven or eight) and I finally asked him,   �Mr. Wallace, how can you be sure it was the self same deer you fired at the year before and not some other deer?� He turned to me and with a face as serious as a pastor preaching a good hellfire and brimstone sermon answered, "Why you big dummy there was a cherry tree growing right there between his antlers.� I can�t recall the number of times I have retold that story because Mr. Wallace was my elder and I knew he wouldn�t lie to me. It wasn�t until I was in my teens it dawned on me one night that fifty per-cent of his last statement was one hundred per-cent correct.