This is a long story, so bear with me.
When I was 16, I built a .50 cal T/C Hawken from a kit. One afternoon, I was out shooting at the range we had at our farm and after a few shots, one of the neighbors, Mr. Falls, comes walking over, carrying an old muzzleloader. He walks up to me and says he wants to shoot his gun and needed to borrow some of my powder and bullets. I had a full can of powder and a dozen or so maxi balls and a bunch of round balls, so I figured why not.
Before I go on, let me tell you about this fellow. Mr. Falls was, above all else, a veritable know-it-all. Between driving a truck and painting houses on the side, he had, apparently amassed an astounding amount of knowledge about every topic known to man. It didn't matter if the topic was carrying capacity of an English Swallow, or the amount of rainfall in the Amazon basin, this guy knew about it. My Dad had told me, in no uncertain terms, to pay absolutely no attention to this guy, and never, ever, ever, follow any of his advice.
So, I agreed to let Mr. Falls use some of my supplies. I had my powder horn, an adjustable brass powder measure, and the other necessary accessories. Mr. Falls had his gun. That's it. And quite the gun it was. It was old. Really old. And it was a flintlock. And, he didn't have a flint.
He wanted to see me shoot, so I obliged, putting a couple of maxi balls offhand in the center of the target 50 yards away. Of course Mr. Falls had to offer some advice, telling me I should hold my elbow different, or close my left eye, or whatever. I just nodded and said I was done and didn't need to shoot anymore; I'd just watch him.
So, right off there were some problems. His gun was a .45 cal. No problem. He'd just shave the bullets down with his pocket knife.
So, he set to work whittling.
After a little bit, he had a maxi ball shaved down enough to fit his barrel. The next problem came up. How much powder did he need? He didn't ask me what I thought, but I could see the question on his face. He picked up my adjustable measure, which I probably had on 90 grains or so. He set it back down and picks up my powder horn. He then explained to me that all I needed to do was to hold my finger over the end of the horn, release it for a count of 5, and that would be just right.
So, that's just what he did.
He then put his modified maxi ball in the barrel and started cramming it home. He got it about halfway down and, in his enthusiasm, broke his ramrod clean in two. He cursed up a storm for a few seconds than asked me for mine. I immediately told him that mine was too short. My barrel was only 36", and his was clearly longer. He pondered for a moment and came up with a plan.
He took the two broken pieces of his ramrod and squared off the broken ends. He dropped them into the barrel, and gave me a smug look. He then took my wooden mallet a pounded on them till it wouldn't go in any further. There was absolutely no way of knowing if the bullet was seated, so I started backing up.
He then cocked the hammer back, filled the pan with a good dose of powder, and closed the frizzen. I asked him how it was going to fire without a flint. He said "With this", and held up a Zippo. Oh boy. I backed off several steps. He then told me not to be a wuss and that he had shot a deer every year like that. Yeah, right. I knew that was a flat out lie. If he had killed a deer with anything, everybody in town would have heard about it.
At this point, I had begun my retreat. I backed up a good 30 feet from him as he began to shoot. Let me remind you of what had happened up until that point. First, he had shaved down a .50 cal maxi ball to fit his .45 cal barrel; dumped an unknown amount of powder down the barrel; broken his ramrod; patched said ramrod; used a mallet to seat the bullet; not verified the bullet was actually seated; and was about to light off the prime with a Zippo.
Mr. Falls pointed his rifle down range, roughly in the direction of the target, supported it with his right hand (being left-handed), and, with his left hand, flicked open his Zippo. Mind you the frizzen was still closed. He flicked and flicked and flicked. Nothing happened.
I mentioned to him that he probably needs to open the frizzen. Oh, right. With the frizzen up, he adjusted himself, took a deep breath. I backed up a little further. He held the zippo right over the pan and flicked.
Once the smoke cleared, it was apparent things had not gone as Mr. Fall had anticipated. He gun was on the ground. He was bent over with his left hand between his thighs, his right hand covering his face. I ran over to see what was wrong, but he growled at me, telling me to go get his wife.
The Fall's house was only about 200 yards from the range, so it didn't take me long to get there. It did however, take a few minutes to get the Mrs. to come to the door. When she did, I wished she hadn't. She had been sleeping off her afternoon indulgence and was only wearing a grimy wife-beater teeshirt. And I do mean only.
. It took me a while to convince her that her husband was injured and needed her immediately. She told me to go back and check on him and she'd be along shortly.
When I got back to Mr. Falls, he was sitting on a stump, left hand clamped between his thighs, his eyes closed, and cussing to himself. His pants were covered in blood, too. I told him his wife was on her way and asked what I could do. "Nothing", he barked at me. Well, okay then. I went over and started packing my stuff up. When I was about ready to leave, I heard an engine start up. I looked up the hill and here comes Mrs. Fall, on their Snapper lawnmower.
I waited around for her to get there. I didn't want to miss this.
I'm glad I waited. It was quite the spectacle. She was cussing him up and down, telling him what a fool he was; how he could have killed himself; how he could have killed me. He was cussing her back, asking her how she was going to take him to the doctor as drunk as she was; why she was on the lawnmower; where were her pants.
After both of them calmed down, Mr. Falls showed us what was hurting. His left hand was cut up pretty good. He had a gash in his palm and cuts on the knuckles of his fingers. Since he wasn't wearing any eye protection, something had gone in his eyes. His left eye was really red, and he couldn't even open his right one. The gun was destroyed. I don't know how he wasn't hurt more than he was.
I ended up walking him back home, as they couldn't figure out how both of them were going to ride on that Snapper. He didn't say a word to me, other than telling me to put the pieces of his gun on his work bench.
I found out later that he had to get a dozen stitches in his palm and had something taken out of his eye. My range sessions had a lot fewer interruptions after that, and the later that fall, I found his zippo off the side of the trail a good 30 yards from were he had shot. Oh, and he missed the target.
