DOWN ON THE BORDER
Trail Guns Remembered
A young Bart Skelton recalls the trail guns that helped him plink his way through the New Mexico's Florida Mountains
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The Floridas (pronounced floreeda, meaning "flowered") were named by the Spanish conquistadores for the heavy covering of yellow poppies in the spring and summer. The rugged little range provided an effective hideout for Apache bands run by Ulzana, Nana and Geronimo, who hung out there before, during and after their raiding sprees throughout the area.
Decades after the submission of the last bands of militant Apache, the Floridas became my stomping grounds. Our home was within walking distance of the Florida foothills, though it was a hearty jaunt. On horseback the trip could be made in just over an hour, and at 11 years old I was lucky enough to have my own mount. Afternoons and weekends would find me heading out through the desert on my sorrel with either my Colt .22 New Frontier or Winchester 62-A .22 pump rifle. I regularly shot cottontails, rattlesnakes and blue quail , bringing them home for my dad to fricasee.
My investigation of the Floridas continued for a number of years, and I later graduated from the Colt New Frontier to a Ruger Blackhawk .45--an old three-screw model of Dad's. The Blackhawk had a pair of cylinders--a .45 Long Colt and a .45 ACP. The old man had obtained a crate of surplus ACP ammo someplace, and I would scoop up a pocketful for my outings. Though some of it was corroded (causing occasional misfires), it provided great plinking fare.
Dad's friend the late Stephen Vogel, then one of the head honchos at Sturm, Ruger & Co., was a repeat visitor to our New Mexico digs. I took great delight in showing Stephen my carry guns, and he graciously indulged me by listening to my stories of explorations into the mountains.
During one visit, Stephen examined my old Winchester, pointing out that I had put a great deal of wear on the old gun. Of course, he was tickled at the fact that my sidearm was an old Ruger single action.
Several months later a package came from Sturm, Ruger & Co., a long box, obviously containing a rifle. The invoice indicated that it was from Stephen. Dad excitedly opened the box, revealing a new 10/22 autoloader. Further examination of the little rifle revealed that the top of the receiver had been completely floral-engraved. The result was a beautiful little rimfire outfit indeed.
"That sure was nice of Steve," Dad said as he admired the little .22. "This is the first engraved Ruger I've ever handled."
Dad carefully inspected the rifle, then handed it over to me with a smile. "What do ya think of that, Son?"
I shouldered the little gun, finding it to be just my size. The engraving was nice, but I was more interested in the gun's handling qualities. I turned it over and glanced at the left side of the receiver. It was engraved, too. I smiled, then handed the gun back to Dad. "Hey, look," I said.
Dad took the rifle, then looked carefully at the engraving on the side of the receiver. He removed his glasses and took a closer look--a serious expression on his face--then read the inscription: "Bart Skelton, 1973," he read, disgusted. "Here, kid," he said as he jealously handed the rifle back.
The rifle shot magnificently and became my constant companion, accompanying me on many journeys into the Floridas. I don't remember how many rounds I fired through it, but it's safe to say somewhere in the thousands. I shot it so much that a tiny, hairline crack finally developed in the front of the receiver--a result of the extensive shooting, plus a good deal of rough handling--prompting my dad to make me start carrying the old Winchester again.
"You've shot that one enough," Dad said. "We don't want to ruin it. That little gun is probably the only 10/22 that ever left the Ruger factory with engraving."
What a privilege it was for me to have grown up in such an historic place, carrying a rather historic little rifle. If I'd only known then how good I really had it.
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