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DOUBLE TROUBLE

By Roscoe B. Stephenson, III

I sit here in my easy chair, laptop at hand. My mortal existence is firmly rooted in middle age. Both children are grown, and if I live to double my age it will be expressed in three digits. Even so, I am obsessed with double guns; and above all, rifles. Indulge me as I reminisce.

Twenty-some years ago, in 1982 or 1983, I acquired my first double rifle. It took a lot of creative gun trading to get it. The Winchester 52 Sporter did it, just as I knew it would. It cinched the deal tight as a steel snare. Two and a half years I had haggled for that gun, and now I was carrying it home. Not the 52, mind you, the side by side 8mm. But I am getting ahead of the story. First let me tell the background.

If there could be a twelve step program for me and my ilk, we would start every meeting with the statement, “I am a hopeless guntrader.” But hopeless is the key word. There is no therapy or twelve step program. No support group exists. No halfway house beckons in the night to give comfort. There is no public sympathy or recognition for this malady. But oh, the temptation that lurks! Gun shows, gun stores, classified ad publications, glossy pictures in high-tone magazines with enticing ads and articles; and now, the Internet. I know, I’m preaching to the choir.

If you are reading this you are probably like me. Your disease went far beyond the Remington 700 and Winchester 70 phases. You are hooked on double guns: those beguiling hand-made witches’ sticks for which the sky is the limit in price. I don’t know about you; I drive older model cars and live in a modest home, but wow, look in that gun safe!

I got hooked on double rifles early on. Did anybody get the number of that truck that ran over me, ‘cause I didn’t even see it? Before I had ever even seen a double rifle I longed to own one. The 8mm was the first one I ever saw. Bobby, a shrewd gun trading friend of mine, came upon it when I was penniless in law school. I am told he had a “blood oath” with the guy he got it from not to let it go without offering it back. The deck was stacked heavily against me, but I swore to myself I would own that rifle.

After first seeing it, I went home to ponder my next move. This was a bad situation. My friend would not even price the 8mm. I had no clue. At that time Bobby and I were on about a weekly schedule of visits that usually developed into late night trading sessions. The following week I gathered together what I thought was a credible, if not impressive group of guns from my collection and trucked on down to my buddy’s house. The ritual rarely varied. We talked “pigs and chickens” for a couple hours over coffee before anybody would even broach the topic of guns. Then we worked our way into his gun room.

Now I don’t want to accuse anybody of underhanded tactics, but there has never been a trader like this guy. It was a cold western Virginia winter. He lives in a big old two story frame farm house without central heat. The kitchen and sitting room, where the small talk and coffee occur, is heated by a huge wood stove which he keeps somewhere between “bake” and “broil”. It’s got to be 90 degrees in there. Usually it is not before 10:00 p.m. that protocol allows the predator and prey to retire to the gun room, drowsy and softened up by the heat and small talk. The rest of the house, gun room included, is cold as a wedge. Bobby gives no outward sign of discomfort, but by now any normal human (me included) is shivering; blatantly tortured to near submission before the onset of any negotiation.

Gun trades are made by patience, skillful planning, pursuit, artful negotiation, and physical perseverance. I clinched my teeth to keep them from chattering. Playing my feint, I fondled the Brownings and Model 70’s. I ogled over his fine single shot rifles. I expressed interest in several guns and might have even proposed a trade or two, knowing they would not be of particular interest to him. Surely he doesn’t know how I covet that 8mm, I thought. Then it was time for my opening move. “Let me see your double rifle,” I calmly said.

Blazing heat and winter chill were only part of the hardship. The gun room was lit by a single bulb dangling by its cord from the ten foot ceiling. I am certain that when Bobby expected a visitor he deftly removed the 100 watt bulb to replace it with a 40. For this magic gun it didn’t matter. I took it in my hands and immediately forgot the cold. I didn’t need the light because I could feel the balance and grace of that wonderful old rifle. Trim and light with perfect dimensions. Lithe, vibrant, and animated it made me wonder whether the old German maker had secret skills in witchcraft. Had he somewhere hidden the spark of life in this object of wood and steel? My thoughts went blank. My negotiation strategy was out the window. I tried to calm myself. No decent guntrader or poker player should let his reaction be seen. But the poker face was gone with the strategy. I stood there with my thoughts transparent; an abject victim.

“What are you asking for this?” I mumbled, trying not to hyperventilate. Bobby gave no answer as he deftly shrugged off my inquiry with a new topic under the category “pigs and chickens”. I couldn’t even get him to price it. Bad sign. I took up the small talk, knowing the dance. In the back of my mind I am slowly regaining enough cognitive function to plan a frontal assault. After all, I had six or eight decent trade guns in the car.

At my next opening I took the direct approach and rolled out an offer of a goodly number of my beauties for the German 8mm. Most people would say that was a mistake. Never price another man’s gun. He owns it, so let him put a price on it first. In defense, I maintain that a man must sometimes rise to the occasion with drastic measures. This was such a time. To my dismay Bobby just said, “I don’t think I could do that.” No counter-offer. No dialogue. We have not even bracketed the range of negotiation, but I sure as heck have put a floor under the price. Trying to appear unruffled I put the coveted rifle back on the rack, engaged in the appropriate exchange of “pigs and chickens,” and then went home.

One skirmish does not determine the outcome of a looming battle. Bloodied, but not bowed, and with a stiff upper lip, I spent an inordinate amount of time pondering my next move. Obsessed with the 8mm, my most cherished guns started to look like trade goods. What was happening to me? The answer is simple. That old German gunmaker was a sorcerer, and I was under his spell.

Sadly, the preceding scenes of this story would repeat and repeat. Never would Bobby state a price or make a counter-offer. At each visit I upped the ante just to be rebuffed. Talk about bidding against yourself - I had no choice, though I knew better. The years went by, but the fire in my mind would not go out. I just couldn’t break that sorcerer’s spell. In fact, I haven’t yet.

My efforts may have been foolish, but I am no fool. I knew Bobby well. I could see that the German sorcerer owned me but not him. Bobby was above all a guntrader, and he would part with that rifle. I had to find a gun I could use to cast a spell on him. Just as one must fight fire with fire, I came to understand that witchcraft is the only weapon to use against witchcraft.

One February evening a couple of years after I had started the career of an aspiring young lawyer I was relaxing at home after supper when the phone rang. Gary, another local gun guru, was on the line wanting to know if I would be interested in a couple of Winchesters he had just rounded up. One was a pre-64 Model 70 in .300 Win. Mag. (a rare bird); the other a Model 52-C Sporter (another very rare bird). Bobby is a Winchester fan. As soon as I heard about the 52, I knew it would be the ticket. It was dark; snow was falling. Only an idiot would go out on a night like that. I told him I would be right over. I packed all my trade goods in my old Jeep CJ-5 and set out. I came home much lighter in trade goods but carrying the two Winchesters, both of which were in mint condition. I knew it was just a matter of time and tactics. The 52 was the witchcraft I needed.

In short order I sold the Model 70 to recoup some of my investment. The 52 I paraded around like a proud papa. Nobody would have thought I could entertain the notion of trading it. Word of the 52 got to Bobby, but I purposely would not take it to his home on my visits. He cautiously asked about it a time or two. Nibbles. Playing his game, I gave no indication I would consider letting it go. Now his poker mask had slipped. He was my quarry, and I savored the moment. He asked me to bring it the next time. Like Rocky Raccoon I am humming, “Danny boy, this is a showdown!”

Next visit I presented the bait, and he struck. “What would you have to have for it?” he asked. We sparred for a while, but the outcome was pre-determined. I ended up throwing in another rifle for change, but the 8mm was mine.

. . . To be continued. . .

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RoscoeStephenson.com

YOUR DOUBLE RIFLE IS YOUR BEST FRIEND.