The whiskered gent with gray hair blasted away with his Colt .45s, the bullets plinking off metal targets. He fired fast and with purpose. His shooting emptied two handguns, a shotgun and a vintage rifle in less than 35 seconds.
Then he marched to a portable gun box with a brick facade and dropped his butt on the walnut seat. I. Rob Banks–his stage name–wiped his brow in the 90-degree heat. Banks shot clean and it was a good thing, too, because any miss results in a five-second penalty.
In the Old West, his face might have been on a wanted poster, but despite his moniker Banks was not holding up financial institutions. He was entered in the first Illinois Cowboy Action Shooting Championships in early August at the burgeoning World Shooting and Recreational Complex in this town of 4,500, a 310-mile drive south of Chicago.
It turns out not only do old cowboys never die, or even fade away, they just join the Single Action Shooting Society. Those of a certain age, weaned on everything from “High Noon” to “Gunsmoke,” don’t have to confine their passion to late-night cable.
“We have a lot of fantasies we like to live,” said Banks, a.k.a. Jim Kaylor of Prairietown, Ill.
The event–the Randolph County Ruckus–formally christened the 1,700-acre unfinished shooting complex. About 300 cowboys and cowgirls–from youths to septuagenarians–roamed the dusty grounds for three days, firing 1880s era-style guns, wearing period costumes and trying to win top award plaques as earth-movers continued construction nearby.
The dozen shooting stations were as striking as storefronts in a Hollywood western as contestants acted out Old West shooting scenarios at Boot Hill, a jail, a saloon or in covered wagons. Never was heard a discouraging word. Not as long as the shooters stuck to the script and proper guns like Winchester pump shotguns, Marlin and Winchester rifles, and Colts and Ruger Vaquero pistols. And as long as they stuck to “handles” like Duke Skywalker, Cactus Kay, Anna Montana and Wolf Creek Jake.
Happy trails to you
These modern-day cowboys subscribe to the Western Channel for a fix of 1950s and 1960s TV and they admire Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger and John Wayne. Everyone is required to choose and register a nickname with SASS and there is often a story behind the selection.
Greg Kane of Springfield owes his cowboy handle to a non-western. He is called “Citizen Kane.” Kane must have had highbrow friends in his youth because he said he “always has had the nickname.” His favorite cowboy is Hopalong Cassidy.
“Truth, justice and the American way,” Kane said.
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A visitor from a galaxy far, far away–Houston–looked on approvingly. That’s the type of old-fashioned talk that inspired Harper Hale Creigh, whose handle is Judge Roy Bean, when he co-founded SASS in 1979. The judge wears SASS badge No. 1. He said mountain men wannabes had a rendezvous, Civil War adherents have their dress-up and even swordsmen have their gatherings.
“I always loved the westerns,” Judge Roy said. “And there was nothing for the cowboys.”
As befitting an Old West lawman (even one with a shaky reputation), this modern Judge Roy Bean had social justice on his mind in starting SASS.
“I thought of honesty and that the handshake is someone’s word,” said Judge Roy, who was wearing a black hat, vest and badge, and smoked a long cigar. “And that’s the type of people this draws.”
Cowboy action shooting mixes the flashiest, light-hearted aspects of Halloween and Mardi Gras, and nicknames typically are taken from western roots or plain old improvisation.
I. Rob Banks said his name is “A figment of my imagination.”
The adopted name of Linda McCoy of Macomb, Ill., might make a gunfighter think twice. She calls herself, “Uh, Oh.”
McCoy was a cowgirl dressed in a straw hat, a short-sleeved white blouse and blue jeans, and she seemed quite content temporarily living a double life.
“I can be anything I want to be until Monday,” she said.
Wayne Konkle has a distinctive handle. Yes, Kocheese is from Wisconsin and the town of Sharon.
“Most of the guys just call me `Cheese,'” he said.
Kocheese wore cowboy attire to shoot, but owns an Indian-chief costume with a spectacular headdress that would earn him a ban as an NCAA postseason mascot.
Many cowboys shifted to cowboy action from other shooting sports and the 67-year-old Konkle began shooting 60 years ago. As a kid he listened to Tom Mix episodes on the radio and when he discovered SASS he became a one-sport man.
“You get to shoot pistols, rifles and shotguns,” he said.
Clothes horses
If the cowboy way is an article of faith, no one should underestimate the value of the articles of clothing, either. It is a definite no-no to appear in a sport coat with wide lapels, Nikes or Dockers.
I. Rob Banks shopped in unorthodox places right down to his suspenders.
“Garage sales,” he said.
The mystique of the 10-gallon hat in the Old West is a powerful one, but some cowboys prefer something taller. Possum Creek Bill, Bill Andrews from Bonneterre, Mo., to some of his friends, goes with something akin to a 20-gallon black hat. It stands nearly as close to the stars as Abe Lincoln’s stovepipe.
“I’ve been wearing this hat 10 years,” Possum Creek Bill said. “If I don’t wear it, people don’t know me.”
He revealed that on hot days the skyscraper model is excellent for holding a cold, wet kerchief next to the scalp.
Most cowboys wore pastel shirts in the dusty environment, but Chuck Dominy from Colleyville, Texas, a.k.a. Knifemaker, stood out. He wore a shirt that would make a rodeo rider blush. It featured yellow Mickey Mouse faces on each shoulder, turquoise fringe, rhinestones and black and red stripes.
“My wife takes care of me,” he said.
Actually, she takes care of just about everyone. Dominy’s wife is Mary, though everyone knows her as Hurricane, a cowgirl seamstress supreme. The Ruckus attracted 54 vendors, including local food sellers, but also cowboy gear specialists from across the nation. For sale were $160 felt hats, $400 gun cases, pistols, shotguns and bullets.
And Hurricane’s wares. She will make an outfit from scratch or jazz up bargain basement clothing until it shines. Knifemaker’s shirt was Goodwill, not Gucci.
Hurricane’s philosophy is spelled out not in only in her cloth, but in her words.
“You can’t have too many rhinestones,” she said.
Hurricane did not grow up with a sewing machine at her fingertips. One minute she was working in promotional real estate and the next, about a decade ago, she was the Betsy Ross of the Brazos.
“I have no idea where this came from,” she said.
There is a three-to-four month wait for a Hurricane outfit. Only recently she filled an order from Fairbanks, Alaska, with a remake of the sheriff’s golden outfit in “Blazing Saddles.”
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Name game
The nicknames are cool. The clothing is neat. But just like the Old West when it came to crunch time, the shooting mattered most.
Sharon Pannozzo (Bonnet Bonney of Peotone) was the Illinois women’s champion and Billy Hansen of Sycamore, or Blazin’ Billy Jack, won the Illinois men’s title. Teresa Selby (Two Sons) of Covington, Ind., was the overall women’s champ, and Gene Pearcey, or Evil Roy, of Durango, Colo., was the overall men’s champ.
Naturally, with a name like that, Evil Roy wore all black. Roy, 62, a former world overall champion, ran a shooting school in Sparta before the event, then proved his prowess by shooting clean at all 12 stations. Pearcey first saw cowboy shooting in 1993 and morphed into Evil Roy.
“I was doing martial arts stuff,” he said of his career change. “I was getting too old.”
Event director Taquila (he knows it’s spelled wrong), Tab Bumgardner of Sherman, Ill., was feeling older from the responsibility of supervising the championships. As a joke, friends wrote his epitaph on a Boot Hill tombstone. It read, “Here lies Taquila Tab. He was hanged by mistake. He was right, we was wrong, but we strung him up and now he’s gone.”
Taquila laughed.
“That’s what would have happened to me if this hadn’t gone off,” he said.
Nothing to worry about. The cowboys and cowgirls of Illinois shot up a dust storm and Judge Roy Bean blessed the goings-on.
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