During the late Sixties, usually on Sunday afternoons, if Loren, his wife Marcia, Buzz Ross, Luanne (Loren's sister), and I weren't at the Seattle Police Athletic Club's shooting range (Loren was a member and we came as his guests), we were out in the country east of Seattle in an area where there were no houses and we had a steep hill to use as a backstop. We would bring out a couple of cases of empty beer and soft drink cans, which we subsequently filled with water. A beer can full of water makes a very satisfactory geyser when hit by a .9 mm. or .45 ACP slug.

After we'd been there for awhile, a car drove up and a couple of guys got out. They were also using the area for plinking and informal target shooting. We chatted a bit, looked over each other's arsenal, and said "good gun" a lot. All very friendly.

During the course of the afternoon, I took a break, leaning against the front fender of Loren's car. Loren, Luanne, and Buzz were off someplace at the far side of the clearing trying out a new target .22. Marcia (small, attractive, and blonde—and anything but dumb!) decided to set aside her .22 target auto and do a bit of heavy-duty shooting. She set up a row of five water-filled cans on an old fence rail, then went to Loren's black attaché case (James Bond movies were big at the time, and we all carried our armament in black attaché cases), took out Loren's .45 automatic, loaded five rounds into the magazine, slid it into the grip until it latched, pulled the slide back and jacked a round into the chamber with that characteristic "snick-CLACK!" sound (that sound alone as sent many a burglar running toward the horizon like a terrified rabbit!).

The two guys were also taking a break, leaning against their car just a few feet away and having a smoke. They watched Marcia load that big slab-sided .45 and started to shake their heads. "No," one of them said. "That's too much gun for a female. I hope she knows what she's doing." The other one agreed, saying, "About the heaviest gun a woman can handle is maybe a .38 revolver. She might sprain a wrist with that thing."

As they sood there smoking and "tsk tsking," they were speaking softly, but Marcia couldn't help but hear them. She maintained her sweet smile, but one could detect some tendrils of smoke rising from her collar. I kept my mouth shut and just watched. She stepped off about twenty-five paces back from the fence rail bearing her targets, took a regular target-shooter's stance (body erect, somewhat in profile). With her arm straight, she brought the pistol up. The clearing filled with thunder and in rapid succession there were five air-born cans, split asunder and spewing great clouds of water.

There were two chins resting on the ground. Marcia's wrist was perfectly intact. And she did look a bit smug as she came back to the car to get more targets and ammo—and smiled sweetly at the two guys leaning against their car.

I'd seen Marcia shoot Loren's .45 many times before. She liked it. .22s are nice, but with a .45 ACP, you know that something's happening.

Are all women better shots than men? I assume they are and behave accordingly.

Don Firth

P. S. By the way, Loren was our mentor as far as gun safety is concerned. One of his strict principles is that alcohol and gun powder don't mix. So after we all went back to Loren and Marcia's apartment, cleaned the guns, and put them away in their respective black attaché case, then we break out the beer and prepare more targets for the following Sunday.