THE OLD TIMERS GREAT BUFFALO HUNT
By JAMES OSOWIECKI

For me, I need to start this story in July of 1972 in Cooper Landing, Alaska. I never knew what a poor family (monetarily), we were and didn't appreciate the sacrifice that our kin went through to provide a great life for me.
My Mom sent me to Alaska to be with one of my big brothers, Ludwig (Babe) Chette Osowiecki. He was a survivor of a horrific auto crash, losing the use of his right arm at the age of fourteen. He was a real outdoors man. He played the hand dealt him very well. My respect for him increases daily. I refer to him as "The One Armed Bandit". Babe used to pal around with a group known as the Russian River Mountain Men, black powder enthusiasts, loosely based out of the Sportsman's Lodge at the confluence of the Kenai and Russian Rivers, just north of the cable ferry boat crossing.
Babe commissioned a local Mountain Man, gunsmith Bill Fuller, to build him a gun starting with a 1901 Remington Rolling Block Action, I believe that was salvaged from the ashen ruins of Fuller's burned out gunsmith shop. The big bore enthusiasts decided to use Sharps 45-120 to work around. The Bandit and I would stop at the gun shop to check on the progress much too often. We always got a kick out of Bill slamming and locking the door after he ran us out of the shop. The tapered octagon barrel came in, and then the tiger striped maple stock blank, the original Rocky Mountain Buckhorn sights and the saddle ring. The craftsmanship was impeccable; the gun was beautiful, graceful, perfect, a work of art. We were trembling with excitement when Bill Fuller handed over the piece. Bill gave us a lesson on how to roll and fold a paper patch 550 grain lead bullets. I can't quite remember the load, maybe 10 grains of a smokeless powder then just fill the case with FF black powder, 2 or 3 graphite wads.
I think we got 10 new brass cases. It seems to me mat the cases were too thick to seat a bullet so Bill sent us to shoot the 10 rounds, then he would lap a few thousands off the outside of the last 3/4 " of the case. I think we were supposed to run a cleaning rod through the bore after every shot. I decided to omit the last step to speed up the process in being able to seat the bullets in the case. I believe it was the third bullet 1 got stuck in the bore, not quite deep enough to chamber the case. I guess they don't call me a Pollock for nothing. Trying to drive the bullet back through the chamber, I even used a hammer on a wooden cleaning shaft rather than have to face Bill Fuller. What a long ride from the shooting range on Bean Creek Road to Fuller's Gunsmith Shop. The closer we got to Bill's, the lower in the seat I sat. Pat Gwinn later that night at the Sportsman's Lodge (Watering Hole) said he saw Babe and a hat drive by his lodge, heading towards Fuller's Gun Shop. Again, trembling was involved, (but this time the trembling was due to my embarrassment) on the transfer of the gun. Let me just say that colorful would be a kind way to describe his rant, idiots is probably the only word we could print with a clear conscience. Bill made a 45 caliber wooden plug, stood the gun in a pan, filled the bore with mercury then drove the wooden plug into the muzzle. For five days, he tortured me as he tapped ever so slightly on that plug, hydraulically pushing the bullet out. I had it coming.
Fast forward to February 2007 in a factory in Connecticut. I met a fellow from Jerseyville, Illinois on a construction project. I don't think it took five minutes for us to become from that day forward, lifetime friends. Hunting was the common denominator. Ron Coale was getting a buffalo hunt together and invited me to go. He said there was room for five and I would fill the ticket.

Through our correspondence, I discovered that one of the slots was questionable.
I inquired about The Bandit filling that slot. Then about early November, I got the okay
for Babe to go. Babe, the rifle and I were back together again, thirty-five years later.
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The end of December of 2007, Babe's hand played out, he died from complications as a result of a gall stone. The gun was placed on his casket at his wake. Brokenhearted, I asked for permission to use Babe's rolling block on the buffalo hunt. I didn't pick up the gun until about two weeks before the October hunt, ordering 40 rounds of 45-120 from Buffalo Arms. Upon receiving the ammo, wanting to take a few shots, I discovered that the shell came 3/8" short of chambering (What the Hell!!) Getting on the phone with Buffalo Arms, I spoke with a gentlemen that was extremely helpful. We surmised that the tolerances on the ammo were correct and the problem must be in the chamber. (Hammer Time? I think not. Once was enough.) Now I reasoned that if a 45-120 has a 3-1/4" case that is 3/8" too long due to a possibly tight chamber, then a 45-110 with a 2-7/8" case, should by the grace of God work sufficiently enough for me to kill a buffalo. The gentleman from Buffalo Arms wouldn't sell me the ammo under those circumstances. I told him that I was going to kill a buffalo with that gun even if I had to use it as a club. Besides, I may or may not know someone with a 45-110 that I may or may not use. The ammo got shipped. Not having enough time to guarantee delivery of the ammo before I left on trie trip, I had it sent to Hawes Ranch Outfitters in Ford Kansas, our hunt site.
I drove from Bantam, Connecticut, to Jerseyville, Illinois, met up with Ron Coale, jazzed around his hometown, until Jerry Haney of Elizabethtown, Illinois and Sam McGill of Chicago, Illinois, showed up. We got into Ron's obnoxiously luxurious motor home, telling stories and laughing all the way to Dodge City, Kansas. What luck to fall in with such a great group of guys, of such suspicious origins, at such a chance meeting on a construction site.
I guess I was fantasizing about Can Can girls walking the streets of historic Dodge City, however. Late October is too cold cold for Can Cans to be out out. We took a nine mile jaunt out of town to see the Chisholm Trail site. Standing at the top of the viewing area, I turned and looked at the topography from horizon to horizon of slightly rolling treeless plains with the most distinct feature being wash ravines. I imagined that time period and people with little, if any assistance, in wagon trains of family and freight, having to fend for themselves. It was humbling, to say the least, when thinking about people today with their capable hands, whining about not getting enough.
While killing some time in a local knick knack shop, I couldn't help but notice a man dressed in 1900 era clothing. I was planning on teasing him about buffalo hunting but, as it turns out, he had just left Hawes Ranch and had a successful hunt using a 45-110. His name was Crowfoot, just Crowfoot, part Indian and part white. He was an extremely interesting fellow. He accompanied us to the Dodge City Museum. I really would have enjoyed hunting with that man. He told us we were in for a good time.

The ground in the dugout was hard and to buy an air mattress and we took his advice.
On to Ford, we met Cody Hawes at the handy stop gas station at 10:00 a.m.. I'm 6'2" tall but had to look up a little to make eye contact when we shook hands. Cody is a big, friendly, rugged looking twenty something. He looks to be physically fit of the heavy weight class. He looked like what I imagine a man of the 1900 era would look like who didn't have access to a mirror or razor.
Introductions over, Cody gave us rough directions to the ranch some miles distant and off we went. Not too difficult following the cloud of dust to the ranch. The topography was getting more roll to it, with deeper gullies, more brush and great looking deer country. We parked at the ranch house and could see the buffalo herd a little more than a mile away. We then met Joe, the Wrangler, a good looking, rugged individual that walked and talked just like the cowboy that he is, 100% rough and ready. Cowboys load our gear in an old tan mid 1980's Chevy 4WD pick-up with a rack and off to camp we go. We were all excited, pointing this way and that and look at that. Cody driving, Sammy and I in front bouncing along the trail to camp. Sammy focuses on something distant and excitedly squealed, "Now what...in Sam Hill is that?". Cody looks where Sammy is pointing and says, "It's a bug on the windshield". "We'll make Sammy head spotter", I said. Through the gate to the Tatanka pen, 1-1/2 miles by 1-3/4 miles with three trees. Gotta figure they don't rake many leaves around here. I asked Cody about the number of buffalo in the herd and he claimed a little over 300 head. I told him I figured 304 and Haney chimed in with 305.1 swear that boy Haney was one bettering me in everything we did, which is extremely difficult for non-super humans. Iffen I had one skitter in my britches, he had two, except in this department. That's just a random example, not a real life situation, (Purely hypothetical) sums it up sufficiently. Seeing that I was two inches taller than him, I guess I'm someone for him to look up to!! I don't mind playing his hero long as it helps him. Maybe he has one of those Napoleon Complexes. Think I'll take a psychology course and analyze him some day. We get to the camp and aside form the White House (out house), two tents, a few blue tarps and plastic over the windows, it was like stepping back to 1900.1 keep thinking of a line from the movie, Dances With Wolves, when they first arrive at Fort Sedgewick, and the mule skinner said, "Not what you'd call much of a goin' concern." We got settled into our dugout, which describes it to a tee. I couldn't get over how hard that dry dirt is, it's like rock. We understood a few weeks earlier that they got too much rain. Mud everywhere, lousy conditions, extremely slippery, so I was considering us lucky it was dry. We grabbed our guns and walked down to the range to see what kind of marksmen we were. Hawes has a 16" round metal target with a heavy 3" hinged center. Jerry Haney was the best of us, hitting the bulls eye, 4 out of 4, Ron Coale was next at about 50% and I was the poorest shooting 7 shots before I hit the 16" target, this department too. I was real close every shot but I wasn't using grenades. I'll be better prepared next time. Sammy McGill shot better than I did, however, he was using a muzzle loader. Cody doesn't think much of light bullets. He seems to like 405 grain and heavier class. Cody and Joe figured they would try to get 73 year old Sammy a 60 yard shot. Jerry and Ron, 100 yard shots. I was born with this uncanny ability to be able to guess what someone is thinking, just at a glance. I'm not sure if it is a gift or a curse!! I have to say it's not an exact science; not 100% accurate either. Just to prove my point, I can't even see you but I bet I know what 75% of you are thinking. This also proves that it's not 100% accurate. Many times this ability of mine helped me to become a winner. Honeycakes corrects me, saying that it is pronounced wiener. Anyhow, I could tell what Cody was thinking. They figured they would put something on the end of my barrel that would entice the buffalo to either lick my barrel or back up into it. I looked differently at Joe and Cody from then on. I could also tell what Jerry Haney was thinking, wonder if what they were going to put on the barrel would work on any female then I wondered if Jerry was thinking, two legged females? Cody and Joe had a little competition shoot. Those boys didn't use any shooting sticks, they cowboyed up and shot offhand, very impressive. It's rumored that Joe made a one shot hit on the 500 yard white buffalo silhouette. I took 2 whacks at it, falling short, 50 then 10 yards. Thought I had best conserve ammo for the hunt the way I've been shooting.
So the plan is that Jerry shoots first and Ron second, to get some buffalo on the ground. Then old Sammy would go in for a close shot and myself shooting last. That way, everyone else would be busy tending their trophies and they wouldn't see how poorly I might do, Good Plan. In the Cook Shack dugout, we sit down to a meal cooked in a 24" harrow disc, possibly left on the plains by the Tillalot Indians, they were always tilling something, members of the Growabunch tribe, they were always growing something or possibly the Hawes got it from Zeke's Broken Tractor shop in Wichita, Wichita is possibly an Indian word that means, What white man took my harrow disc?, with the center hole welded so as it won't leak into the fire, looked like a Chinese wok on steroids, Russian boar and settler home fries, (B.Y.O.K. - Bring Your Own Catsup.) Didn't spot that in the brochure. Carl is Joe's Grandpa, if I got this right, relation to Lee and Cody. Carl is camp manager, historian and story teller. I really enjoyed his company immensely. In the Ford, Dodge area most of his life, accumulating endless stories of hard winters, growing up, bootlegging, dogs, lost gold, gun fights, horse racing, frontier living. The stories were priceless. I couldn't wait to get into the cook shack, get a cup of coffee and listen, didn't take much prodding for us to get him started. First morning of the hunt, nice leisurely breakfast, real good chuck wagon type camp food, Russian boar sausage, home fries, coffee, cookies, up tempo interesting conversation. Cody tells us about the rules of hunting the ranch. Safety rule #1, nobody shoots till he says to. Buffalo are a little different than most critters. The heart is really low in the chest cavity and everyone tends to shoot high of the heart. Claims we will all shoot high also. (He doesn't realize that he is speaking to men of suspicious origin. We'll show him.) Off to the White House. Dressing for the hunt. I would guess it was in the mid to upper twenties and the temperature would climb to the mid forties. I decided to dress light as I figured I would warm up on the stalk. I was right, I froze on the ride but enjoyed my decision latter. We gathered our gear and guns and met back at the corral. The corral was comprised of local wavy wood, sorta reminded me of the local discount lumber yards 2x4 piles. Propellers, pretzels, scrap and kindling. It did the job, definitely authentic. Not being much of a horseman, my most memorable account was being low branched at high speed by a horse that was in a hurry to get back to the corral. I had to walk a bit that day. Ron, Jerry and I would most likely be thankful if we were called cruiser weights. I wondered if the horses could take the load. I think I weighed about 280 and Ron and Jerry each over 225 pounds. Cody asked when was the last time I was on a horse. Just 15 or 16 years ago, I replied and by the way, it's not like a bike, it is much higher. Cody put me on a horse known as a strawberry roan, Carl said it was a really good horse for a strawberry roan. Them boys sure know how to put someone at ease. None of the other horses seemed to like the roan much. The last horse to arrive at camp and hasn't earned his position in the pecking order yet. When we got on the horse, the type of scabbard I used, hooked on the saddle horn and the gun would lay across your legs on top of the scabbard then stretch the scabbard over the gun and hook it back on the horn. My legs kept popping the scabbard off the horn. We mount up and ride out of camp. In about an hour, we get to a favorable position, right breeze direction, out of sight of the buffalo, to start the walking part of the stalk. Roughly 200 yards, then we go to a crouch position for about 100 yards, on our hands and knees for 50 yards or so. The last 100 yards, or so, a slithering, slalom course through buffalo grass and chips. By chips, I don't mean the edible kind that come salted in a plastic bag. I recall a country western song titled "You Can't Roller-skate In A Buffalo Herd" Jerry and Ron, with Cody, are up in the front line. Cody has Jerry set up on shooting sticks, ready to shoot. The buffalo know something is up and won't yield a shot at one of our trophy-to-be spikes. 73 year old Sammy and I crawled up to the front line to watch the action. As we got there, Cody had us stand up and walk towards the buffalo to make something happen. I think the buffalo may have recognized me as someone who might use some sort of gun barrel bait., and the herd scampered away, making the ground tremble with a dull roar and a cloud of dust. We head back to the horses to find Joe frozen at his post, shivering and shaking, holding the reins of the 6 horses. Heading back to the camp for lunch, the closer we got to the diggings, the faster the horses wanted to go. My horse was hell bent on being the first one back. Have you ever seen a horse give another horse the "Evil Eye". It puts it's ears right back against his neck, sorta cranes his neck towards the recipient, wide eyed, hackles up, that is what I got as my horse attempted to take the lead into camp. Cody knew just what to do. He took off his hat, cuffed the horse and said, Don't you dare put your ears back when I'm on you." When we got back at camp, Lee Hawes, a big silent type, matter-of-fact, heavyweight, looks the part of a buffalo hunter, helped me off the horse. When I pulled the gun from the scabbard, I didn't realize I had the rear sight hooked on the scabbard and heard a vibrating spring noise that I couldn't associate with anything until the hunt was over. On our way into the cook shack, my roan and Cody's horse got into a tussle, the boys quelled "the Uprising" . Cody and Lee talked about where the buffalo might be, then lee took the other hunter in camp, Ed, out for a hunt. At lunch we were all buzzing about the hunt, teasing one another when we heard a couple of shots from Ed's gun. Cody said" It's time to get going boys. Get your gear," Cody decided to leave his horse in the corral, I think as punishment for starting trouble. Joe stayed behind to get the meat wagon, Old Tan. As we were strung out on the horses on the trail to where we thought the buffalo would be, Cody in the lead, Jerry, Ron and Sammy fifty yards ahead of me, T am again on the roan. We were about 300 yards out of camp when I was startled by the horse that was left back at camp. I guess he came to finish up business with my roan with nobody to cuff him this time. He gave us a double dose of the evil eye, then he cut in front of us to unload his pent up frustrations and give us a kick. I am doing my best to keep the roan away from danger, because if the horse kick misses his mark, it might get me. Thank goodness, Cody looked over his shoulder, saw what was going on and shouted, "Jim, give your horse a kick and get him goin'." The scabbard, not holding my brothers gun well, I have one hand on the gun, one hand on the reins, trying to squeeze my legs to stay on the horse over uneven ground, really held my attention. We got to Ed's downed buffalo and gathered up a game plan with Lee and Cody. We moved a few ravines ahead of the herd and they grazed right into us. Jerry shoots true, right in the heart and his buff takes a knee then gently lays down to die. Ron shoots'about 2 inches high of the heart, a killing shot for sure, but Cody has him shoot again. Now it's Sammy's turn. Cody gets Sammy up real close. The shot is made but Cody can't say if Sammy hit him. That was a little too close for the herd and they take off. Cody said, "Let's go Jim". I grabbed Ron's shooting sticks. We fast walked and slow jogged ahead of the herd, about 500 yards, and set up. The herd knows to shield the shootable buffs from the hunters so you have to wait until the herd starts to move and open up to offer a shot. It took the herd about 20 minutes to start the slinky movement, when the front of the herd starts moving, spaces open up so the rest of the buffalo follow, I finally get my shot at a heifer that is quartering away from me, a little over 100 yards. Cody gives me the go ahead and I, not wanting to shoot high like Cody said, I hold low for the heart. I take the shot, no reaction from the buff, Cody said "Shoot again." Again I hold low and this time we see the bullet strike approximately 25 yards short of the buff then strike again 25 yards long. The bullet must have skimmed the hairs of the belly of the buff. The buff has a little giddy up in her step. Cody looks at me and says "Was that you or the gun?" I didn't have an answer and Cody said to shoot again. This time the bullet strikes 10 yards short then 40 yards long. The buff turns broadside and Cody said "Shoot again". Now I was nervous. I pulled up on the back and touched her off. The buffalo seemed to jerk its legs up to its body then hit the ground. Cody slaps me on the back and shakes my hand saying Nice shot". I said," That was a f—— accident. " I stepped off the paces, 125 to the buffalo. Cody made sure it was dead from the neck shot and left me with my trophy as he had chores to do.
Lee Hawes came walking along the prairie to find me. "So that's the gun I been hearing about. Got a camera? We need to get a picture of this." The Buffalo, the Gun and the Pollack. The boys gave me just the right amount of time to gather myself up. Five buffalo down after lunch. I pitched in and got halfway through the skinning and then the boys showed up and made short work of the remainder. Cody, Joe and I took the traditional bites out of the buffalo heart. Just like Wind In His Hair, Cody took the first bite then passed it to Lt. John J. Dunbar, I mean The Pollack. Big bite make any sushi warrior proud, member of the Eatraw Indian tribe family, kin to the Nocooks, cousin to the anti-roast braves. Sammy got his buffalo too. His first shot was 6" high and it took a few more shots to get him down. Cody, Joe, Sammy and I got to take a bite out of Sammy's buffalo heart. Old Tan had quite a load on her when we got back to camp. What a supper we had that night. We were all buzzing, bantering and joking. Jerry asked, but not for himself, he squawked," It's for this old feller I once heard about," Is there a good way to get stubborn stains from underwear without using bleach, as bleach takes the stretch out of the elastic waistband, also the gottchies get kind of droopy (You must have heard of a wedgies which definitely compounds the problem and greatly reduces the mileage he gets out of his britches. "I'm not giving up any names.'You have to protect the innocent, you know. Besides, it will be useful information so as folks might use it to their advantage." I take it that the Haneys aren't known for discarding their underwear too soon. I am definitely going to take Dr. Feelgoods on line psychology course.
There is a tradition in the camp that the hunters jot down their experience on a piece of cardboard or the door jamb. Looking at the ditties it is evident that one shot kills are top bragging rites along with yardage and caliber. My ditty reads "Fired 3 warning shots then made a one shot kill with Babe's rolling block." Yeah, I know what you're thinking!!