My grandad who was a deadly shot even after his eyesight had failed, always said, the best shot that he ever made, was as a boy, in Missouri, with the little Wishon rifle. Hunting one morning he jumped up a tom turkey, quite by accident. The bird flew straight away from him, so in spite of being told by his father, and his older brothers, never to take a running shot, he swung the sights through the bird, and as the sights passed through the birds shoulders, he touched of the little .32. The turkey folded up, and never moved a feather.
His brother Roscoe bore a scar on his ankle all his life from a hot ball, freshly molded in the Wishon mold provided with the rifle. The mold was a hinge forward type, that was easy to flip the fresh balls out of by releasing one handle, and slinging half of the mold forward. Roscoe did just that, but the ball hung up and dropped out on the return. He had on a pair of old brogans, with squirrel hide laces, that didn't go all the way to the tops. The hot ball dropped into the top of his shoe, and got down below his ankle. He always said a strong man can't break squirrel hide laces, but he ripped those laces out like they were made of straw.
Hungry Horse