Brother Can You Spare $28,999?

Plus S and H. Plus NFA fees.

What red-blooded American boy can endure life without a Colt 1928/21 Thompson submachine gun as used by the United States Navy?

Why, I remember when MM1/C Homan and I carried them on missions off the San Pablo and threw terror into the hearts of Yangtze River bandits and warlords alike.

I'd have to spend more time in the loading shack, but I can live with that.

---
Link fixed

Loophole report in, mostly, .22 LR

Scads. Hordes. Gobs. That's a former reporter's finely-honed estimate of the Saturday morning crowd size at the 80-table loophole over in Estherville. You could imagine yourself at Phoenix or Las Vegas, trying to (politely) elbow your way to the tables.

We talked with a number of people who probably never would have acted on a vague urge to "get a gun someday" were it not for the antics of Feinstein, Biden, Schumer,  &  Obama, Inc. I wonder if those clowns really know what they have done?

The psychology may be quite simple. Tell an American citizen he can't do some perfectly innocuous thing and he will grin and do it -- if only to remind the government,  "Who the Hell is in charge around here, anyway?"

We didn't notice much traffic in assaultish-looking rifles Only a few  were there, and they met resistance at the $2,000-plus askings.

But my oh my was it a different story with the Glocks and other hi-cap 9mms made of coal tar and Gorilla Glue. They moved out as fast as dealers could fill out 4473s and call NICS. (Note to Diane: These forms and the calls are how we evade the law and loophole most of our guns.) 

At our three tables, we had no truck with the 21st Century.  Two were resplendent  with the work of Genius Jeff, the gunsmith, who displayed an assortment of Lazarused Marlin lever guns, Winchester .22 pumps, and, especially, Stevens single rifles. 

The third, mine, was resplendent with what the unkind might call junk, leftover (or never wanted in the first place) shooty stuff and other items for field and stream jocks. I often set up that way because (a) it generates interesting conversations and (b) it nearly always yields enough small-denomination Federal Reserve Cartoons to finance some pleasant acquisitions. To wit:

The long drink of water is a hi-cap (16 rounds or  more) Remington Speedmaster, probably from the 60s. Didn't need it, but for an amazingly small amount of FRC "money" and a brick of .22s, I couldn't resist something so pretty.

Miss Short is, of course, a Browning Challenger, Belgian, an early piece but I don't know how early yet. Those waggish gnomes of Herstal like to get together, slurp pilsner to excess, and giggle at one another. "Hey! I'm bored. Let's make our serial numbering system even more obscure."

She joined my arsenal for a very modest dowry, but I'm afraid I stretched a sacred rule: "It is a mortal  sin to sell a gun."  I confess to  venal error. The Colt New Police  (.38 Colt /.38 SW) lives elsewhere. I rationalized the trade  --  I could shoot the Colt only by reloading for yet another caliber. Balderdash! Too many diameters already. The Browning will be shot and shot and shot.  I've coveted one for years.

Hmmm. Lots of .22s moved here lately. At least I'm ready for a gopher apocalypse.

Enhancing my cowboy wall

A couple of neat Christmas gifts are finally in place. The tin Winchester and  S&W signs come courtesy of two fine young men who have finally discovered that Gramps is essentially a 10-year-old kid who just got home from Roy Rogers picture show.

Et voila. The Kharmic cycle renewed

It still 72 degrees, but I am warmer. It takes either a theoretical physicist or a metaphysician to explain that.

Note: While I can't imagine a reader dense enough consider  the TMR  a how-to manual, you never know, so:

This is not the way to run your fire. All that dancing flame has but two purposes. (1) to get the hardwood going and (2) to make a pretty picture for the internet.

It's the soft squaw wood burning with open drafts, extremely hot. Watch it with a hawk's eye and the same sense of terror Senator Feinstein reserves for shoulder thingies that go up.

In a few minutes you'll see the week-long fire you want, two or three hard logs on a red-hot bed, the logs themselves barely aflame. I report this at the command of the TMR Legal Review Department.

A fire-free funk

The little gas burner, running about half-speed, issues a hissy warmth, and the thermometer on my desk registers 72 degrees. I shouldn't be cold enough to require a jacket over a sweater over a shirt, all topped by my blaze orange hunting cap.

My wood fire is dying, down to a few smoldering embers, marking my hours of depression on a dead winter night. On the other side of the big window it approaches zero,

Still, 72 degrees? Such a swelter would have moved my ancient Gaelic fathers to throw wide the door to the thatched-roof drystone hut.

It must be as Yogi said: "Half  of this game is 90 per cent mental."

---

About once a week the ashes pile high, and you must haul them out. There is no workaround. You let the fire expire, get the special shovel, and carry it three times across the room, out the door, and along the deck. A deft toss deposits them in a pile.

Meanwhile, you briefly live like most other civilized Americans, with fossil-fuel heat, available at the twist of a knob. If you're me, you hate it. There is something inherently, atavisticly, wrong with comfort so easily won.

A thousand generations of human experience calls it good to loll by fire light and fire warmth. Hearthside is where a man bathes in a feeling of competence; he has mastered nature's cold by personal sweat, personal creativity. How do we praise highly enough that first human who reasoned that if he piled his wood around the fire pit he had a wind break, the first faint conceptualization of a house?

---

I could do that man, or woman, more honor by  getting up from the goddam computer and taking care of the fireless fireplace right now. But it's still dark, and the magic of the propane fairy is marginally more attractive than stumbling around in the outside night, dumping the dross and assembling kindling and squaw wood for a fresh blaze. I'll do it after sunrise, a couple of hours off. By eight o'clock three or four  large, dry, oak splits will be combustifying happily, and life will again be balanced.

A little gun lust

Next Saturday morning is reserved for a lethal weapons bazaar out in the country, a backwash farm not from from the head waters of Stony Creek where Inkpadutah's band of Wahpekute Dakotas liked to hunt elk when they were not busy killing white people for stealing their land.

Nothing on the auction goes back as far as the ~ 1855 to 1865 period when old Inky was making a pest of himself in these parts. Only the Colt D.A. .38 comes within a long generation of being contemporary. It could be a model as early as 1892 or as late as 1905, the latter only as a USMC variant. It took Colt a long time to get this one right, especially to make the cylinder turn the right way. I owned one decades ago, flimsy lockwork, impossible trigger, and all.

The lineup, with the three that interest me in bold:


GUNS: Mossberg Model 185D-B 20 ga. bolt action, 2 3/4" chamber; Winchester 3030 Model 94, used very little; Marlin Model 19G, 12 ga. pump shot gun w/long barrel; Marlin Model #37 -22 pump rifle; Colt DA 32  (sic) w/case & US issue holster, was Jim's dad's WWI issue; Rohm 22 Magnum Model 66; Ruger 22 long, auto.; Colt Huntsman 22 long rifle, auto; WWI steel helmet; WWI gas mask; 1917 Camp Dodge pic.; 1917 Soldier's Handbook; lrg. military shell

World War 1 is a bit outside my interest, probably because I have never fully shaken the vague notion that Mrs. Wilson may have chosen the wrong side.  Kaiser Bill wasn't really an evil dude, and it might have been useful to have a bunch of snobbish Prussian junkers between us and Joe Stalin in the middle third of the 20th Century.  God knows the Frogs and the Brits weren't all that useful.

Still, the Colt is a bona fide U.S. Military relic, so maybe I'll bid even though it was a miserable design first built for a pipsqueak cartridge. Also, this example is rough.

So is the Colt Huntsman, but I'll try for it anyway. In the first place the one already resident in the local vault is lonely. In the second, it will make my friend K grit his teeth in jealousy again, and that's worth something. :)

The Marlin Model 37 would likewise make good company for the M-38 already in hand. They're fraternal if not identical twins,  and a sweeter little rabbit gun/plinker never existed.

So, we'll see, but I'll show up at Dick's auction prepared to be disappointed. Our agrarians are flush this fall with crop money, drought disaster money, ethanol mandate money and Lord knows what else from the generous hands of His Ineptness and master gardener Tom Vilsack.  This tends to make them excitable at auctions.

Vintage home-made gun porn in 12 gauge

In 1913, Taft was president, the Uruguayan Air Force was founded, rapists in Washington decided they had the power to tax your income, and Riverside arms patented my gun.

Chances are it's provenance is common.  A Depression farmer sold a couple of fat hogs, , went to town, paid the village hardware merchant about $15, and took her home.  After an appropriate period of admiration around the deal table in the kitchen, it went on two nails over the back door with a box of 12-bores handy, probably No. 6, but maybe No. 4. That was about the only ballistics discussion that interested Zeke -- which was best for pheasants, jump-shooing mallards, and discouraging city-slicker strangers messing around the home place.

Sometime later he benefited from the Ever Normal Granary and took his subsidy check back to town for a fancier gun, probably a double, maybe even a pumpgun. The old single moved to the barn for  rapid response to rats, foxes, chicken hawks, and skulking strangers.

Every once in a while he noticed the pigeon decorations and brushed them off with a gunny sack. He got along in years, slowed down, didn't get out to the barn much. His kids couldn't be bothered, and the ol' one-shot moldered away until, about  Y2K,  it turned up at the memorial service most cherished by too many of his survivors -- his estate sale.

It brought $30 from a fool who just likes walnut, however cracked and dinged, and blue steel, however rusted and pitted and scarred. He'll fix her up and shoot her, but mostly he just likes folk-guns and their propensity to stir his muse to perfectly plausible stories of the past.

---

This one was bad enough to demand rule breaking. The metal suffered a wire wheel. The walnut was heavily sanded and linseeded, cracks epoxied, deep dings filled with walnut sanding dust and glue.  The innards were scrubbed with gasoline before cursory polishing. For no better reason than whim, the barrel was bobbed to 18 1/4 inches, turning her from full choke to straight pipe.

(Twelve or 14 would have been handier or at least cooler, but our man had a personal connection to Vicki Weaver of Coalville, Iowa, and Ruby Ridge, Idaho. Fear moves him to obey even pointless laws. Wimp.)

Before the final finish --yes, flat black from a rattle can -- the question of sights arose. The solution was "no."

The plausible story of the future is a 3 a.m hipshot requiring minute-of-thug accuracy down his short, dark hallway. Sights would be superfluous, maybe even dangerous, maybe snagging the flap of his union suit.

He knows the odds of any such thing happening are all but prohibitive, but just in case, nothing better at hand...

There is no such thing as a boring gun.

In lieu of 911

If I were a guy bent on a little housebreaking or other mayhem, I think I'd stay away from Cindy's lair. You know, Jinglebob's Cindy, out in cow country. :)

Domestica -- ammo and other incendiaries

-- The wood faerie returneth. My cup of renewable, sustainable biomass fuel runneth -- rilly rilly runneth -- over. My city man has just delivered a small load of bucked elm locust and plans to bring another. The stuff is unsplittable, but I can cut it short and burn it like chunks of coal.  I am this morning grateful to the administration of my village, Smugleye-on-Lake.

-- September song: With the windows still open to a light breeze, a small fire furnishes a corner of warm comfort amidst all the fresh air.

--Maybe the good mood is a hangover from the long evening in Reloading Central. The Redding B3 powder measure -- a sturdy cast-iron '40s or '50s relic -- is back online and throws IMR 3031 in dependable charges.  Besides...

--The Pacific case trimmer, of similar vintage and brutishness, has been tidied up and is ready to work as soon as I find pilots in .223, 257, 6mm*, .357, and .45.   I've never used it, and there was bonus delight in finding that standard RCBS shell holders work fine. Besides...

--  Several hundred rounds of brass have been resorted into several containers which match one another in size, style, and color. Enough of this kind of neat-freak compulsion and I'll be ready for a  Better Homes and Gardens spread.  Disclaimer: it happens seldom.  To wit:

-- The living quarters are a disaster. When BH&G is finished in the loading shack, a visit from the Hoarders film crew is more than possible. Example:It is not gracious to use the Stihl chain saw manual as a trivet. Gotta find my apron.

---

*That's .244  in real money, by jingo.

New faces

A couple of additions to the blogroll.

Stainles of Sportsfiirngs caught my attention by reporting his pleasure in finding a Skeeter Skelton book. Anyone who likes Skeeter is to be admired even though memories  of his gun-journalist home, the old Shooting Times,  arouse my disgust with with the current crop of news-stand firearms rags. (My carbon-fiber reinforced polymer is way cooler than your wimpy ol' plastic!)

Welcome, too, to Stephen, an  entertaining fellow who seems to be a genial an/cap for all seasons. Guns, food, bikes, camping. All the good stuff.

Edit to add one more good guy: Mojave Desertrat who this morning suggests that the Kate exposure really isn't all that big a deal.

---

I had read a lot of Skelton before hooking up with an AP colleague in Denver who  became a mulie hunting buddy.  (How ya doing, Bob K.?)  A Texan, he knew Skeeter at least slightly, and may (damn a fading memory) may have gone shooting with him a time or two.

The Smoky Mountain Railroad

We're in the middle of  the annual Clay County Fair hype. "The World's Largest County Fair"  is interesting enough and I occasionally wander though it. But local radio covers the damn thing with all the scope and intensity usually reserved for something like al Queda landing a regiment or two in Manhattan.

I forgive them for two reasons. First, the summer people are gone and the fair brings a better class of tourists* to the area. True,  they say "shucks" a lot and really seem to like corn dogs. On the other hand they generally don't get drunk and vomit on the sidewalks.

Second, the fair is home to the very large Smoky Mountain Railroad model layout. I know there are a few rail fans in the TMR readership, and you can take a peek at it here.

It's probably interesting even to non-buffs for the craftsmanship and historical content. The thanks are due to a great rarity -- a genuinely nice guy who got wealthy in the radio broadcasting business -- the late Ben Saunders of KICD.

---
*Or, as we think of them: "Spending Units"

Paging Ed Newman

How 'bout that? You can buy a gizmo to charge your telephone with tiny little pieces of wood, but "wood" is not good enough for marketeers hustling the Bio-Lite.  They insist:

"Fuel (is)  Renewable biomass"

Elegance like that  shames me. For all these years of timber-felling and and maul-swinging, I've missed the opportunity to sound edgy and hip, aquiver with a passion for keeping Mother Earth all scrubbed up; virginal, you might say, although there's an oxymoron to overcome there.

So I reform and report Camp J is at present supplied with nearly three cords of renewable biomass for the wood renewable-biomass burner.

In fairness, the Bio-Lite copy writer does translate for  the benefit of English speakers, confiding to us that  "biomass"  is "(twigs, pine cones, wood pellets, etc.)"

The gadget costs a hundred-nine bucks, but that includes a thermally actuated electrical output to a USB connection for your mobile i-Whatsis.

If you can live without the "thermoelectric generator (TEG)" you can save about a hundred-twenty-nine  bucks with a No.10 can and a set of tin snips. Fueled with renewable biomass, it will boil up your Arbuckles just fine.

H/T to Tam who is hosting a funny discussion on the subject. Some want. Some are skeptical. To each his dag-nab, blue-eyed own.

Survive!

A certain amount of thought has been invested in the welfare of our warriors in those new-fangled aeroplanes. What if the the dynamic defailorator  fails?  What if they get shot down? Even if they walk away from the warbird they still gotta eat,  right? They have a 1911A1 in their pilot's rompers, right?

But, also right, they can't hit crap with it.

Anyway, that's what the official survival thinkers thought, so enter the service auto as shotgun:

Approach No. 1, left, is a straightforward loading of tiny shot in a cardboard capsule, heavily crimped with two grooves aft of the case mouth. The point is to preserve the sharp mouth on which the round head spaces. This example is head- stamped Peters .45 A.C. (no "P")

Concept No. 2, center, employs a redesigned case, longer and necked to provide space for the shot. The seal appears to be a waxed or plasticized cardboard disc. The shoulder is abrupt, but still a long way from a precise, tight  fit to the chamber stop, and I have a feeling that the engineers were in a bit of a hurry and decided, what the Hell, the extractor will hold it well enough; heresy but most probably workable. This one in head stamped "R A 4." 

We'll get to survival round No. 3, right, in a moment, but first an editorial comment on the others: I suppose that if I'd dumped my Corsair in a Samar jungle I'd rather have had a handful of official government shot shells than not have them. On the other hand, I wouldn't have put a lot of faith in their (and my) ability to get me fat on the succulent Basilan flying squirrel. Or much of anything else. Anyone else who has wasted too much time playing with shot loads adapted (maladapted, to be correct) to rifled pistol barrels understands. About the best you can say for the entire line of thought is that if your stalking skills challenge Natty Bumpo's, you might kill something small to eat once in a while. 

And now to No. 3. It IS TOO a survival load. It helps you survive the dreaded feeling, "What on God's green earth am I supposed to do with this junk I found while tidying up a shop cabinet last opened before Monica stained her dress?"  

Why, I confirm that they'll actually go bang in an old .22 bolt gun and then I'm all like, hmmm. I know, I can glue a .22 Crossman pellet to the front of it and have my own wildcat! The .22 TMR Power Load Special.

I was crushed to discover that I had no .22 pellets but, unstoppable, I subbed a Daisy BB. Even though the prototype you see is the  only one in existence, it will soon be tested with full confidence that the .177 projectile will exit the barrel. 

Further than that deponent sayeth not.  

    

Merchanting Death in Bucolia

... and here, from W-T-M-R,   your weekend market report! (Sound of 66 wpm Model 15 teleprinter up and out)

--The 8 3/8-inc SW K22, as near-new, in box  --$740

--.38 H&R breaktop in ..38SW, very good -- $165

--Marlin Glenfield Model 60 with cheap scope -- $100

-- Hardware store branded .410 single, pretty good -- $105

--Early Marlin 12 gauge pump (Win. 97ish) very rough -- $125

--Winchester 97,  worse than the Marlin --$265

--Remington 572 (.22 pump), pretty good -- $355

--Tarted up Ruger 10-22, checkered walnut, near mint, 3 mags -- $265

--Remington 870 3", rib, very good -- $280

--Remington 700 in .270 Win, about unfired, Leupold 3x9 -- $600 

---

And that's what some lethal stuff is worth at a country auction in the northern plains.

Your reporter was in the K22 action through the 600s but, in the end, left with all but an even $50 of his wad still apocket while still acquiring enough to keep him busy the rest of the weekend -- sorting, cleaning, planning, gloating.

The swag:

A dandy pair of almost unused ancient Dreml tools -- one of the early rotaries and a  1/3 sheet sander, a tank weighing about three times as much as a modern counterpart.

A nice junk box holding bits, wrenches, and even a brass and rosewood try square.

A draw    tow bar to be converted into a combination dethatcher and driveway gravel stirrer-upper.

A hefty scissors jack, unneeded except in the sense that no man can ever have too many jacks.

And, Ta-Da, a mint -- never-sharpened -- CaseXX four-inch hunter from about the '70s or 80s. Did I mention that no man can ever own too many knives? 

Vintage Gun Porn in Progress

You would never do such a thing to a U.S. Springfield Model of 1903 today. Once upon a time, though, the gun world was tripping over them. In the 50s they traded for $20 or so, and every would-be gun smith in the country "sporterized" at least one.

In its original 1941 form it would have been a classic relic of a wild time in American history, the year we knew we would certainly have to fight Nazis and Fascists. And maybe Japanese.

It was the year when our recruits outnumbered our rifles. We turned to the private arms industry. This example, in the 3,1xx xxx range, was built by Remington on machinery from Rock Island Arsenal which had been in cosmoline for more than 20 years. It was still a 1903 in every important respect -- machined steel, walnut, no short cuts. Over the next two years the 03s evolved into the 1903A3 -- around serial number 3,300,000.

The barreled action came to me a number of years ago, already kitchen-tabled beyond restoration. Over the years I've ground, polished, and rebarreled  with an unissued 1944 High Standard tube. (Shortened to  22 inches.)

The auction-bargain stock is by Bishop, a utilitarian model, laughingly sold as "semi-inletted."  Indeed, by a distracted high school dropout swinging an Estwing.

But all yields to work, sharp chisels, and judicious use of Accraglas. You don't forget the evening the action slipped snugly into place and, at last, stayed right where it was as you tightened the stock screws.

Perhaps the walnut was not too utilitarian. A certain amount of figure appeared as the heavily oversized stock was trimmed, and it demanded an old-time finish. I used a few coats of warm and thinned linseed oil, rubbed in with the hands, then let it dry for a long time, days or weeks. I finished with plain old Johnson paste wax, as many coats as I have patience for. This one has about a dozen. When it gets smudgy a wipedown restores the subdued glow. When it gets thin it's time for another coat or two.

The pictures fail to do justice to last week's bluing work by a genius named Jeff.

It's not quite done. I'm unhappy with the aftermarket safety and will replace it. I haven't chosen the sighting system.  The Redfield peep would be in keeping with her heritage, but, then, so would the Weaver K4. We'll see.

(Click photos to enlarge.)

Point and click ammo

DirtCrashr went to the range to learn more about pistol handling when your world goes sour. Well worth a read, even the part about his flowered tactical Hawaiian combat shirt. :)

This snippet got to me:

Ammo OALs have been all over the map, loads found backwards and loads found empty and loads found mixed: half a box of .45 and half 9mm. Some good stuff remains: Black Hills, Hornady, Fiocchi...


I always hate reading stuff like that because when I use a factory round it's likely to be from the "value" (read: cheap) shelf. I was raised to simply trust  ammunition makers; to believe that the odds were prohibitively against a  bum primer or missing powder. In truth, I can recall virtually no ammunition failures, which may prove only that I don't shoot enough.

I don't doubt that more and more crap is getting through some makers' quality control systems. After all, in a world where Austrians get rich by melting down two-litre Coke bottles and casting them into $600 pistols, any outrage is possible, even probable.

---

EDIT: I meant to include a suggestion that you scroll down a couple-three posts at the Crashr's. Seems our Man in California is rediscovering the beauty of steel frames and walnut handles. Why, next thing you know he'll be reporting that linseed oil is almost as good as Hoppes when  you and your pals get together for aromatherapy. :)









Ammo OALs have been all over the map, loads found backwards and loads found empty and loads found mixed: half a box of .45 and half 9mm. Some good stuff remains: Black Hills, Hornady, Fiocchi...

Thirty More Seconds Over Tokyo

Navy pilots in the age of Mach-Incredible to train on B-25s, Billy Mitchells.

And raising the old USS Hornet should not be beyond our 21st Century technological skills.

In a just world this would be a component of the US/Japanese dialog about the balance-of-payments situation.  It may do little,  but it can't hurt.

---

And if anyone dares call this wasteful government spending, I will hurt him with my petty officer cutlass.

---

(h/t to my man in the military-industrial complex.)

Speaking of P.O. Ackley

Following Parker O.s  work was just plain fun. Still is, for that matter.

He was king of the wildcat game in that inventive era after World War Two when American men (mostly) weren't afraid to dirty up their hands,  learn to read  micrometers and ballistics charts, and explain to their neighborhood machinist just what they wanted in their custom chambering reamers.

This was before the time of televison, so of course the guys couldn't just watch Sons  of Guns to learn all about which guns to buy and Top Shot to learn how to use them.

The aforementioned .22/.30-30 Ackley Improved was one of his creations, and I suspect even a space age  M4gery-style gear queer  might think it pretty sexy to loose  a 50 grainer at 3980  from a handy little Savage 99

Gun room Monday

It's shaping up to be a .30-06 kind of day.  Thank the windy snow. It makes a warm gun room seem like a logical place to while away a  few late-winter hours,  fooling with rifles that shoot the only really necessary center-fire caliber.

I'll just wipe down the knockabout Stevens 110. The long-neglected 1903 makeover will advance with a bit of final polishing and fitting the Redfield peep so it will be ready for Jeff's bluing tanks.

Then on to the no-longer-a-mystery gun, the 1979 or 1980 Western Auto Revelation, a Mossy RM7 which followed me home from Minnesota a few weeks ago posing as an obscure Marlin turnbolt.  (The mystery story, complete with gun porn,  is here.)

It's already been fitted with a set of QDs and a nice cow-derived sling, leaving only the scope installation to be done and ready for my next grizzly hunt or TEOTWAWKI, which ever comes first.

There's a small quandary here. The Camp J arsenal has about four loose scopes on hand, and one of them is a NIB Revelation 4x32 from Rising Sun, Inc., a vintage piece which would give me a matched set, Revelation rifle, Revelation optics. Blecch, too cute, like mother-daughter matching pinafores. Besides,  it could well be a piece of crap.

Then there's the stainless Simmons 4 x 32 from the Chinese paddies. Naah. A two-tone  gun?  Who wants to present himself as a gangsta mall ninja?  Besides, the Simmons is almost assuredly a piece of crap. (Customary whine about the days when the Simmons marque meant something omitted.)

Leaving  two possibles: A new Tasco 3x9x40 and a clean old Weaver K4. Decisions decisions. The Weaver is the tougher and more patriotic choice, of course, but I'll  probably mount the variable. At 600 yards, nine power could be just what a fellow needs to distinguish between a turbaned terrorist and an odoriferous but otherwise harmless hippie in a do-rag.

Dorothy Sebastion?

Anyway, an armed girl guarding her treasure. Those were the days.