High noon for the Winchester mob

THANK YOU, FLOYD TIDWELL.

BLAMding!

Remember him from the headlines the other day? Tidwell is the retired lawman -- top dog in the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department from 1983 to 1991 -- who investigators say took hundreds of guns from the department’s evidence rooms.

On May 10 he pleaded guilty to four felony counts of concealing stolen property. Investigators said Tidwell had snatched at least 523 firearms, keeping scores for his Old West collection, passing out others to friends and family. Tidwell, 74, agreed to a $10,000 fine, with no jail time.

All of this makes the unarmed among us marvel. Never mind the psychology of that first gun. What is there in the second or third or 300th to love so much? What is it about cowboys? What turns a lawman into an outlaw? And what am I doing here, squeezing off shots under a midday sun?

I draw one .357 from the right holster, another from the left. Then I grab, load and fire a rifle, and then a 110-year-old Winchester lever shotgun, its metal hot as a griddle. The gun smoke curls, the shells dance in the dirt.

BOOMdong!

For this hardware and hospitality, I can thank the North County Shootist Assn.’s Saddle Tramps. A few days ago, after the Tidwell tale hit the papers, I called the Shootist Assn.’s head man, Harold “Graybeard” Itchkawich. Maybe, I said, your people can show me how some folks manage to satisfy their passions for Western weaponry without violating the penal code.

Come on out, said Itchkawich, and check in with Coyote Bait at the registration table. Just don’t wear sneakers or a baseball hat.

These people take their nicknames and leisurewear seriously, and all belong to the Single Action Shooting Society, a Yorba Linda-based for-profit venture. Born in 1981, SASS claims 60,000 members worldwide, each with a badge and nickname, including Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (or, as he is known on the range, Trinidad Slim). Every month, thousands dress up and assemble in posses.

“It goes beyond shooting,” says Ken Amorosano, the society’s marketing director. “The most defining aspect of American culture is the Old West.... Our culture and the gun go hand in hand.”

Of course, guns kill people -- about 80 Americans every day, the feds say. But this responsibly supervised, extravagantly accessorized scene seems far removed from all that, in the same way your driveway has nothing to do with those 100-plus Americans who die daily on the highway.

BANGtang!

Look closely, and you see that about half of these shooters use antique weapons; the others, more affordable replicas.

“It’s not a cheap sport,” says Will Finder, a.k.a. Tom Peterson, a territorial governor for SASS and retired veterinarian. Getting started costs $2,500 or more and after a while, he says, “most everybody’s got piles of guns.”

So, I ask Peterson, what about this guy Tidwell? “Power corrupts,” he says, shrugging. There are several law-enforcement veterans here, but I can’t find any sympathy for the fallen sheriff.

With a clock running, the competitors fire amid wooden scenery, from storefront windows to ersatz outhouses, blasting at metal targets that often stand within 20 yards. Forget your eye protection and you’re disqualified. The first beer gets cracked after the last shot’s been fired.

On the firing line now, a woman stands still as a statue in a black Victorian skirt, paisley vest and antique day hat, six-shooter slung low at each hip, taking aim. This is Molly McRuger, a.k.a. Debbie Gulledge of Orange.

Twenty-four shots, 24 metallic plings. Her posse hoots and hollers. As many as a quarter of the shooters are women.

“I like guns and motorcycles -- hard sports, you might say,” says the shooter’s husband, Rodger Gulledge. “And she likes history. So it wasn’t hard for her to drag me into this. ‘Honey, you’re gonna have to buy some guns. Honey, you’re gonna have to compete.’ ” Under the brim of his hat, Gulledge is grinning now.

“We all live the myth when we’re out here,” says Tex, a.k.a. Donald Ormand, a co-founder of SASS, editor of the monthly Cowboy Chronicle and former aerospace software development specialist.

“I grew up here,” says Jessika Ming, 27. She’s Chinese American, yet as Western as you can get: Her family arrived here in the 1860s, as railroad work was heating up. And her father, a retired pharmacist named Dennis Ming who shoots under the name China Camp, has won five world championships.

Did I mention the landlord? We’re shooting on land owned by the Pala Band of Mission Indians, first rented in pre-casino days when $2,000 a month was a substantial sum. These days, it’s spare change for the tribe, and Graybeard and Tex clank around in their spurs stressing how important it is to remain friends with the Indians.

In other words, this is a new sort of Old West. And after a while, despite the garish costumes and cornball names, these shooters look less cartoonish and more like people who admire intricate tools, like making noise, enjoy flirting with history and relish competition. It beats raiding evidence rooms.

Then they hand me a holster. With Tex advising, I hit seven of 10 shots with the pistols, 10 of 10 with the rifle, another 10 of 10 with the shotgun. Not bad for a rookie, right? Except my time is 205.5 seconds.

Now Tex takes back his firearms, reloads and steps up. The shots ring out in a hurry, like keystrokes from a touch typist, and the targets fall.

“Same guns,” says the stopwatch guy. “Just 160 seconds quicker.”

So if Tidwell calls, the answer is no. No duel.

To e-mail Christopher Reynolds or to read his previous Wild West columns, go to latimes.com/chrisreynolds.