My Grandfather had a way with folks.  A good listener, he knew when to speak and when not to.  He made it a point to visit the farmers that owned land around our hunting camp.  During these visits, conversation was general, with no mention of permission to hunt.  That was usually offered as Grandpa was stepping off the porch.

"Y'all are welcome to hunt anywhere on the place," they would say.

I have my Grandfather's love for hunting and the outdoors.   I wish I had his way with people.

Such was the circumstance that found us at the bedside of an old farmer who knew he was dying.  We knew it too.  Grandfather and the man talked.  My cousin and I were silent.  My eyes explored the bedroom, trying to avoid those of the dying man, and found several photographs framed but without glass hanging on the walls.  Pictures of the farmer, his rifle, bear and deer he had taken over the years.  Leaning in the corner of the bedroom next to the door was the rifle in the photographs.

The cancer had the farmer bedridden.  He and grandfather talked of green beans, ornery steers, and the neighbors.  I was interested in the rifle in the corner.  I glanced at my cousin, and he nodded his head toward the rifle.  He wanted me to ask about it and knew my youth would allow the curiosity.  The rifle was an old, iron-sighted Savage 99, and I wondered why it was standing in the corner of the dying man's bedroom.  He for sure was not apt to use it.  But there it stood, collecting dust and the interest of two young boys.

"That your bear rifle, Mr. Seville?" I sheepishly inquired.

"Yeah, shot about everything with that gun," he replied.

"How many bear you killed with it?" I asked.

"Thirteen, I believe.  Got the first bear killed in the county."  He smiled, and Grandpa took up the conversation where it was before I interrupted.

"What caliber is it?"  My enthusiasm was overriding my manners, but Grandpa, as usual, was patient with us kids.

"It's a three hundred," the farmer proudly replied, and they continued to talk.

He said, "three hundred" like there was the only one cartridge with that name, like "300" should be revered and respected.  Like it should answer any further questions I might have.  I was just a lad then but knew "300" meant .300 Savage, a cartridge now almost forgotten and lost in an array of midget magnums and the search for ever higher velocity.

The farmer had trusted the rifle not to let him down, like I have since learned to do with my cousin that shared the visit that day, and my father, after I realized he knew a lot of stuff I didn't.  He also relied on the old gun to get him through the hard times, just as he was depending on his wife of many years to care for him in his last days.  The rifle gave him comfort, even though he knew they would never again share the timber or celebrate the acquisition of another winter's meat.

During the rest of the visit, my cousin and I traded looks at each other and the old rifle.  I mustered enough courage to walk closer and stare at the photographs on the wall, but not the gun.  Kids just didn't get near guns back then without permission.  I knew that.  Youngsters today should but don't.

Since then many rifles, including Savage 99s, have passed through my hands.  Searching for that perfect rifle, I have managed to find shortcomings in them all.  Too often we look to blame our guns for lack of success afield.  Rifles that won't cluster three shots in quarter size groups we consider inadequate.  I doubt the old farmer ever fired a three shot group with the 300.  He knew where it hit.  Keeping groundhogs out of the garden and shooting an occasional chicken-stealing fox kept the rifle and him acquainted.

I can picture the old man standing in the back door of the farmhouse telling his wife to go get his rifle as he watched a woodchuck munch on a lettuce head.  If I told my wife to go get my rifle there is no telling which one she would bring, and it would undoubtedly be the one I didn't want.  I have been told many times: "Beware the man with one gun."  They were never talking about me.

A rifle is a tool.  The old farmer knew that.  Just like his tractor or his fence pliers.  Still, that old Savage was special: Special enough to be close to him when he died.

As we left, I stole an extra long glance at the Savage.  It was decorated in gouges and nicks and the bluing was long gone at the rifle's balance point.  I thought to myself that I would never let a rifle get like that, and I haven't.  Maybe if I thinned my collection down to one rifle and used it exclusively, it would look a little like that old 300.  Field shooting might improve as well.  One trigger is easier to learn than ten.

Mr. Seville passed just a few days later in the very room where we had visited him.  He died at home, with his wife and his rifle at his side.  At the time I felt sorry for him having to die.  He had seemed to treat death like it was just a task to complete: Another fence to mend or mountain to climb.

In truth, he was lucky.  He had a lot of years behind him, a dedicated wife that was with him until his chores were done.  And, he had hunted the black bear and the whitetail.  He had been proud of all those things.

That "one good gun" you can trust and depend on like a life-long companion or friend is truly hard to come by.  It is not as simple as spending your money for a gun you just want.  It is a rapport that has to be built on a solid foundation of steel and powder burned.  The farmer found his.  Many of us, engrossed in optical arguments or cartridge indecision, haven't.  His may have come out of necessity.  Or maybe...

Maybe, he casually knew what many hunters never learn.  It's the man behind the gun that matters most.

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