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The Colt Peacemaker melds mechanical grace with martial utility.
Its sensuous lines are equal part weapon and objet d’art. The knockoffs
are great, but a genuine Colt carries inimitable gravitas.
There’s something just a wee bit mystical about the Colt Single Action Army. Nothing about the gun looks particularly ergonomic. The grip lacks finger grooves or palm swells. The hammer is enormous and perched atop the frame like some garish steel antler. The trigger is little more than a curved bit of heavy wire. However, mix all this stuff together and you have a battle-proven handgun riding in the hand like God put it there along with your fingers or your nose. The effect really is surreal.
Lots of folks make replicas of Colt’s classic Western sixgun these days. Italian ones represent a great value, while customized domestic versions with unique finishes or extensive engraving cost more than my car. My mission was to find a genuine Colt Single Action Army for my own collection. I wasn’t looking for something old and weathered with a story; I just wanted a factory-new Peacemaker. This quest took me to some interesting places. To fully appreciate the nature of this elusive handgun, we need to explore a spot of history.
The gaping loading gate makes reloading surprisingly
fast despite its relatively primitive design.
In The Beginning …
Famed inventor and businessman Samuel Colt was born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1814. At age 15 he staged a demonstration on a local waterway wherein he used a homemade galvanic cell to detonate an underwater mine. He missed his intended target yet left the crowd most thoroughly entertained. In 1830 he inadvertently set fire to his school and was subsequently sent away to learn the seaman’s trade.
During a voyage to Calcutta aboard the brig Corvo, Colt was inspired by the ship’s capstan with its ratchet and pawl mechanism. He subsequently crafted a wooden model of a revolving handgun based upon the device while aboard ship. Upon his return home Colt’s father agreed to fund the construction of a prototype handgun and rifle based upon his idea. The rifle performed well. The pistol exploded.
In 1835 Colt traveled to London and secured, with some difficulty, a patent for his revolving handgun. He followed this up with a similar patent back home. Colt never claimed to have invented the revolver. He simply made it reliable and practical. Colt’s true legend was not the gun: It was how it was made.
Colt’s goal all along was to mass-produce his pistols with reliably interchangeable parts. While this seems like background clutter in the Information Age, maintaining such mechanical tolerances was heady stuff indeed in the mid-19th century. This basic mechanical goal ultimately made Samuel Colt America’s first true industrial tycoon.
Colt’s pistols sputtered along, and he diversified into such stuff as underwater mines, telegraph cable and tinfoil. Numerous competing companies willfully infringed upon Colt’s revolver patent, and he vigorously pursued satisfaction in court. By 1857 his original patent had expired, and he strived to dominate the market by providing quality weapons at reasonable prices. He had a novel way of running his enterprise.
The manual hammer on the Peacemaker is absolutely enormous.
Manipulation is second nature.
The barrel of this modern rendition of the archetypal Colt revolver
sports the same verbiage as the vintage originals.
A Most Benevolent Taskmaster
Colt opened his first Connecticut factory in 1848. It was here Colt refined his industrial vision. To help control flooding he planted German osiers, a sort of willow tree, along a long dike on the property. Ever the businessman, Colt then raised a factory to produce wicker furniture made from these trees.
Along the way Colt established a standardized 10-hour workday with a mandatory one-hour lunch break. He built onsite tenement housing for his workers as well as extensive recreational facilities. While his treatment of his employees was massively more humane than was the standard of the day, he could still dismiss a worker for tardiness, poor performance or having the audacity to suggest improvements to his products. The last one would come back to bite him.
Rollin White was a contract employee turning barrels for Colt. In his free time White obtained a pair of scrapped Colt revolver cylinders and welded them together. He cut the ends off on his lathe and subsequently imagined the bored-through cylinder characterizing every modern revolver on the planet.
Rollin took his idea to Colt who told him to drop dead. White subsequently approached Smith & Wesson with his invention, and they gave him a much warmer reception. White got a royalty of 25 cents for every gun produced, and S&W got a monopoly on the breech-loading revolver. Sam Colt had just committed his most epic blunder.
Why would anybody go to the trouble and expense of acquiring a genuine
Colt Peacemaker? Because of the little horse on the side, of course!
The Peacemaker’s hard rubber grips are festooned with a liberal layer of patriotism.
The Next Generation
The American Civil War revitalized the munitions industry as only a massive nationwide conflict is able, and Colt profited from it. Sam happily sold revolvers to both the North and the South at one point or another. As late as 1861 he still had designs on building a factory to produce handguns in the South for the Confederacy. Throughout it all he was constrained to percussion-fired pistols because of Rollin White’s pesky patent.
Colt was commissioned a colonel in the Connecticut Militia May of 1861. His unit was titled the 1st Regiment Colts Revolving Rifles of Connecticut and was armed with — you guessed it — Colt Revolving rifles. The unit was subsequently disbanded, and Colt was discharged 31 days after his commissioning. He did, however, wield the title Colonel Sam Colt proudly from then on.
Colt died of complications secondary to gout in 1862. By the medical standards of the day this was likely a fairly horrific way to go. At the time of his death he was worth millions.
The classic Colt Peacemaker is a natural in the hand,
and a great collectible, too!
The Definitive Colt
The company Sam Colt founded was not idle after his death. Rollin White’s patent finally expired in 1869, and the company could at last get about the business of producing cartridge-fed revolvers unfettered. Colt engineers William Mason and Charles Brinckerhoff Richards crafted a thoroughly modern design for the U.S. government service revolver trials of 1872. Their pistol handily won the competition, and production began in 1873. The formal appellation was the “New Model Metallic Cartridge Revolving Pistol.” The military called it the Colt Single Action Army. Most normal folk just called the new gun the Peacemaker.
The gun was chambered for the .45 Colt centerfire cartridge and carried plenty of downrange horsepower. The Single Action Army served as the Army’s standard sidearm for nearly 20 years before being replaced by the double-action Colt Model 1892 in .38 Long Colt. Concerns over knockdown power saw the old Single Action Army pistols dusted off and used as late as the Spanish American War. George Patton employed an ivory-gripped SAA to dispatch a pair of Pancho Villa’s lieutenants. He subsequently carried this gun throughout World War II.
The Colt gave Will a chance to fulfill a classic cowboy dream of his.
And Finally, The Quest …
out landing one of these classic guns of my own. I bet you thought I had forgotten. These timeless iconic wheelguns still grace the Colt website today. They list six different variations in both .45 Colt and .357 Magnum. Barrel lengths come in 4.75″, 5.5″ and the period original 7.5″ versions. Case-hardened frames, 1873-standard rubber grips and gorgeous blue highlights define the genre. Each model sports a disheartening “Out of Stock” label where the “Take Me Home” button should be. Demand for Colt’s archetypal wheelgun has likely never been higher, but the company originally birthing the thing is not really in a position to take advantage of it.
Quality Italian clones can be had at really sweet prices. The guns on the Colt website are all monotonously listed at $1,799. The samples I found on Gunbroker.com were typically going for substantially more.
I poked around a bit trying to get the real skinny on contemporary production. Some guy on Reddit claims they are currently releasing about five guns per day through their standard harem of distributors. Maybe this dude knows what he’s talking about. Or perhaps he is just some kid in his parents’ basement with a healthy supply of hallucinogens and an internet connection.
You’ve likely got to know somebody to land one of those guns nowadays. Nepotism is always a bad thing unless it helps me. It’s how I got mine.
I have written for the gun press for a quarter century and as a result have made a few friends in interesting places. A dear friend who is well connected helped me out, though I did end up paying top dollar. Once the gun arrived it was everything I had imagined it might be.
The fit is literally flawless. Peering into the deep, wet-looking blue finish is like sneaking a glimpse through the pearly gates. The action cycles like greased glass, and the angry end of the cylinder is scarier than the shark in “Jaws.”
I never thought I’d be That Guy. I should shoot the gun, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. So why exactly did I lay down the better part of two grand and call in a serious solid to purchase a clunky .45-caliber wheelgun almost identical to dozens if not hundreds of others readily available on the open market? Because it’s got the cool little horse engraved into the side, of course.
Steve McQueen was undeniably cool.
What exactly does it mean to be cool? Though difficult to define, you know it when you see it. Guns are cool. So was Steve McQueen. You get kind of a gestalt about such stuff.
Some of us spend our entire lives striving mightily to be cool yet fail quite to get there. However, many’s the young man’s unscheduled trip across the river Styx ’twas precipitated by a poorly reasoned effort to be cool.
Behold, the world’s coolest teenager-mobile. Will’s little brother perched
so adorably on the hood is 6’3″ and a federal prosecutor today.
The Perfect Day
It was one of those torrid Mississippi summer afternoons when the sun burned like a furnace and the air was so humid you could rip off a chunk and gnaw it. School was out; I had not a care in the world.
In my day you got your driver’s license at 15. I wouldn’t trust today’s 15-year-old males unsupervised with gum, much less an automobile. However, this was a different time.
While I have indeed never been mistaken for cool, my dad did see to it I rolled in a cool car. A young man’s ride is so much more than transportation. It is style, personality, character and status all packaged up on four spinning wheels. My car was pure unfiltered awesome.
The year was 1981 and the car was a 1970 Buick Skylark convertible. The sole ragtop in my small Mississippi Delta community, it was metallic blue and immensely, nay ludicrously, powerful. I would frequently go sit in the back seat and read science fiction tomes with the top down while parked in the driveway. As I said, being cool was more a journey than a destination with me.
On this particular day I was sporting cheap, mirrored aviator shades while tearing down a preternaturally straight stretch of Lee Drive, so named for the esteemed General. Like all adolescent males I was young, bulletproof and immortal. Harm could never befall me.
Classic machineguns are undeniably cool.
The Power Of Stupid
Overcome by the moment, I pushed myself up such that I was sitting atop the headrest. A gangly, long-legged lad, I manipulated the accelerator with my right great toe and kept the wheel nominally managed with my fingertips. My face was fully in the slipstream above the windshield.
Seatbelts were not the religious sacraments they are today, so mine were tucked down out of the way behind the seat so as not to interfere with my signature dynamic entry into the vehicle — vaulting over the door to land gracefully in the driver’s seat, ready to rock. During such a maneuver, one does not desire the painful inconvenience of seatbelt buckles. As a result, I perched atop my charging metallic blue steed, restrained not one whit.
My nemesis lurked anonymously within the tall Johnson grass that lined the rural road, happily munching his mid-afternoon snack. Whether driven by boredom, hunger, or love will never now be known, but he did for some reason then spontaneously take flight. Spreading his broad green wings, this massive 4″ Delta grasshopper flexed his powerful legs and leapt into the ether.
I perceived a scant flurry in the periphery of my vision and my entire world exploded. The gargantuan insect caught me squarely in the forehead and detonated like an antitank grenade, knocking me bodily back into the rear seat and leaving my legs draped limply astride the headrest. At this point my trusty Skylark was still making some 70 miles per hour, though now charging randomly sans pilot.
I clawed violently back over the seat and dropped in behind the steering wheel again, seizing the appendage in an involuntary rictus. By some miracle throughout it all the car remained within the two white lines of its own accord. No doubt the vehicle was guided solely by my guardian angel, himself a both overworked and underappreciated spook.
Denouement
I carefully coasted to a stop on the side of the deserted road and took stock. My sunglasses were gone, never to be seen again. A not insubstantial gash tracked rakishly across my forehead, now most liberally adorned with splintered chunks of chitin and copious pureed pest. I wiped away the gore with an oily towel and puttered meekly back home.
I crept stealthily into the house and retired to the bathroom to attend my wounds. My dad inquired concerning my injuries over dinner, and I not untruthfully explained I had been struck by a grasshopper while out driving with the top down. All involved thought it comical.
The truth has remained suppressed to this very day, and now, my friends, I share it with you.
Groups just over one inch at 50 yards were the norm with AA1680 powder.
Bill Noody of Northern Precision has been thinking big these days, caliber-wise. He’s had requests for 0.500″-sized bullets and Bill delivered. Using .50 BMG cases for the bullet jackets, he draws them out and works his magic, then adds a lead alloy. The large Ma Deuce cases work perfectly and with the skillful use of his series of Corbin dies, he completes the bullets. If bonded bullets are wanted, an extra step is added.
These bullets can be made to any weight from 350 to 600 grains with a large meplat nose profile. When loaded with bullets crimped in the cannelure, they cycle flawlessly through my Big Horn Armory Model 89.
Bill Noody is a one-man show and his work is flawless!
A Little History
The .500 S&W Magnum made its debut at the 2003 SHOT show. Cor-bon designed the cartridge in a partnership with S&W. The motive was twofold. First, the companies wanted a handgun and cartridge capable of taking the largest North American big-game species. The second? Simply having bragging rights for the most powerful production handgun and load produced.
If you’re gonna’ do it, do it big — and that’s what they did!
The fixin’s for some good handloads. Look at the Big Horn
Armory wood upgrade — worth every cent!
Big Horn Armory 89
About five years later, Big Horn Armory owner Greg Buchel had the desire to build a lever gun sturdy enough to shoot the powerful .500 S&W cartridge in a John Browning-style lever gun. Makes sense, right? He knew the sleek model 92 was too small and he didn’t welcome the bulkiness of the 1886 Winchester. So, he combined the attributes of both and came out with a lever gun halfway between the ’92 and ’86, which happens to be 89 — hence the Big Horn Armory Model 89 came to fruition.
Buchel uses 17-4PH stainless steel, a steel three times stronger than that originally used by Winchester. The mid-sized action allows adjusting pivot pins for the carrier, release points of cartridge guides and other critical internal parts to form the correct geometry to consistently cycle the 500 S&W cartridges. Two large locking lugs keep the bolt locked solidly in the high pressure round. For a few extra bucks, Buchel offers beautifully stocked rifles. It’s well worth the money!
Northern Precision’s .500 bullets (left to right) — 350-grain, 450-grain and
600-grain bullets next to a drawn out .50 BMG case used for the bullet jacket.
The Load
Noody’s 500 bullets pack a punch from the large meplat he uses. Measured at 0.430″, this very blunt lead exposed nose transfers mega doses of energy. The tapered jacket allows perfect mushroom expansion without allowing the bullet to turn inside out. Tougher game like Cape Buffalo would benefit from Noody’s bonded bullets.
Looking at Big Horn Armory’s loading data, AA 1680 looked to be a good contender from what I had on hand. Using Hornady brass, Winchester Large Rifle primers and 42 grains of AA1680, I chronographed the 450-grain bullets right at 1,800 FPS. Accuracy at 50 yards using a Trijicon 6MOA red dot sight was just over an inch. With a 450-grain wide jacketed exposed nose bullet going 1,800 FPS, there’s not a lot of big game animals the bullet wouldn’t dispatch quickly.
Loads were assembled using Hornady dies with Tank’s Lee Classic Turret press.
Final Word
Using custom-made bullets isn’t for everyone. But if you enjoy handloading and take pride in shooting your own ammunition, Northern Precision has the bullet for the job. The 500 S&W magnum will handle the world’s largest game. Using a traditional lever gun during your hunting endeavors is a traditionally fun way of doing so. You’ll take pride in carrying your Big Horn Armory lever gun and you’ll rejoice in taking game with it!
Teddy Roosevelt enjoyed hunting with lever guns and you will too! He called his Winchester 1895 chambered for the .405 Winchester “Big Medicine” while hunting lions and other beasts in Africa.
Bill Noody’s 0.500″ bullets will allow you to “speak quietly while carrying a big stick” when loaded with .500 S&W cartridges in a Big Horn Armory Model 89 lever gun. They are a match that complement each other rather nicely.
—————————————————————————————-Hey don’t blame me if your gun blows up by using any hand loading info on this site!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Grumpy who is Lawyer proof i.e. I am broke and POOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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A Fox A grade in 16ga
Monkeys make good pets in theory. In practice they are usually
more trouble than they’re worth. David Jensen.
Had I gotten my way you guys never would have heard of me. I had planned 25 years in the Army followed by a second career teaching high school physics someplace. As a mechanical engineer that seemed a good post-Army retirement plan.
God had other ideas. As a soldier I averaged eight months out of twelve away from home. It seemed I could be either an Army helicopter pilot or a Dad, but I couldn’t be both. Like an idiot, I decided to go to medical school. Eventually I wrote enough to land this gig, and the rest is history. However, it certainly wasn’t my plan.
I had a high school physics teacher — Gene Barbor — who had a powerful influence on me. I saw myself following a similar path.
My formative world was liberally dusted with World War II veterans. Sixteen million served out of a population of 137 million, so they were literally everywhere. My senior math teacher packed a Browning Automatic Rifle all the way across Europe. Mr. Barbor was a Navy officer serving aboard a destroyer in the South Pacific. They’re all gone now.
Every now and then Mr. Barbor would wax nostalgic in class. Most of his tales were funny or harmless. There was the one where one of his gunners got his head literally blown off in front of him during a Japanese air attack, but that was an outlier. Most of his stories were more benign.
The United States produced 377 destroyers of all types during
World War II. For a time one of them had a pet monkey.
My favorite orbited around a monkey. A WWII-era Fletcher-class destroyer carried a complement of 329 officers and men. Most were either conscripts or recent volunteers. There was subsequently an extreme shortage of proper experience. As a result, many times you might have a warship cruising about looking for trouble crewed primarily by souped-up teenagers. This was one of those times.
Mr. Barbor’s ship once happened upon a deserted island. The skipper dispatched a landing party to scout the island for fresh fruit with which to augment the mess. The away team returned with mangoes and such as well as an unexpected passenger. These guys had captured a monkey.
The little guy was undeniably adorable, and the ship’s complement took to him immediately. Mr. Barbor said regulations were quite specific concerning the inadvisability of bringing illicit fauna aboard a US Navy warship, but the ship’s commander was a soft-hearted soul. He thought it a bit pirate-esque to have a monkey onboard. The thing was apparently fairly personable and spent his days frolicking on the bridge.
Mr. Barbor’s ship spent most of its time on isolated antisubmarine patrols or on missions to retrieve downed aircrew. Without a great deal of adult supervision all involved saw little harm in keeping the creature. Then came one very hot day.
This was, after all, the South Pacific, and the temperatures were blistering. The crew had therefore opened the windows on the bridge to take advantage of the scant breeze produced while underway. The ship’s monkey scurried about playfully.
The most important single item on the ship was the code book. Codes changed regularly according to a set timetable. For a given period encoded messages would come in over the wireless, and the commo guys would use the code book to decode them. This information told the skipper where the ship should go and what its particular mission might be. Loss of the code book would compromise the security of every ship in theater. As a result, the book itself was weighted so it could be thrown overboard in the event the ship might be boarded. You can see where this is going.
On this fateful day the ship’s monkey spontaneously snatched the codebook off of the chart table and casually tossed it out the window. Before anyone could react, the weighted document splashed off to meet Old Hob. Understand this was a really big deal.
Now if they got orders to do something important they had no way to decode them. Careers died over less. Commanders could be court-martialed over such. They still had several days until the new codes kicked in.
The Captain had the ship steam in circles until the new codebook took effect, and the monkey was given his leave at the next handy landfall. No one was the wiser. However, the tale of the larcenous monkey did ultimately add great levity to Mr. Barbor’s fifth period physics class.