Besides double action S&W revolvers, Skeeter was also an aficionado
of Ruger single actions; here he’s loading a favorite in .44 Special.
The writing of such authors as Skeeter Skelton and other lawmen/scribes like Bill Jordan and Charles Askins influenced me to enter the field of law enforcement. After receiving a B.S. degree in Criminal Justice in 1976, I started out as a police officer, then deputy sheriff, and in the spring of 1982, I received my appointment as a Patrol Agent in the U.S. Border Patrol, El Paso Sector.
Bill met Skeeter Skelton while a rookie Border Patrol Agent in Deming, N.M.
Home On The Range
During in-processing at ELP, the five other newbies who were hired with me found out El Paso might not be our new homes. I ended up stationed in Deming, N.M., but didn’t get to actually go there until after I’d graduated from the Border Patrol Academy.
At that time the academy was at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC) in Glynco, Ga. I spent the summer there learning immigration law, Spanish, federal law enforcement procedures, self-defense and physical training. Not only was South Georgia hot and humid, but there were delightful creatures like sand fleas, huge mosquitoes and horseflies to increase your misery at the obstacle course and on 5-mile runs. Somehow, I made it through the 17 weeks and got my gold Patrol Agent shield and .357 Magnum revolver.
My wife and son — still in diapers — had preceded me to Deming and rented us a nice house near the city library. She picked me up at the El Paso airport and we drove to Deming, where I beheld what I thought at the time was “Mayberry in New Mexico.” The Border Patrol Station was on the east end of town near the K-Mart and the city cemetery.
It was a cinder block building with a big garage out back, both painted in a lovely government “sea foam green” as were our patrol vehicles. Deming was a line-watch station, so mostly we drove south each day to the Columbus Port of Entry area and scanned the border line for illegal entrants. We also maintained drag roads paralleling the border at regular intervals that allowed us to locate and track the footprints of unlawful border crossers. We covered a huge area with just 20 agents.
For me and another rookie, we also spent one day a week in post-academy training, polishing our knowledge of immigration law and Spanish. Back then, after 6 ½ months, probationary agents had to pass a test given at ELP Sector; then if successful, another such test at the 10-month period. This helped to weed out individuals who made it through the academy, but were found wanting out in the field.
Charles A. “Skeeter” Skelton was a retired lawman and gun writer emeritus (bottom), who the author was privileged to visit. He’s seen here with his favorite Model 27 sixgun.
How I Met Skeeter
Shortly after my arrival in Deming, I was teamed with a big blond agent named Jim who was tasked with introducing me to our patrol area, including all of Luna County and parts of Hidalgo and Grant counties. One day we were heading east of a stretch of pavement called Rock Hound Road that led to a state park of the same name at the base of the Florida Mountains.
As we whizzed by a yellow brick house out in the boonies, I noted way out in the backyard was a backstop made from old railroad ties. I’m thinking, “must be a shooter who lives there,” when Jim exclaimed, “You know who lives there doncha?”
Me being me replied, “Ya Jim, I’ve lived in Luna County all of two weeks, I know everybody!” He then stated kinda nonchalantly, “Oh, that’s Skeeter Skelton’s house.” I was thunderstruck, my gun writer idol’s house! I’m sure my mouth hung open in disbelief. I then quipped, “I thought he said in his articles that he lives in Horse Thief, New Mexico?”
“That’s horse-pucky,” snorted Jim, “He lives right there!” This information, along with notations of surrounding landmarks, were immediately entered into my memory banks.
These three books (above) are chock-full of Skeeter stories and all true Skeeter fans deserve to have a copy. They too are now hard to find and expensive. Here is Bill’s “Skeeter” S&W 357 Magnum revolver (below), complete with a 5″ barrel and Bear Hug Grips by Deacon Deason.
The Call
The next night, back home in Deming, I gingerly lifted the receiver from the wall-phone in the kitchen and with shaky hands dialed the number on the slip of paper. On the third ring Skeeter picked up on the other end. In a voice that I hoped wasn’t trembling, I introduced myself and explained to him our “wife connection” and the reason for my call. Skeeter exclaimed, “Congratulations on passing your 10, sure, come on out if you can this Saturday and we’ll chew the fat.”
On the appointed day, I put on my ball cap, western shirt, Wranglers and boots then splashed on a little Old Spice. Shooting Times had published a special magazine chock-full of some of Skeeter’s best articles entitled “Skeeter Skelton on Handguns.” I rolled it up and put it in the back pocket of my jeans so Skeeter could inscribe it for me.
Remembering the route, I drove out to his house, parked in front, got out and knocked on the door, all without falling down. Skeeter opened the door and invited me inside with a big smile and a handshake.
We sat in the living room and chatted for about four hours and every so often, he’d excuse himself, go into another room and come back with a special handgun to show me. I was in Nirvana! We sipped a certain spirit-lifting brown liquid and I’ll have to admit, at my present age, even the happenings in an event so monumental have faded a bit from memory. I do recall another knock at the door and the arrival of some other guests. This was a bit distracting and not wanting to wear out my welcome, I politely thanked Skeeter for the audience and made my way back out to the car.
Here is Bill’s “Skeeter” S&W 357 Magnum revolver, complete with
a 5″ barrel and Bear Hug Grips by Deacon Deason.
Oh, Good Grief!
As soon as my posterior settled onto the bench seat of my little Ford Fairmont, I felt something push into the seat back. In an instant it dawned on me what I’d forgotten: an autograph! The rolled-up magazine had gone unnoticed in the living room as I was so “ga-ga” sitting on the couch talking to a legend. Now, the realization I’d forgotten all about it hit me like a sucker-punch to the gut.
I was sick and angry at myself, but I was also too embarrassed to go back, knock on the door and look like dumb-bunny. I started the engine, shifted to drive and headed back to “Mi Casa” in Deming. This was the first — and last — time I ever saw Skeeter Skelton …