I wouldn't throw the deformed balls away, in any event. Somebody could use them, and maybe the OP will try his hand at casting.
At the old-time beef shoots, the right and left hindquarters were the first and second prizes, and the third and fourth place winners each got a forequarter. The hide and tallow went to the fifth place, and number six earned the right to salvage the lead from the backstop. It was valuable.
My dad had a little range down in a creek bottom when I was a kid. He had short (maybe five foot) sections of old telephone poles placed vertically as a backstop. After every shooting session, we would pick out whatever bullets we could from the backstop, the ones that didn't penetrate too deeply, and save the lead to re-cast. I remember one time, I found a fragment of a .22 bullet. I dropped it on the ground and said something to the effect that it was "too small to save." Dad assured me it was not, and I didn't leave the site until I had grabbled around in the leaf litter long enough to find it again. Lesson learned.
I also remember charging our muzzleloaders with shot. If a couple of pellets spilled while loading, dad would hold my gun and have me pick them up. "Those are the ones that'll kill the squirrel," he said.
As I heard to old timers say back then, "He didn't waste nothin'."
Notchy Bob
At the old-time beef shoots, the right and left hindquarters were the first and second prizes, and the third and fourth place winners each got a forequarter. The hide and tallow went to the fifth place, and number six earned the right to salvage the lead from the backstop. It was valuable.
My dad had a little range down in a creek bottom when I was a kid. He had short (maybe five foot) sections of old telephone poles placed vertically as a backstop. After every shooting session, we would pick out whatever bullets we could from the backstop, the ones that didn't penetrate too deeply, and save the lead to re-cast. I remember one time, I found a fragment of a .22 bullet. I dropped it on the ground and said something to the effect that it was "too small to save." Dad assured me it was not, and I didn't leave the site until I had grabbled around in the leaf litter long enough to find it again. Lesson learned.
I also remember charging our muzzleloaders with shot. If a couple of pellets spilled while loading, dad would hold my gun and have me pick them up. "Those are the ones that'll kill the squirrel," he said.
As I heard to old timers say back then, "He didn't waste nothin'."
Notchy Bob
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