I was dumping wind-driven mallards with enough consistency to quietly praise both my ability to visualize the crazy amount of lead required and the snappy 12-gauge Franchi I was swinging.
But for every bird I sent cartwheeling into the Nebraska Sandhills pothole, my buddy Scott Turner crushed another, and both of us were reaching out to 40 and 45 yards for some of the wariest greenheads and teal. Only Turner was shooting a 28-gauge and laughing after every shot.
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