Flint & Fire
Bill Millican of Guntersville, Alabama, has mastered the art of making black powder rifles that echo an early age of craft, fire, and marksmanship.
Story by Alan Clemons, Photos by Bob Farley
Bill Millican still hunts the same way a rifle once had to be fired: slowly, deliberately, and with no guarantee it will all go right the first time.
That uncertainty is built into every shot. Just before a flintlock fires, the sequence begins — steel meets flint, sparks fall into a small pan of powder, fire travels through the touch hole, and only then does the main charge ignite. If it all works, the rifle bucks, smoke rolls out in a gray cloud, and the target disappears for a moment in haze. If it doesn’t, there is no second try.
For the North Alabamian, that mix of precision and unpredictability isn’t a drawback. It’s the point. He has spent more than 70 years living with black powder firearms, a lifetime shaped by smoke, wood, steel, and patience. His introduction came early, through reading and a childhood visit to Atlanta’s Cyclorama, where the old weapons and their history left a lasting impression. Raised in a hunting family, he bought his first muzzleloader in 1958 and never really left the tradition behind.
At the time, black powder was still widely used, inexpensive, and accessible. He remembers buying it for about a dollar a pound, and even less in bulk. But what drew him in wasn’t just cost or availability—it was the process itself, slower and more involved than anything in modern shooting.
That process eventually became something deeper than a hobby.
“I saw early on that I wasn’t going to be able to afford them, so I started making them,” he said.
That decision shifted everything. Instead of collecting rifles, Bill began building them, and over time, building became as important as hunting. Today, most of the rifles he uses in the field are handmade, shaped from raw materials, and finished by his own hand.
The work begins with wood — logs taken to a sawmill and cut into stock blanks. From there, everything is gradual shaping, fitting, and refinement. Metal parts are made in a backyard forge. Even small components are built rather than bought.
“My hunting rifles now, except for turkeys that I hunt with an old muzzleloader shotgun, are all handmade,” he said. “I start by carrying a log to the sawmill to have it cut down, and then I start working on that for the stock. I have made locks from scratch. I never made a flintlock, but have made some percussion cap locks. I have a forge in the backyard and do buttplates and the other pieces. I also make double-set triggers, ramrod thimbles, and the rest of it.”
That kind of craftsmanship connects directly to the long history of firearms, which stretches back to early gunpowder use in 9th-century China and to the later European development of handheld firearms. Over centuries, crude hand cannons evolved into matchlocks, then wheellocks, and eventually flintlocks — the system most closely associated with early American hunting and warfare.
The flintlock itself, often credited to French designer Marin le Bourgeoys, changed everything by making ignition faster, more reliable, and practical for field use. In America, it became the foundation of frontier hunting culture, later evolving into regional styles such as the Kentucky and Lancaster rifles, known for their long barrels, graceful lines, and practical accuracy.
Those rifles weren’t just tools. They were part of survival, trade, and family inheritance. Some were plain working guns, passed from hand to hand. Others, with carved maple stocks and engraved brass, became heirlooms.
That tradition still survives today in custom builds and reproduction firearms, though at a very different pace and price. Depending on craftsmanship and detail, a handmade flintlock can cost thousands of dollars today. For Bill, value has always been measured more in time spent than money spent. He still hunts on public land near Guntersville, Alabama, often walking a mile or more into the woods with a portable tree stand. The goal is simple: get away from pressure, find quieter ground, and accept the slower rhythm that muzzleloaders demand. With a round-ball rifle, nothing about hunting is instant.
Trajectory is shorter; range is limited; and small mistakes matter more. A branch can deflect a shot, or a flinch can ruin accuracy. Even powder charge adjustments can shift results in ways modern shooters rarely have to consider.
Bill learned that early. His first deer, taken with a .40-caliber round ball, dropped at the shot — then got back up.
“He hit the ground and then got up, took off running, and I haven’t seen it since,” he said.
After that experience, he moved to a .54-caliber rifle better suited for consistent performance in the field.
“If I’m in the woods and it’s fairly thick, one thing you always have to be concerned about with a round ball is you cannot hit a limb,” he said. “It will turn the ball away. If it’s open enough, like watching a field, I’d not be afraid to try at 100 yards. In the woods, and especially with open woods without a lot of brush, 50 yards is good, and 35 is even better.”
That shift — from distance to closeness — changes everything about how he hunts. Shots are no longer just technical decisions. They become waiting games, often measured in minutes that feel much longer.
“Being closer like that is challenging, though,” he said. “I got a nice buck last season, and he stood for what seemed like an hour before I got a shot. It was thick. He finally took a few steps out into a clear spot, and I grunted softly. He stopped. Your mind plays tricks because you know he’s standing there, but nothing is going on. They’re smart and know something’s up. Finally, he moved, and I knew he was still there.”
That tension — between knowing and waiting — is where traditional muzzleloading really lives. It is not limited to hunting. It also defines how these firearms behave in general use.
Black powder shooting is often described as controlled chaos. Everything depends on careful measurement: powder type, charge weight, patch thickness, seating pressure, and even environmental conditions. There is no factory cartridge consistency to rely on. Each shot is a small experiment with high stakes.
That same reality applies to Bill’s collection of older firearms, especially his antique shotguns, which required years of adjustment before they could be trusted in the field.
“I’ve had a Belgian-made 13-gauge double-barrel since about 1960, and also a 13-gauge single-barrel,” he said. “I have one that’s a W. Richards, an American knockoff for the Wesley Richards brand. I think it has English barrels on it and started life as a 12-gauge, but is now an 11-gauge after I had it jug-choked. The left-hand barrel will shoot 80 percent on the first shot just about every time.”
He credits careful tuning — and patience — for making it work.
“A fellow in Missouri jug-choked it for me,” Bill says. “He kept it for about three months and patterned it repeatedly. He recommended the load, and I followed his recommendation. It’s right on the money. The odd thing about it is he recommended 3F powder. You can’t get the 80 percent pattern if you deviate. I also have a 13-gauge English shotgun from about 1840 made by C.J. Downs in Stockbridge, England. I fooled with it for two or three years before getting it situated. I was about ready to get rid of it before I got it figured out, so it shoots well.”
That long learning curve is something shared across the black powder community, according to people who have spent decades building and refining these firearms.
One of them is Jack Garner, a retired gunsmith who spent 62 years building flintlock and percussion firearms, first at Dixie Gun Works in Tennessee and later through his own company, Tennessee Valley Manufacturing. Over thousands of builds, he learned that the work was less about speed and more about patience and problem-solving.
“It took me probably 120 hours to do the first one, and then I got to where I could build one in a day’s time,” he said. “It’s not hard, but it just takes practice. When you’re looking at a blank piece of wood, you’re trying to figure out how to get a barrel in there. You’re thinking about which design might be best, like a Kentucky or Lancaster, and then you put the parts on. I always put the buttplate on first to shape out the stock, then the barrel, and then the sidelock and trigger.”
He also notes that interest in traditional firearms tends to rise and fall over time, often tied to cultural moments or renewed curiosity about frontier history. Sometimes movies or reenactments help, and sometimes it’s simply someone discovering a new hobby.
“It might be something like that or might be that a man went to a rendezvous and wanted to get started doing it,” he said. “I really don’t know, but I do know it has peaks and valleys. It’s down a bit now, but will go back up. Everyone has a hobby or something that gets them interested, and when they do or see something else, it might spark a new interest. A lot of the rendezvous around the country have exhibits or things for young people, which I think is important to help them learn and get interested.”
That cycle of interest has carried through American history, from frontier expansion to Civil War-era innovation. Mississippi, for example, left its mark through the M1841 “Mississippi Rifle,” a percussion firearm used by soldiers in conflicts including the Mexican-American War and the Civil War. Designed under government contract by Eli Whitney’s manufacturing system, it represented a shift toward standardized, more weather-resistant percussion ignition and interchangeable parts.
It also marked the beginning of the end for flintlocks. By the late 1800s, metallic cartridges and bolt-action rifles had largely replaced earlier systems, pushing black powder firearms out of military use and into the realm of hunting, collecting, and historical reenactment.
Today, they persist because they demand something modern firearms often do not: attention, patience, and acceptance of imperfection. For Bill, that is exactly what keeps him in the woods year after year. The rifle is not just a tool but a process—one that begins long before the trigger is pulled and continues long after the smoke clears.
