People tell you a .32H&R is underpowered, but let me tell you a tale.
One day my old mentor and I were out on a turkey hunt. He's packing his old side by side and his K32. We're both tired and hungry and haven't seen a bird yet when out at about 3 hunnderd yards steps the most beautiful ten point buck you ever seen. It's gettin dark and the sun's long behind us and I'm sittin there at a loss with a scattergun in my hands, and the old salt whispers that we could have venison leg for dinner. I tell him there's not a chance in all the hells of heaven and Earth that he's gonna kill any deer with that old K32. He winks at me and tells me to fish him the Altoids tin out of the pocket of our diddy bag. He tells me to open it, and he quietly ejects his rounds from his Smith. Inside the tin are seven .32 shells, all his own handloads. He reaches for one that's a little different - got 3 red X's writ on it with marker down the side of the case. He takes it and chambers it, easing the cylinder over to line 'er up. Now I figure this crazy old coot is gonna have us stalk down there and try to get inside of 50 yards, but I'll be danged if he didn't nudge me back behind him before taking a knee and lining up on this buck! A 300 yard shot, easy! I think he's yanking my chain, as old men are wont to do. But he sits there steady like for what feels like an hour before he tells me "Put yer hands over yer ears and keep yer mouth open wide." I do it kinda halfhearted and look down at the buck. And that's when he fired.
The blast sent my eyeballs in 4 different directions and I felt the ground buckle a foot down under both feet and come back up to slam me in the heels. There was a flash of white light where the deer was standin' before the whole horizon behind it lit up red orange like sunrise. I took a moment to compose myself before lookin at the old man. The barrel of the .32 was glowin' cherry red and bent into a full U-turn right in the middle, and so was pointin' at the wrong end and back over the old coot's shoulder! He fans the smoke away from his face and says the magic words: "Think I got 'im!" About that moment I heard rustling up above us, and felt somethin hit me on the shoulder. I look down and it's a squirrel, stone dead. Then all around come fallin down a shower of twigs and dead leaves and dead birds of every shape and color, and squirrel after squirrel crashing down from the canopy. It musta rained that flotsam o' carcasses for a solid half a minute, and as I was lookin around and marvelin at it, that was when I noticed that all the trees around us were white as snow. The bark had all been blown clean off the sides that were facin' us, up to a height o' fifteen feet! We waited there about 45 minutes for the fireball to fade, and walked a straight path, flat and smooth as any highway where that grass had been, up to where the deer had stood. Upon surveying of the crater we found his antlers in the Northeast corner, and one shank off each of his four legs, with the skin blow'd off, the hooves melted away, and the meat cooked right to perfection.
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Moral of the story is, if you handload your .32s, you don't really need a .327.