Pete doesn’t just see solutions—he creates them with whatever tools are at hand, whether that’s a financial spreadsheet or a Remington 870. As the visionary behind Rancho de Robles and the financial backbone of Shotgun Art Texas, Pete transforms ordinary weekends into legendary experiences and balance sheets into opportunities. Legend has it Pete once negotiated the purchase of the ranch’s first 100 acres with nothing but a firm handshake and a bottle of Garrison Brothers bourbon. His eye for value extends beyond the boardroom to the canvas, where he can spot the perfect shot angle faster than most people can calculate a tip.

When not overseeing the empire or perfecting his Annie Oakley technique, Pete can be found cataloging the ranch’s wildlife or reminiscing about the time he and the boys “borrowed” the high school mascot for an impromptu road trip to South Padre—a story that still makes the local sheriff shake his head thirty years later.

Walt approaches firearm safety with the same precision and dignity with which he once approached the bench during his brief but memorable career as a small-town Texas judge. His booming voice—honed through years of gaveling down courthouse chaos—can stop a safety violation from 100 yards away faster than most people can blink.

Known for his signature white Stetson (never worn while shooting) and impeccably maintained vintage shotguns, Walt embodies the intersection of old-school Texas values and contemporary artistic vision. His methodical approach to gun handling establishes the foundation of discipline that allows creative chaos to flourish safely.

Walt’s past includes an unverified but widely accepted story about winning his first shotgun in a chess match against a traveling championship marksman. His pre-shoot safety briefings have evolved into something between a revival sermon and performance art, complete with call-and-response elements that the group has memorized over decades. Despite his formal demeanor, Walt is also credited with inventing the group’s most beloved tradition: the “Final Clay”—a last shot taken at sunset with everyone firing simultaneously into the Texas sky.

Danny operates on the principle that if something isn’t slightly dangerous and wildly memorable, it’s not worth doing. As Entertainment Director and Pete’s brother, he’s the architectural genius behind Shotgun Art Texas’s creation process, designing setups that maximize both artistic impact and “holy smokes” reactions from first-time viewers. Known for showing up to formal events in immaculate boots paired with questionable headwear choices, Danny’s maintained his role as the group’s resident wild card since convincing everyone to skip senior prom for an impromptu camping trip that’s still referenced in hushed tones by the park ranger community. His specialty cocktail, “The Clay Pigeon,” has been described as “either the best or worst decision you’ll make this weekend, possibly both.”

Nobody uses Bubba’s real name anymore—not since that incident at Gruene Hall in ’97 that required two tow trucks and a mariachi band to resolve. As the group’s moral compass and improvised philosopher, Bubba dispenses wisdom in perfectly timed one-liners that somehow manage to be both profoundly simple and simply profound.

Bubba approaches both art and life with the same unwavering principle: “Ain’t no use overthinking what’s meant to be beautiful chaos.” His uncanny ability to reduce complex situations to their essential truth has resolved more friend-group tensions than three decades of therapy could have accomplished.

When not perfecting his shotgun swing or crafting the perfect metaphor, Bubba can be found teaching his signature course “Life Lessons from a Clay Pigeon: Learning to Soar Even When You’re About to Be Shot At.” His secret talent is knowing exactly which whiskey will pair with both the evening’s mood and the artwork being created—a skill he claims came to him in a dream after falling asleep under the stars at Tear Drop Pond.

Nobody remembers if Doc was actually a medical professional in a previous life or if the nickname stuck after he successfully removed a fishing hook from Danny’s thumb using nothing but pocket knife tweezers and tequila during a memorable trip to the Gulf in ’95. Either way, he’s embraced his role as the group’s voice of reasonable precaution with good-natured resignation. Also, he is a real doctor.

Armed with the world’s most comprehensive first aid kit and sighs that communicate more than entire conversations, Doc ensures that artistic expression never comes at the expense of basic safety. His pre-shooting checklist has been refined over decades and is delivered with the weary patience of a man who has seen what happens when creative enthusiasm outpaces common sense.

Doc’s unexpected artistic contributions often come from his insistence on “just making one small adjustment” to a setup, invariably resulting in the most striking pieces in the collection. Despite maintaining the appearance of the group’s responsible adult, reliable sources confirm he was the mastermind behind the Great Texas Highway Sign Incident of 2002, which is still discussed in certain county sheriff departments.

Nobody quite remembers when MurphDog earned his nickname—was it the legendary Amarillo poker night of ’98, or his uncanny ability to hunt down both missing receipts and perfect ingredients with bloodhound precision? What everyone agrees on is his culinary wizardry turns ranch weekends into gastronomic events and his knack for keeping Pete from making impulse purchases of exotic livestock “for artistic purposes.”

In the kitchen, MurphDog transforms locally-sourced Texas fare into legendary feasts that fuel the creative process. His famous post-shooting barbecue has been known to convince even the most serious art collectors to delay their departure from the ranch by at least a day. The secret spice rub recipe remains more closely guarded than the combination to the ranch safe.

MurphDog holds the ranch record for consecutive clay pigeon hits, a feat he accomplished while simultaneously monitoring a slow-smoked brisket to perfection. His ability to time the completion of complex meals to coincide exactly with the finishing touches on a new artwork borders on the supernatural.

Jimbo sees the world through a different lens—sometimes literally, as he’s never without at least three cameras despite everyone’s insistence that smartphones exist. As CMO, he captures not just the finished artworks but the entire explosive process, transforming split-second moments into marketing gold.

In college, Jimbo briefly pursued a career in corporate advertising before a soul-crushing internship selling breakfast cereal convinced him that his talents deserved a more colorful canvas. His marketing philosophy—”If it doesn’t make someone say ‘holy hell’ or ‘damn, that’s beautiful,’ it ain’t worth sharing”—has guided the Shotgun Art Texas aesthetic from day one.

Jimbo holds the distinction of being the only team member ever banned from three consecutive Texas arts festivals for demonstrations that were deemed “excessively enthusiastic,” a badge he wears with unmistakable pride. His knack for storytelling extends beyond the visual—his infamous “Remember when we almost burned down the governor’s hunting cabin” tale grows more elaborate with each telling, much like the art he helps create.