plowed field. He'd been a ranch hand in his youth, and then a stuntman and extra in cowboy movies in the thirties and forties. He'd never had any politics, but he had personal loyalties to those he considered his friends, and when the days of the blacklist spread across the land it was inevitable that a man with Recklow's attitudes about friendship would wind up in trouble. In the early fifties he had left the West Coast and come east to Pennsylvania and bought this riding academy. It had kept him, but not very well. These days Recklow gave his loyalty almost exclusively to his horses, and took a kind of cold satisfaction in earning extra money to keep them by stepping outside the law.
He came over now to Grofield, squinting at him as though Grofield were at least half a mile away, and said, 'Do I know you?' He spoke at a near shout, to be heard above the waterfall.
Grofield replied at the same volume. 'I was here once with Arnie Barrow.'
'I'm no good on faces… Or names either, for that matter. How'd you like Gwendolyn?'
'Fine.' Grofield nodded his head toward the valley. 'We played together down there for a while.'
Recklow smiled for a split second with one half of his mouth. 'If you come here this way, friend of this one and that one, it's guns you want. I only sell handguns and rifles. Shotguns and Tommy guns aren't my line.'
'I know. I want two pistols.'
'To keep on your body or in a drawer?'
'One to carry, one to keep in the car.'
'To show, or to use?'
'To use.'
Recklow gave him a quick sharp look. 'You said that a different way.' They were very close to one another, because of the difficulty of hearing.
Grofield turned his head to look toward the waterfall, as though to ask it to shut up for a while. When he looked back, he shouted, 'What do you mean, a different way?'
'People that come to me are professionals. They want guns in their line of work.'
'I'm in the same line of work.'
'But you aren't working now.'
Grofield shrugged. 'No, I'm not.'
Recklow frowned, and shook his head. 'I don't think I want to sell to you.'
'Why not?'
'A professional won't go spraying bullets around. He wants the gun to use if he has to, to show if he has to. I don't like a man to use a gun to work a mad off.'
'I'm still a professional,' Grofield said, pushing the words over the sound of the water. He echoed Recklow's smile of a minute ago and said, 'I have to drum somebody out of the corps.'
Recklow considered him, still frowning, and finally shrugged and said, 'Come here.'
Grofield went with him over to where Recklow had left the big gray. The horse carried saddlebags, into one of which Recklow reached, taking out three revolvers, all short-barreled and double-action. 'Body guns,' he said. It wasn't necessary to shout quite as loud here, farther from the drop-off. 'I don't sell automatics. They're too much trouble, they don't work right.' He squatted down on his heels and spread the three revolvers on the tan rock. 'Look them over.'
Grofield squatted down in front of him to study the guns. Two were Smith & Wesson and the third was a Colt. The Colt was the Detective Special in.32 New Police, with a two-inch barrel. One of the S&W's was a Chief's Special in.38 caliber, the other a five shot Terrier in.32 caliber. Grofield said, 'How good's the Terrier?'
'As good as the man shooting it. It'll cost you fifty dollars.'
Grofield held the gun in his hand. It was very light, very small. It wouldn't be any good at a distance, but up close it would do very well.
'You want to try it?'
'Yes.'
They both stood, Grofield holding the Terrier. Recklow rooted into the saddlebag again and came out with two.32 cartridges. 'Fire at things in the water,' he said.
'Right.'
Grofield felt Recklow watching him load the gun. Recklow had the ability to make you feel you had to prove your competence to him, and Grofield was just as glad he was handling a gun of a type he'd operated before. He walked over near the stream, went down on one knee, looked around to be sure he wasn't observed, and then took careful aim at a white pebble in the stream bed up a ways to his left, away from the falls. He squeezed off a shot, a miniature geyser sprang up, and the stones in the vicinity of the white pebble jumped, roiling the water. It was hard to tell, but he thought the bullet had hit a bit to the right of where he was aiming. He might have done it himself, though, in squeezing the trigger; it was such a small gun.
He chose another target, this one near the opposite bank, and fired again. He squeezed with great care, and watched the result one-eyed, then nodded and got to his feet. He walked back to Recklow and said, 'It's off to the right.'
'By much?'
'Just a little.'
