'Consistently?'
'Oh, I could correct for it,' Grofield said.
Recklow looked sour. 'But you want a cut in the price.'
'Well, let's take a look at one of those others,' Grofield said. He hunkered down again and looked at the other two guns.
Recklow remained standing. He said, 'That Terrier costs sixty-five dollars new.'
'This one isn't new,' Grofield said. He was still holding the Terrier while looking at the other guns, as though he'd forgotten the thing was in his hand.
'The hell with it,' Recklow said. 'I'll load it and give it to you for forty-five.'
Grofield grinned up at him. 'Done,' he said. He held the Terrier out to Recklow, butt first. When Recklow took it, Grofield picked up the other two guns and got to his feet. 'I'll put these away for you.'
'I'll do it.' Recklow stuffed the Terrier in his left hip pocket, took the other two guns from Grofield, and stood there holding them. 'Now for the car. You want one in the glove compartment? Maybe a small one, too, one of these.'
'No. I want to store it under the dash, I want to put a holster under there.'
'Not a holster,' Recklow said. 'A clip.'
'Have you got one?'
'Seven-fifty. It's got a spring. When you want to put the gun away you just push it up and the clip holds it. When you want it back, you put your hand under it, push the lever with your thumb, and it pops into your hand.'
'I'll take it,' Grofield said. 'Now, about the gun to put into it.'
'You want something with more distance accuracy for outside,' Recklow said. He put the two rejected body guns away, poked in the saddlebag some more, pulled out a larger revolver, and said, 'Here's one. I've got a couple more on the other side.' He handed the revolver to Grofield and walked around the gray to look in the other saddlebag.
The gun Grofield was holding was a Ruger.357 Blackhawk. It had the weight and heft of a solid gun, and is one of the best-looking of contemporary handguns. Looking it over, Grofield saw several short scratches, all at the same angle, on the left side of the barrel.
'Here's two more.' Recklow came around the horse with a pair of guns in his hands, and stood with his palms up, displaying the guns for Grofield to inspect.
'Not the Ruger,' Grofield said. 'Somebody was hitting something with it.' The gun on Recklow's right hand was a Colt Trooper, also in.357, with a six-inch barrel. Grofield picked it up, handed Recklow the Ruger, and studied the Colt. 'This looks pretty good. What's that one?'
It was a Smith & Wesson, the model 1950 Army in.45 caliber. Grofield looked at it without taking it, and said, 'Let me try the Colt.'
'Of course. Hold on, I'll get you ammunition.'
Grofield waited, holding the Colt, turning it over and over in his hands, studying it. When Recklow handed him the two deceptively slim.357 cartridges, Grofield said, 'I don't want to shoot into the water with these. I won't be able to see anything.'
Recklow pointed across the stream, where the land continued to slope upward toward more woods. 'Shoot into those rocks over there. I just don't want you to hit a customer in the woods.'
'I won't.'
Grofield loaded the two bullets into the Trooper, aimed at a particular fold of rock, and saw the shards fly from the exact spot he'd been pointing at. He fired the second one at once, and hit the same place. 'That's good enough for me,' he said, walking back to Recklow. 'How much do you want for it?'
'Seventy-five.'
Grofield grinned at him. 'You wouldn't be tacking the five dollars from the Terrier on this, would you?'
'Seventy-five is the price,' Recklow said. 'I'll load it for you.'
'All right.'
'We'll make it five for the clip,' Recklow said, as Grofield handed him back the Trooper. 'That'll make it an even hundred and a quarter.'
Grofield took out his wallet. He'd left the cupboard bare back at the theater to pay for this trip. He counted out four twenties, three tens, and three fives. Recklow took the money, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and said, 'Ride around a while. Give me a chance to clean them up and load them and get them ready for you.'
'Sure.'
They both mounted and went separate ways, Recklow turning back toward the barns, Grofield deciding to head upstream a while. The water came along with little drops and pools through this stretch of tan stone, but ahead was more greenery – woods, hills. Grofield rode that way, listening to the clack of Gwendolyns shoes on the rockface. In western movies, people rode over land like this to cover their tracks. Grofield, twisting around in the saddle, looked back and saw no mark of Gwendolyns passage. He grinned at himself – the mighty hunter. Not out here.
4
The woman had been dead at least a couple of days. Grofield saw her lying on the kitchen floor, face down, a brown lake of dried blood forming an irregular shore about her head and extending out to make an island of one chair leg, and he didn't have to turn her over to know he would find her throat cut, or to know Myers had been
