Rockinghorse Read Free Page B

station to fill up the wagon and ask directions. A sign on the station read: WE BUY SELL & TRADE GUNS. “ Not exactly Manhattan,” Lucas finalized it.
    â€œThe man is clearly and succinctly the world’s master of understatement,” Tracy said with a smile. “We’d better get several bags of ice and some soft drinks. And get me some cigarettes, will you, Lucas?”
    â€œHowdy,” the greeting came from among the gas pumps.
    All heads turned to look at the source of the greeting.
    The man was tall and slender, with gray-blond hair. A beard covered his face. His eyes were dark and filled with good humor.
    â€œY’all must be the Bowers family, right?”
    Lucas got out of the wagon to stretch. “That’s right.”
    The man extended his hand. “Jim Dooley. I own this fine-lookin’ establishment here.”
    The men howdied and shook and grinned.
    Jim said, “Some different from New York City, ain’t it?”
    â€œAh . . . yes,” Lucas replied.
    Jim laughed.
    â€œLucas,” Tracy spoke. “It’s been a few miles since breakfast.”
    Jim picked up the hidden message. Smiling, he said, “Restrooms is thataway,” he jerked a thumb. “They’re unlocked and clean.”
    Tracy, Jackie, and Johnny headed for the relief stations.
    The gas tank filled, Lucas followed Jim into the station building. The first thing that caught his eyes was the open display of unsecured firearms under the glass of a counter. Rifles and shotguns in racks lined the walls. Lucas could see no lock on the sliding back glass of the counter. He looked again. There was no back glass.
    â€œAren’t you afraid someone will steal one of these guns, Jim?”
    â€œOne ol’ boy tried that ’bout three-four years ago. See that hole in the wall right over there?” he pointed. Lucas saw it. “After I shot him ’tween the eyes, the slug blowed out the back of his head and knocked a hole in the wall. Messy. Used a .44 mag on him. This ain’t New York City, Lucas. Like most rural areas, justice comes down hard and quick. Sometimes right fatal, too.”
    â€œSo I gather,” Lucas said. He looked at the rows of pistols. “Are these for sale?”
    â€œShore.” He took Lucas’s twenty, gave him change, and stood smiling at the man.
    â€œTo anybody ?”
    Jim Dooley laughed, full of good-natured humor at the city man’s naivete. It is a severe culture shock for a city person to move south—in more ways than one. “Well, Jim, if someone walked in here draggin’ a ball and chain and dressed in prison stripes, I’d have to say no. I’d say no to a total stranger, too. But ever’body ’round here knows you and your family come down here to summer. We know you’re a big city lawyer. Obviously, you ain’t no wanted criminal. You want to buy a pistol, we can do ’er two ways. We can do ’er legal-like and have you fill out a card with your driver’s license number, occupation, home address, and all that mess. Or you can pick out the pistol you want, give me the money, and stick the gun in your pocket and head on out. Don’t nobody else have to know nothin’ about it. ’Cause the way I look at it, it just ain’t nobody else’s business. You know anything about guns?”
    Lucas shook his head. “Not a whole lot,” he admitted. “I was raised in Vermont and used to hunt with my grandfather. He taught me what I know about guns.”
    â€œAn honest man,” Dooley said. “Most people would have looked me slap in the eye and said they were experts.”
    â€œAnd you would have? . . .”
    â€œChances are, ’less I knowed ’em right well, I wouldn’t sell them a gun.”
    And Lucas realized the rural people of the land—most of them—practiced their own form of gun control.
    Lucas smiled. “An expert with guns, I