3

Grofield put his left foot into the stirrup and stepped up into the saddle. Holding the reins loosely in his left hand, he looked down at the stableman who'd brought this roan mare out to him, and said, "You'll tell Mr. Recklow when he comes back from lunch."

The stableman, a rangy gray-bearded old man who thought he was Gabby Hayes, nodded with a show of exasperation. "I said I would."

"What will you tell him?"

"You're here. Your name is Grofield. You're a friend of Arnie Barrow's."

"That's right." Grofield looked out at the wooded hills extending away beyond the barns. "Where should I wait for him?"

"See that lightning-struck elm down there, end of the meadow?"

"I think so."

"Keep to the left of it, and head up-country. You'll find a waterfall up there."

"Fine," Grofield said. He lifted the reins.

The stableman nodded at the mare's head. "Her name's Gwendolyn."

"Gwendolyn," Grofield said.

"You treat her right," the stableman said, "she'll treat you right."

"I'll remember that." Grofield lifted the reins again, heeled the mare lightly, and she stepped daintily around the sign in front of the barn that read RECKLOW's RIDING ACADEMY – Riding Lessons – Hourly Rentals – Horses Stabled. "Giddyup, Gwendolyn," Grofield said softly. He had never said giddyup to a horse before, but he liked the alliteration.

Gwendolyn turned out to be more spirited than her name, and carried Grofield across the meadow at a fast trot, moving with the eagerness of a puppy let off a leash. Grofield enjoyed her so much he didn't head directly for the waterfall but took her off at an easy lope down a wooded valley spaced with open, sunny fields lush with spring grass. Twice he saw, at a distance, other riders; both times they were moving their mounts at a much more cautious pace than he. East of the Mississippi, horsemanship was becoming a lost art – like cave painting. No wonder Recklow had to supplement the riding academy's income.

When they came to the stream, shallow and rapid over a bed of stones, Gwendolyn expressed a desire to drink. Grofield dismounted and had some of the water himself; it was so cold it made his teeth ache. He grimaced, and remounted. "That can't be good for you, Gwendolyn. Come along."

The stream crossed his route from left to right. He turned left, therefore, and followed it uphill, allowing Gwendolyn to travel now at a walk, after her exertions.

The waterfall, when he reached it, was narrow but surprisingly high. He had to leave the stream entirely and make a wide half-circle to get up the slope to the top. When he did, he found an open area of shale on both banks, and no one in sight. He dismounted again, and let the reins trail on the ground, knowing that a well-mannered horse will be trained to stay put with the reins like that. He stood on tan flat rock in sunlight and looked down at the valley below, a green tangle dotted with those open meadows. Now and again he saw riders down there.

It was almost possible here to believe the twentieth century had never existed. Here in western Pennsylvania, less than fifty miles from Harrisburg, he could stand on this bit of high ground and look northward and see exactly what an Indian at this spot would have seen four hundred years ago. No cars, no smoke, no cities.

It was good that he hadn't left last night. Spending the one night with Mary had calmed him, had taken the edge off his rage. He was still as determined as before, but not with the same obsessiveness. A good thing to be rid of, that; it could have made him careless out of haste and impatience.

The waterfall was loud and unceasing. He never heard Recklow coming. He turned his head, and Recklow was just dismounting from a big mottled gray beside which Gwendolyn looked like a donkey.

Recklow was a man in his sixties now, but he was tall and thin and straight, and from a distance he could have been taken for a man of thirty. It was only his face that gave him away, as deeply lined and seamed as a 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."

"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.