“What’s that?”
“Couple of things. Call them overdue wedding presents. Come on.” He led her across the street to Purcell’s Gun Shop.
A little bell rang when Conn opened the door. He held it for Mary and followed her inside.
It was a little shop packed with a lot of guns. There was no one in sight, unless you counted the gray cat stretched out on the counter against the opposite wall.
After the morning they’d had, Conn half expected the cat to tell them it was sorry for the loss, but the feline merely blinked at them and was soon joined by a middle-aged man with a short beard and half-moon glasses who came in through a door behind the counter, wearing a grease-stained apron.
“Morning, folks,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”
“I want a shotgun, a rifle, and ammunition for both,” Conn said.
“All righty then. You came to the right place, friend. Got anything specific in mind?”
“We’ll take a 73 Winchester,” Conn said, pulling one off a rack of lever-actions and handing it to the man. “What do you got for shotguns?”
“Lots of choices,” the man said. “I am a believer in the shotgun.”
“As am I,” Conn said. “They work.”
Something must have clicked for the man then. Maybe it was the shotgun talk. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t mean to pry, mister, but are you the one who…”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The man nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss, folks. Would you be Mrs. Sullivan? I’m Abe Purcell.”
Introductions were made and they meandered back to the subject of shotguns.
“Like I said, there’s a bunch to choose from. Is this for hunting or defense?”
“Defense,” Conn said. “These weapons are for Mrs. Sullivan. How about a double-barreled twelve gauge? Something reliable.”
“Yes, sir. That’ll sure do the job.”
He came around the counter and led them over to a rack on the wall. He tilted his head, looking over the half-moon glasses, and scanned the rack from right to left, then started over again, from left to right until he stopped in the middle.
“Here we go,” he said, plucking a double-barreled scattergun from the rest and handing it to Conn.
He could feel the quality as soon as the weapon touched his hands. Like most men, he appreciated well-made tools. That went double for well-made firearms, which this was, he reckoned, based not only on the feel but also the name etched into the barrel: Parker Brothers.
He broke open the breech and stared down the barrels, which gleamed faintly in the light coming in through the window, then snapped it shut again and turned it in his hands, studying the barrel.
“It’s a Parker,” Purcell said. “A little pricey but real nice. You pull the triggers, it’ll go boom.”
“How much?” Conn asked.
“It’s forty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”
“Don’t spend the money, Conn,” Mary said. “If you want me to be armed, you could just lend me one of the guns Marshal Andrews mentioned.”
“I will give you all of those guns,” Conn said, “the rifle and the pistols. Your brothers can use them if you manage to talk them into helping you. But I want you to have the best.”
“It’s an awful lot of money.”
“It’s important to me that you are safe.”
“Well, thank you. I will feel safer this way.”
