She said nothing.
She’ll have spent a year with Rusty,” he said. “On her own. Because that’s where the court would leave her. The grandmother? Ideal solution.”
Not when they understood what the Greers are like.”
“O.K., so partway through the year Family Services will arrive and haul her off to some foster home. Is that what you want for her?”
She winced. “Rusty would send her there anyway. She’d refuse to keep her, if Sloop wasn’t around anymore.”
“So leave the gun out here in the desert. It’s not a good idea.”
He handed it back to her. She took it and cradled it in her palms, like it was a precious object. She tumbled it from one hand to another, like a child’s game. The fake pearl grips flashed in the sun.
“No,” she said. “I want to learn to use it. For self-confidence. And that’s a decision that’s mine to make. You can’t decide for me.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then he shrugged.
“O.K.,” he said. “Your life, your kid, your decision. But guns are serious business. So pay attention.”
She passed it back. He laid it flat on his left palm. It reached from the ball of his thumb to the middle knuckle of his middle finger.
“Two warnings,” he said. “This is a very, very short barrel. See that?” He traced his right index finger from the chamber to the muzzle. “Two and a half inches, is all. Did they explain that at the store?”
She nodded. “The guy said it would fit real easy in my bag.” “It makes it a very inaccurate weapon,” he said. “The longer the barrel, the straighter it shoots. That’s why rifles are three feet long. If you’re going to use this thing, you need to get very, very close, O.K.? Inches away would be best. Right next to the target. Touching the target if you can. You try to use this thing across a room, you’ll miss by miles.” “O.K.,” she said.
“Second warning.” He dug a bullet out of the box and held it up. “This thing is tiny. And slow. The pointy part is the bullet, and the rest of it is the powder in the shell case. Not a very big bullet, and not very much powder behind it. So it’s not necessarily going to do a lot of damage. Worse than a bee sting, but one shot isn’t going to be enough. So you need to get real close, and you need to keep on pulling the trigger until the gun is empty.” “O.K.,” she said again. “Now watch.”
He clicked out the magazine and fed nine bullets into it. Clicked the magazine back in and jacked the first shell into the breech. Took out the magazine again and refilled the empty spot at the bottom. Clicked it back in and cocked the gun and left the safety catch on.
“Cocked and locked,” he said. “You do two things. Push the safety catch, and pull the trigger ten times. It’ll fire ten times before it’s empty, because there’s one already in the mechanism and nine more in the magazine.”
He handed the gun to her.
“Don’t point it at me,” he said. “Never point a loaded gun at anything you don’t definitely want to kill.”
She took it and held it away from him, cautiously.
“Try it,” he told her. “The safety, and the trigger.”
She used her left hand to unlatch the safety. Then she pointed it in her right and closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun twisted in her grip and pointed down. The blast of the shot sounded quiet, out there in the emptiness. A chip of rock and a spurt of dust kicked off the floor ten feet away. There was a metallic ricochet whang and a muted ring as the shell case ejected and the horses shuffled in place and then silence closed in again.
“Well, it works,” she said.
“Put the safety back on,” he said.
She clicked the catch and he turned to look at the horses. He didn’t want them to run. Didn’t want to spend time chasing them in the heat. But they were happy enough, standing quietly, watching warily. He turned back and undid his top button and slipped his shirt off over his head. Walked fifteen feet south and laid the shirt on the rim of the gulch, hanging it down and spreading it out to represent a man’s torso. He walked back and stood behind her.