It towered over me, its mouth open, teeth displayed with a ferocity I found frightening despite its departure long ago from the living. I reached out and touched the claws on its paw and thought of the power in them, now stayed for the purposes of decoration. I gave a short snort of disgust, which the owner caught. He hurled it back at me by spitting his chaw of tobacco into a spittoon located at the end of the counter. The place had atmosphere, I had to give it that. I’d never been in a gun shop before, but it was pretty much what I expected. Lots of weapons—guns, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles displayed in locked cases. On the wall behind the counter, mounted animal heads joined the bear at the door in a state of infinite captivity. A beaver losing some of its pelt stood on the counter. I didn’t like the place. It gave me the creeps, and that feeling emboldened me to speak before Jake had a chance. “Where are the people?” I asked and nodded toward the wall. The owner, who I assumed was the son of the Mr.
