“Guns — rifles. Find me a store that sells them.”
“I don't know of any,” she told him helplessly.
“Sporting goods,” he snapped at her, “a big hardware store or a—”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted. “I know of a place where you can buy fishing equipment, boats, things like that.”
“That's what I want.” He drove the Studebaker out of the garage, listening to the performance of the motor.
While she stood absently watching him, Gary chose from the store's wall rack a heavy .30-30 and a Marlin .22. He loaded the girl down with ammunition for the two rifles, had her pack it on the rear floor of the car. Afterwards they drove by the grocery where they had taken two meals, to load the trunk with food. He stumbled over debris on the floor that hadn't been there when they visited the place for breakfast, and searched the store carefully before allowing the girl to enter. She would have chosen light, fancy and almost useless goods had not he vetoed the choices, instead filling her arms with canned soups and meats, a variety of vegetables, fruits and juices. On a second thought he picked up a case of canned milk.
She was quick to complain. “Oh — Russell! Do we have to take all this now? Why can't we simply stop somewhere when we want to eat?”
“Lift your nose,” he said sharply. “Smell the air. Do you want to come back into this stink every day to eat? And it'll get worse.”
Casting another look at the litter left on the floor by some other prowler, Gary drove back to the gun shop once more and picked up a .38 revolver.
“Now what's that for? You going to fight someone?”