Reacher glanced at it through the glare and nodded.
"It's a Marshal Colt," he said.
Borken nodded.
"You bet your ass it is," he said. "It's an original 1873 Marshal Colt, just like the U.S. Cavalry were given. It's my personal weapon."
He picked it up, right-handed, and hefted it.
"You know what it fires?" he said.
Reacher nodded again.
"Forty-fives," he said. "Six shots."
"Right first time," Borken said. "Six forty-fives, nine hundred feet per second out of a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. You know what those bullets could do to you?"
Reacher shrugged.
"Depends if they hit me or not," he said.
Borken looked blank. Then he grinned. His wet mouth curled upward and his tight cheeks nearly forced his eyes shut.
"They'd hit you," he said. "If I'm firing, they'd hit you."
Reacher shrugged again.
"From there, maybe," he said.
"From anywhere," Borken said. "From here, from fifty feet, from fifty yards, if I'm firing, they'd hit you."
"Hold up your right hand," Reacher said.
Borken looked blank again. Then he put the gun down and held up his huge white hand like he was waving to a vague acquaintance or taking an oath.
"Bullshit," Reacher said.
"Bullshit?" Borken repeated.
"For sure," Reacher said. "That gun's reasonably accurate, but it's not the best weapon in the world. To hit a man at fifty yards with it, you'd need to practice like crazy. And you haven't been."
"I haven't?" Borken said.
"No, you haven't," Reacher said. "Look at the damn thing. It was designed in the 1870s, right? You seen old photographs? People were much smaller. Scrappy little guys, just immigrated from Europe, been starving for generations. Small people, small hands. Look at the stock on that thing. Tight curve, way too small for you. You grab that thing, your hand looks like a bunch of bananas around it. And that stock is hundred-and-twenty-year-old walnut. Hard as a rock. The back of the stock and the end of the frame below the hammer would be pounding you with the recoil. You used that gun a lot, you'd have a pad of callus between your thumb and forefinger I could see from here. But you haven't, so don't tell me you've been practicing with it, and don't tell me you can be a marksman without practicing with it."
Borken looked hard at him. Then he smiled again. His wet lips parted and his eyes closed into slits. He rolled open the opposite drawer and lifted out another handgun. It was a Sig-Sauer nine-millimeter. Maybe five years old. Well used, but well maintained. A big boxy grip for a big hand.
"I lied," he said. "This is my personal weapon. And now I know something. I know my decision was the right one."
He paused, so Reacher could ask him about his decision. Reacher stayed silent. Clamped his lips. He wasn't about to ask him about anything, not even if it would be the last sentence he would ever live to say.
"We're serious here, you know," Borken said to him. "Totally serious. We're not playing games. And we're correct about what's going on."
He paused again, so Reacher could ask him what was going on. Reacher said nothing. Just sat and stared into space.
"America has got a despotic government," Borken said. "A dictatorship, controlled from abroad by our enemies. Our current President is a member of a world government which controls our lives in secret. His federal system is a smokescreen for total control. They're planning to disarm us and enslave us. It's started already. Let's be totally clear about that."
He paused. Picked up the old revolver again. Reacher saw him checking the fit of the stock in his hand. Felt the charisma radiating out of him. Felt compelled to listen to the soft, hypnotic voice.
"Two main methods," Borken said. "The first is the attempt to disarm the civilian population. The Second Amendment guarantees our right to bear arms, but they're going to abolish that. The gun laws, all this beefing about crime, homicides, drug wars, it's all aimed at disarming people like us. And when we're disarmed, they can do what they like with us, right? That's why it was in the Constitution in the first place. Those old guys were smart. They knew the only thing that could control a government was the people's willingness and ability to shoot them down."
Borken paused again. Reacher stared up at the swastika behind his head.
"Second method is the squeeze on small business," Borken said. "This is a personal theory of mine. You don't hear it much around the Movement. But I spotted it. It puts me