Home on the range

“NO GUM, food or drink in the store,” reads the notice on the door of Dave’s Firearms, some miles outside Richmond, Virginia. And an afterthought: “Please, no loaded guns inside.” Dave’s is in a blue-collar suburb, with a dentist’s surgery on one side and a car-parts shop on the other. It is a cosy place, cluttered like an old parlour with camouflage gear, stuffed bobcats, boots, buckets—and guns. Lots of guns. One young man of about 20 stands before a rack of rifles glossy and lean as thoroughbreds. When he is given one to hold, a look of slack-jawed wonder comes over his face; then a flush of pleasure. It is the same fascination that holds his country in thrall.