He set the gun back down and picked up the shell he’d ejected. Absently, he pushed it into the magazine, considering what to do. It would be nice to keep, in case there was ever need of a gun . . . but he didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands—or hooves. He could try soaking the shells in water, which might make them useless . . . but the Coast Guard had to imagine that their ammunition might get a little wet, so they would probably have to remain underwater for days, maybe even weeks before he could be sure they wouldn’t work. He could try to pry the bullets off, but that would most likely end with him shooting himself or someone else. Tossing them in a fire was out, too. He could flush them down the toilet, but who knew where they’d wind up then? He’d heard horror stories of children finding unexploded ordinance and bringing it home. It seemed unlikely, but who knew what kind of sewage treatment plants they had? He could imagine some pony finding them and taking them home because they were shiny, or maybe a longer chain of events: a bird picks them up, takes them to its nest; later a couple of children find them in the woods. Maybe they want to make a necklace out of them, and try to drill a hole through the cartridge. . . .