No Country for Old Men-第2章

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he　curve　of　the　trigger。　the　boars　tooth　he　wore　on　a　gold　chain　spooled　onto　the　rocks　　inside　his　elbow。

even　with　the　heavy　barrel　and　the　muzzlebrake　the　rifle　bucked　up　off　the　rest。　when　　he　pulled　the　animals　back　into　the　scope　he　could　see　them　all　standing　as　before。　it　　took　the　150　grain　bullet　the　better　part　of　a　second　to　get　there　but　it　took　the　sound　　twice　that。　they　were　standing　looking　at　the　plume　of　dust　where　the　bullet　had　hit。

then　they　bolted。　running　almost　immediately　at　top　speed　out　upon　the　barrial　with　　the　long　whaang　of　the　rifleshot　rolling　after　them　and　caroming　off　the　rocks　and　　yawing　back　across　the　open　country　in　the　early　morning　solitude。

he　stood　and　watched　them　go。　he　raised　the　glasses。　one　of　the　animals　had　dropped　　back　and　was　packing　one　leg　and　he　thought　that　the　round　had　probably　skipped　off　　the　pan　and　caught　him　in　the　left　hindquarters。　he　leaned　and　spat。　damn；　he　said。

he　watched　them　out　of　sight　beyond　the　rocky　headlands　to　the　south。　the　pale　orange　　dust　that　hung　in　the　windless　morning　light　grew　faint　and　then　it　too　was　gone。　the　　barrial　stood　silent　and　empty　in　the　sun。　as　if　nothing　had　occurred　there　at　all。　he　sat　　and　pulled　on　his　boot　and　picked　up　the　rifle　and　ejected　the　spent　casing　and　put　it　in　　his　shirtpocket　and　closed　the　bolt。　then　he　slung　the　rifle　over　his　shoulder　and　set　out。

it　took　him　some　forty　minutes　to　cross　the　barrial。　from　there　he　made　his　way　up　a　　long　volcanic　slope　and　followed　the　crest　of　the　ridge　southeast　to　an　overlook　above　　the　country　into　which　the　animals　had　vanished。　he　glassed　the　terrain　slowly。

crossing　that　ground　was　a　large　tailless　dog；　black　in　color。　he　watched　it。　it　had　a　　huge　head　and　cropped　ears　and　it　was　limping　badly。　it　paused　and　stood。　it　looked　　behind　it。　then　it　went　on。　he　lowered　the　glasses　and　stood　watching　it　go。

he　hiked　on　along　the　ridge　with　his　thumb　hooked　in　the　shoulderstrap　of　the　rifle；　his　　hat　pushed　back　on　his　head。　the　back　of　his　shirt　was　already　wet　with　sweat。　the　　rocks　there　were　etched　with　pictographs　perhaps　a　thousand　years　old。　the　men　who　　drew　them　hunters　like　himself。　of　them　there　was　no　other　trace。

at　the　end　of　the　ridge　was　a　rockslide；　a　rough　trail　leading　down。　candelilla　and　scrub　　catclaw。　he　sat　in　the　rocks　and　steadied　his　elbows　on　his　knees　and　scanned　the　　country　with　the　binoculars。　a　mile　away　on　the　floodplain　sat　three　vehicles。

he　lowered　the　binoculars　and　looked　over　the　country　at　large。　then　he　raised　them　　again。　there　looked　to　be　men　lying　on　the　ground。　he　jacked　his　boots　into　the　rocks　　and　adjusted　the　focus。　the　vehicles　were　four　wheel　drive　trucks　or　broncos　with　big　　all…terrain　tires　and　winches　and　racks　of　rooflights。　the　men　appeared　to　be　dead。　he　　lowered　the　glasses。　then　he　raised　them　again。　then　he　lowered　them　and　just　sat　there。

nothing　moved。　he　sat　there　for　a　long　time。

when　he　approached　the　trucks　he　had　the　rifle　unslung　and　cradled　at　his　waist　with　the　　safety　off。　he　stopped。　he　studied　the　country　and　then　he　studied　the　trucks。　they　were　　all　shot　up。　some　of　the　tracks　of　holes　that　ran　across　the　sheetmetal　were　spaced　and　　linear　and　he　knew　theyd　been　put　there　with　automatic　weapons。　most　of　the　glass　was　　shot　out　and　the　tires　flat。　he　stood　there。　listening。

in　the　first　vehicle　there　was　a　man　slumped　dead　over　the　wheel。　beyond　were　two　　more　bodies　lying　in　the　gaunt　yellow　grass。　dried　blood　black　on　the　ground。　he　　stopped　and　listened。　nothing。　the　drone　of　flies。　he　walked　around　the　end　of　the　　truck。　there　was　a　large　dead　dog　there　of　the　kind　hed　seen　crossing　the　floodplain。

the　dog　was　gutshot。　beyond　that　was　a　third　body　lying　face　down。　he　looked　through　　the　window　at　the　man　in　the　truck。　he　was　shot　through　the　head。　blood　everywhere。

he　walked　on　to　the　second　vehicle　but　it　was　empty。　he　walked　out　to　where　the　third　　body　lay。　there　was　a　shotgun　in　the　grass。　the　shotgun　had　a　short　barrel　and　it　was　　fitted　with　a　pistol　stock　and　a　twenty　round　drum　magazine。　he　nudged　the　mans　boot　　with　his　toe　and　studied　the　low　surrounding　hills。

the　third　vehicle　was　a　bronco　with　a　lifted　suspension　and　dark　smoked　windows。　he　　reached　up　and　opened　the　driver　side　door。　there　was　a　man　sitting　in　the　seat　looking　　at　him。

moss　stumbled　back；　leveling　the　rifle。　the　mans　face　was　bloody。　he　moved　his　lips　　dryly。　agua；　cuate；　he　said。　agua；　por　dios。

he　had　a　shortbarreled　h&k　machinepistol　with　a　black　nylon　shoulderstrap　lying　in　　his　lap　and　moss　reached　and　got　it　and　stepped　back。　agua；　the　man　said。　por　dios。

i　aint　got　no　water。

agua。

moss　left　the　door　open　and　slung　the　h&k　over　his　shoulder　and　stepped　away。　the　　man　followed　him　with　his　eyes。　moss　walked　around　the　front　of　the　truck　and　opened　　the　door　on　the　other　side。　he　lifted　the　latch　and　folded　the　seat　forward。　the　cargo　　space　in　the　rear　was　covered　with　a　metallic　silver　tarp。　he　pulled　it　back。　a　load　of　　bricksized　parcels　each　wrapped　in　plastic。　he　kept　one　eye　on　the　man　and　got　out　his　　knife　and　cut　a　slit　in　one　of　the　parcels。　a　loose　brown　powder　dribbled　out。　he　wet　his　　forefinger　and　dipped　it　in　the　powder　and　smelled　it。　then　he　wiped　his　finger　on　his　　jeans　and　pulled　the　tarp　back　over　the　parcels　and　stepped　back　and　looked　over　the　　country　again。　nothing。　he　walked　away　from　the　truck　and　stood　and　glassed　the　low　　hills。　the　lava　ridge。　the　flat　country　to　the　south。　he　got　out　his　handkerchief　and　　walked　back　and　wiped　clean　everything　hed　touched。　the　doorhandle　and　the　seatlatch　　and　the　tarp　and　the　plastic　package。　he　crossed　around　to　the　other　side　of　the　truck　and　　wiped　everything　down　there　too。　he　tried　to　think　what　else　he　might　have　touched。　he　　went　back　to　the　first　truck　and　opened　the　door　with　his　kerchief　and　looked　in。　he　　opened　the　glovebox　and　closed　it　again。　he　studied　the　dead　man　at　the　wheel。　he　left　　the　door　open　and　walked　around　to　the　driver　side。　the　door　was　full　of　bulletholes。

the　windshield。　small　caliber。　six　millimeter。　maybe　number　four　buckshot。　the　　pattern　of　them。　he　opened　the　door　and　pushed　the　windowbutton　but　the　ignition　was　　not　on。　he　shut　the　door　and　stood　there；　studying　the　low　hills。

he　squatted　and　unslung　the　rifle　from　off　his　shoulder　and　laid　it　in　the　grass　and　took　　the　h&k　and　pushed　back　the　follower　with　the　heel　of　his　hand。　there　was　a　live　　round　in　the　chamber　but　the　magazine　held　only　two　more　rounds。　he　sniffed　at　the　　muzzle　of　the　piece。　he　ejected　the　clip　and　slung　the　rifle　over　one　shoulder　and　the　　machinepistol　over　the　other　and　walked　back　to　the　bronco　and　held　the　clip　up　for　the　　man　to　see。　otra；　he　said。　otra。

the　man　nodded。　en　mi　bolsa。

you　speak　english？

he　didnt　answer。　he　was　trying　to　gesture　with　his　chin。　moss　could　see　two　clips　　sticking　out　of　the　canvas　pocket　of　the　jacket　he　was　wearing。　he　reached　into　the　cab　　and　got　them　and　stepped　back。　smell　of　blood　and　fecal　matter。　he　put　one　of　the　full　　clips　into　the　machinepistol　and　the　other　two　in　his　pocket。　agua；　cuate；　the　man　said。

moss　scanned　the　surrounding　country。　i　told　you；　he　said。　i　aint　got　no　water。

la　puerta；　the　man　said。

moss　looked　at　him。

la　puerta。　hay　lobos。

there　aint　no　lobos。

si；　si。　lobos。　leones。

moss　shut　the　door　with　his　elbow。

he　went　back　to　the　first　truck　and　stood　looking　at　the　open　door　on　the　passenger　side。

there　were　no　bulletholes　in　the　door　but　there　was　blood　on　the　seat。　the　key　was　still　　in　the　ignition　and　he　reached　in　and　turned　it　and　then　pushed　the　windowbutton。　the　　glass　ratcheted　slowly　up　out　of　the　channel。　there　were　two　bulletholes　in　it　and　a　fine　　spray　of　dried　blood　on　the　inside　of　the　glass。　he　stood　there　thinking　about　that。　he　　looked　at　the　ground。　stains　of　blood　in　the　clay。　blood　in　the　grass。　he　looked　out　　down　the　track　south　across　the　caldera　back　the　way　the　truck　had　e。　there　had　to　　be　a　last　man　standing。　and　it　wasnt　the　cuate　in　the　bronco　begging　for　water。

he　walked　out　on　the　floodplain　and　cut　a　wide　circle　to　see　where　the　track　of　the　tires　　in　the　thin　grass　would　show　in　the　sun。　he　cut　for　sign　a　hundred　feet　to　the　south。　he　　picked　up　the　mans　trail　and　followed　it　until　he　came　to　blood　in　the　grass。　then　more　　blood。

you　aint　goin　far；　he　said。　you　may　think　you　are。　but　you　aint。

he　quit　the　track　altogether　and　walked　out　to　the　highest　ground　visible　holding　the　　h&k　under　his　arm　with　the　safety　off。　he　glassed　the　country　to　the　south。　nothing。

he　stood　fingering　the　boars　tusk　at　the　front　of　his　shirt。　about　now；　he　said；　youre　　shaded　up　somewheres　watchin　your　backtrack。　and　the　chances　of　me　seein　you　fore　　you　see　me　are　about　as　close　to　nothin　as　you　can　get　without　fallin　in。

he　squatted　and　steadied　his　elbows　on　his　knees　and　with　the　binoculars　swept　the　　rocks　at　the　head　of　the　valley。　he　sat　and　crossed　his　legs　and　went　over　the　terrain　　more　slowly　and　then　lowered　the　glasses　and　just　sat。　do　not；　he　said；　get　your　dumb　　ass　shot　out　here。　do　not　do　that。

he　turned　and　looked　at　the　sun。