City by Alessandro Baricco

and forth. Let’s make love, he says. She closes her eyes. A grimace of pain that contorts her face. I beg you, Young. He looks at the gun barrel moving in and out of her flesh. He sees that it’s covered with blood. He cocks the trigger with his thumb. I like to make love, he says.
    Fuck, says Pat Cobhan. He moves away from the bar. I’ll be back, he says. He passes the Castorp brothers’ table, he greets them, touching two fingers to the brim of his hat. Black.
    Top of the world, Pat?
    Yes, sir.
    Bitch of a wind today.
    Yes, sir.
    It’ll never stop.
    My father says it will get tired.
    Your father.
    He says no horse can gallop forever.
    The wind isn’t a horse.
    My father says it is.
    Does, does he?
    Yes, sir.
    Tell him to come see me, every so often.
    Yes, sir.
    Tell him.
    Yes, sir.
    Bravo.
    Pat Cobhan waves and heads for the stairs. He looks up and sees nothing. He climbs a few steps. He thinks he’d like to have a gun. His father doesn’t want him to have one. That way, you don’t get in trouble. No one shoots at an unarmed kid. He stops. He glances at the clock, down behind the bar. He can’t remember exactly how much time has passed. He tries to remember, but he can’t. He looks down into the saloon and thinks he’s like a bird perched on a branch. It would be nice to open your wings and fly, grazing their heads and landing on the hat of the blind musician. I would have shiny black feathers, he thinks, while his right hand feels in his pants pocket for the hard outline of his knife. It’s a small knife, the blade folded into the wooden handle. He looks farther up the stairs and sees nothing. A closed door, no sounds, nothing. I’m just being stupid, he thinks. He stands there, lowers his gaze, sees his boot on the step. Dust thick on the worn leather. Taps twice, with his heel, on the wood. Then he leans over and with a finger polishes the tip. Just at that moment he hears from above the dry sound of a shot and a brief cry. And he realizes it’s all over. Then he hears a second shot, and, one after the other, the third and the fourth and the fifth. He is frozen. He waits. He has a strange buzzing in his head and everything seems far away. He feels someone shove him, and people are running up the stairs, shouting. In his eyes is the shiny tip of his boot. He waits. But he hears nothing. Then he gets up, and goes slowly down the stairs. He crosses the saloon, goes out the door, gets on his horse. He rides all night and at dawn he reaches Abilene. The next day he heads north, passing through Bartleboro and Connox, following the river as far as Contertown, and then for days he rides towards the mountains. Berbery, Tucson City, Pollak, to Full Creek, where the railroad goes. He follows the tracks for miles and miles. Quartzite, Coltown, Oldbridge, and then Rider, Rio Solo, Sullivan and Preston. After twenty-two days he comes to a place called Stonewall. He looks at the tops of the trees and the way the birds fly. He gets off his horse, picks up a handful of dust, and lets it slide slowly between his fingers. There’s no wind here, he thinks. He sells the horse, buys a gun belt, holster and gun. That night he goes to the saloon. He doesn’t talk to anyone, he sits there, drinking and watching. He studies them all, one by one. Then he chooses a man who is playing cards, who has white uncallused hands, gleaming spurs. A narrow beard, cut with care and deliberation.
    That man’s cheating, he says.
    Something wrong, kid?
    I don’t like bastards, that’s all.
    Get your shit tongue outside, and fast.
    I don’t like cowards, that’s all.
    Kid.
    I’ve never liked them.
    Let’s do one thing.
    Let’s have it.
    I didn’t hear a word, you get up, you disappear, and for the rest of your days thank heaven it ended like this.
    Let’s do something else. You put down the cards, get up, and go cheat somewhere else.
    The man pushes back