diminishing light
from the bridgelamps and drop soundlessly into the cane and vanish. Then he slid to the
pavement and sat there in the puddling blood, his face against the wire. Get up, he said.
Damn you, get up.
When he reached the gatehouse there was no one there. He pushed through and into the town
of Piedras Negras, State of Coahuila.
He made his way up the street to a small park or zocalo where the grackles in the
eucalyptus trees were waking and calling. The trees were painted white to the height of a
wainscot and from a distance the park seemed set with white posts arrayed at random. In
the center a wrought-iron gazebo or bandstand. He collapsed on one of the iron benches
with the bag on the bench beside him and leaned forward holding himself. Globes of orange
light hung from the lampstands. The world receding. Across from the park was a church. It
seemed far away. The grackles creaked and swayed in the branches overhead and day was
coming.
He put out one hand on the bench beside him. Nausea. Dont lie down.
No sun. Just the gray light breaking. The streets wet. The shops closed. Iron shutters. An
old man was coming along pushing a broom. He paused. Then he moved on.
Señor, Moss said.
Bueno, the old man said.
You speak english?
He studied Moss, holding the broom handle in both hands. He shrugged his shoulders.
I need a doctor.
The old man waited for more. Moss pushed himself up. The bench was bloody. I've been shot,
he said.
The old man looked him over. He clucked his tongue. He looked away toward the dawn. The
trees and buildings taking shape. He looked at Moss and gestured with his chin. Puede
andar? he said.
What?
Puede caminar? He made walking motions with his fingers, his hand hanging loosely at the
wrist.
Moss nodded. A wave of blackness came over him. He waited till it passed.
Tiene dinero? The sweeper rubbed his thumb and fingers together.
Si, Moss said. Si. He rose and stood swaying. He took the packet of bloodsoaked bills from
the overcoat pocket and separated a hundred dollar note and handed it to the old man. The
old man took it with great reverence. He looked at Moss and then he stood the broom
against the bench.
When Chigurh came down the steps and out the front door of the hotel he had a towel
wrapped around his upper right leg and tied with sections of window blind cord. The towel
was already wet through with blood. He was carrying a small bag in one hand and a pistol
in the other.
The Cadillac was crossways in the intersection and there was gunfire in the street. He
stepped back into the doorway of the barbershop. The clatter of automatic riflefire and
the deep heavy slam of a shotgun rattling off the facades of the buildings. The men in the
street were dressed in raincoats and tennis shoes. They didnt look like anybody you would
expect to meet in this part of the country. He limped back up the steps to the porch and
laid the pistol over the balustrade and opened fire on them.
By the time they'd figured out where the fire was coming from he'd killed one and wounded
another. The wounded man got behind the car and opened up on the hotel. Chigurh stood with
his back to the brick wall and fitted a fresh clip into the pistol. The rounds were taking
out the glass in the doors and splintering up the sashwork. The foyer light went out. It
was still dark enough in the street that you could see the muzzleflashes. There was a
break in the firing and Chigurh turned and pushed his way through into the hotel lobby,
the bits of glass crackling under his boots. He went gimping down the hallway and down the
steps at the rear of the hotel and out into the parking lot.
He crossed the street and went up Jefferson keeping to the north wall of the buildings,
trying to hurry and swinging the bound leg out at his side. All of this was one block from
the Maverick County Courthouse and he
from the bridgelamps and drop soundlessly into the cane and vanish. Then he slid to the
pavement and sat there in the puddling blood, his face against the wire. Get up, he said.
Damn you, get up.
When he reached the gatehouse there was no one there. He pushed through and into the town
of Piedras Negras, State of Coahuila.
He made his way up the street to a small park or zocalo where the grackles in the
eucalyptus trees were waking and calling. The trees were painted white to the height of a
wainscot and from a distance the park seemed set with white posts arrayed at random. In
the center a wrought-iron gazebo or bandstand. He collapsed on one of the iron benches
with the bag on the bench beside him and leaned forward holding himself. Globes of orange
light hung from the lampstands. The world receding. Across from the park was a church. It
seemed far away. The grackles creaked and swayed in the branches overhead and day was
coming.
He put out one hand on the bench beside him. Nausea. Dont lie down.
No sun. Just the gray light breaking. The streets wet. The shops closed. Iron shutters. An
old man was coming along pushing a broom. He paused. Then he moved on.
Señor, Moss said.
Bueno, the old man said.
You speak english?
He studied Moss, holding the broom handle in both hands. He shrugged his shoulders.
I need a doctor.
The old man waited for more. Moss pushed himself up. The bench was bloody. I've been shot,
he said.
The old man looked him over. He clucked his tongue. He looked away toward the dawn. The
trees and buildings taking shape. He looked at Moss and gestured with his chin. Puede
andar? he said.
What?
Puede caminar? He made walking motions with his fingers, his hand hanging loosely at the
wrist.
Moss nodded. A wave of blackness came over him. He waited till it passed.
Tiene dinero? The sweeper rubbed his thumb and fingers together.
Si, Moss said. Si. He rose and stood swaying. He took the packet of bloodsoaked bills from
the overcoat pocket and separated a hundred dollar note and handed it to the old man. The
old man took it with great reverence. He looked at Moss and then he stood the broom
against the bench.
When Chigurh came down the steps and out the front door of the hotel he had a towel
wrapped around his upper right leg and tied with sections of window blind cord. The towel
was already wet through with blood. He was carrying a small bag in one hand and a pistol
in the other.
The Cadillac was crossways in the intersection and there was gunfire in the street. He
stepped back into the doorway of the barbershop. The clatter of automatic riflefire and
the deep heavy slam of a shotgun rattling off the facades of the buildings. The men in the
street were dressed in raincoats and tennis shoes. They didnt look like anybody you would
expect to meet in this part of the country. He limped back up the steps to the porch and
laid the pistol over the balustrade and opened fire on them.
By the time they'd figured out where the fire was coming from he'd killed one and wounded
another. The wounded man got behind the car and opened up on the hotel. Chigurh stood with
his back to the brick wall and fitted a fresh clip into the pistol. The rounds were taking
out the glass in the doors and splintering up the sashwork. The foyer light went out. It
was still dark enough in the street that you could see the muzzleflashes. There was a
break in the firing and Chigurh turned and pushed his way through into the hotel lobby,
the bits of glass crackling under his boots. He went gimping down the hallway and down the
steps at the rear of the hotel and out into the parking lot.
He crossed the street and went up Jefferson keeping to the north wall of the buildings,
trying to hurry and swinging the bound leg out at his side. All of this was one block from
the Maverick County Courthouse and he
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