Mac picked up the black queen and held it a moment and then set it back. Then he picked up the queen again and moved. Billy leaned back in his chair. Mac reached and took the cold cigar from the ashtray and put it in his mouth.
Six moves later the white king was mated. Mac sat back and lit the cigar. Billy blew a long breath across the table.
John Grady sat looking at the board. Good game, he said.
It’s a long road, said Mac, that has no turning.
They walked out across the yard toward the barn.
Tell me somethin, Billy said.
All right.
And I know you’ll tell me the truth.
I already know what the question is.
What’s the answer.
The answer is no.
You didnt slack up on him just the littlest bit?
No. I dont believe in it.
The horses stirred and snuffled in their stalls as they passed down the bay. John Grady looked at Billy.
You dont reckon he thinks that do you?
I hope not. He damn sure wouldnt like it a bit.
He damn sure wouldnt.
HE WALKED into the pawnshop with the gun in the holster and the holster and belt slung over his shoulder. The pawnbroker was an old man with white hair and he was reading the paper spread out on the glass top of a display case at the rear of the shop. There were guns in racks along one wall and guitars hanging from overhead and knives and pistols and jewelry and tools in the cases. John Grady laid the gunbelt on the counter and the old man looked at it and looked at John Grady. He drew the pistol from the holster and cocked it and let the hammer down on the halfcock notch and spun the cylinder and opened the gate and looked at the chambers and closed the gate and cocked the hammer and let it back down with his thumb. He turned it over and looked at the serial numbers on the frame and triggerguard and on the bottom of the backstrap and then slid it back into the holster and looked up.
How much do you want? he said.
I need about forty dollars.
The old man sucked his teeth and shook his head gravely.
I been offered fifty for it. I just need to pawn it.
I could let you have maybe twenty-five.
John Grady looked at the gun. Let me have thirty, he said.
The pawnbroker shook his head doubtfully.
I dont want to sell it, John Grady said. I just need to borrow on it.
The belt and holster too, yes?
Yes. It all goes together.
All right.
He brought out his pad of forms and slowly copied out the serial number and he wrote down John Grady’s name and address and turned the paper on the glass for the boy to read and sign. Then he separated the sheets and handed a copy to John Grady and took the gun to his cage at the rear of the shop. When he returned he had the money and he laid it on the counter.
I’ll be back for it, John Grady said.
The old man nodded.
It belonged to my grandfather.
The old man opened his hands and closed them again. A gesture of accommodation. Not quite a blessing. He nodded toward the glass case where half a dozen old Colt revolvers lay displayed, some nickelplated, some with grips of staghorn. One with old worn grips of guttapercha, one with the front sight filed away.
All of them belonged to somebody’s grandfather, he said.
As he was going up Juárez Avenue a shineboy spoke to him. Hey cowboy, he said.
Hey.
Better let me shine those boots for you.
All right.
He sat on a little folding campstool and put his boot on the shineboy’s homemade wooden box. The shineboy turned up the leg of his trousers and began to take out his rags and brushes and tins of polish and lay them to hand.
You goin to see your girl?
Yeah.
I hope you werent goin up there with these boots.
I guess it’s a good thing you hollered at me. She might of run me off.
The boy dusted off the boot with his rag and lathered it. When are you gettin married? he said.
What makes you think I’m gettin married?
I dont know. You kind of got the look. Are you?
I dont know. Maybe.
Are you a cowboy sure enough?
Yep.
You work on a ranch?
Yeah. Small ranch. Estancia, you might say.
You like it?
Yeah. I like it.
He wiped off the boot and opened his can and began to slap polish onto the leather with the stained fingers of his left hand.
It’s hard work, aint it?
Yeah. Sometimes.
What if you could be somethin else?
I wouldnt be nothin else.
What if you could be anything in the world?
John Grady smiled. He shook his head.
Were you in the war?
No. I was too young.
My brother was too young but he lied about his age.
Was he American?
No.
How old was he?
Sixteen.
I guess he was big for his age.
He was a big bullshitter for his age.
John Grady smiled.
The boy put the lid back on the tin and took out his brush.
They asked him if he was a pachuco. He said all the pachucos he knew of lived in El Paso. He told em he didnt know any Mexican pachucos.
He brushed the boot. John Grady watched him.