No Country for Old Men(29)

Excuse me, he said. Leaning against the chainlink fence. His bloody footprints on the walk behind him like clues in an arcade.





Excuse me.





They were stepping off the curb into the roadway to go around him.





Excuse me I wondered if you all would sell me a coat.





They didnt stop till they were past him. Then one of them turned. What'll you give? he said.





That man behind you. The one in the long coat.





The one in the long coat stopped with the others.





How much?





I'll give you five hundred dollars.





Bullshit.





Come on Brian.





Let's go, Brian. He's drunk.





Brian looked at them and he looked at Moss. Let's see the money, he said.





It's right here.





Let me see it.





Let me hold the coat.





Let's go, Brian.





You take this hundred and let me hold the coat. Then I'll give you the rest.





All right.





He slipped out of the coat and handed it over and Moss handed him the bill.





What's this on it?





Blood.





Blood?





Blood.





He stood holding the bill in one hand. He looked at the blood on his fingers. What happened to you?





I've been shot.





Let's go, Brian. Goddamn.





Let me have the money.





Moss handed him the bills and unshouldered the zipper bag to the sidewalk and struggled into the coat. The boy folded the bills and put them in his pocket and stepped away.





He joined the others and they went on. Then they stopped. They were talking together and looking back at him. He got the coat buttoned and put his money in the inside pocket and shouldered the bag and picked up the leather case. You all need to keep walkin, he said. I wont tell you twice.





They turned and went on. There were only three of them. He shoved at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He tried to see where the fourth one had gone. Then he realized that there was no fourth one. That's all right, he said. Just keep puttin one foot in front of the other.





When he reached the place where the river actually passed beneath the bridge he stopped and stood looking down at it. The Mexican gateshack was just ahead. He looked back down the bridge but the three were gone. A grainy light to the east. Over the low black hills beyond the town. The water moved beneath him slow and dark. A dog somewhere. Silence. Nothing.





There was a stand of tall carrizo cane growing along the American side of the river below him and he set the zipper bag down and took hold of the case by the handles and swung it behind him and then heaved it over the rail and out into space.





Whitehot pain. He held his side and watched the bag turn slowly in the 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.