The Crossing(148)

He turned and spoke in romany to the others and one of them took a bullwhip from the keepers nailed to the sideboards of the float and uncoiled it and sent it looping through the air where the crack of it echoed like a gunshot in the woods and the caravan lurched into motion. The gypsy turned and smiled. He said that perhaps they would meet again upon some other road for the world was not so wide as men imagined. When Billy asked him how much he owed him for his services he dismissed the debt with a wave of his hand. Para el camino, he said. Then he turned and set off up the road after the others. Billy stood holding the thin sheaf of bloodstained banknotes he’d taken from his pocket. He called out to the gypsy and the gypsy turned.

Gracias, he called.

The gypsy raised one hand. Por nada.

Yo no soy un hombre del camino.

But the gypsy only smiled and waved one hand. He said that the way of the road was the rule for all upon it. He said that on the road there were no special cases. Then he turned and strode on after the others.

IN THE EVENING the horse rose and stood on trembling legs. He did not halter it but only walked alongside the animal out to the river where it stepped very carefully into the water and drank endlessly. In the evening while he was fixing his supper from the tortillas and goatcheese the gypsies had left him a rider came along the road. Solitary. Whistling. He stopped among the trees. Then he came on more slowly.

Billy stood and walked out to the road and the rider halted and sat his horse. He pushed his hat back slightly, the better to see, the better to be seen. He looked at Billy and at the fire and at the horse lying in the woods beyond.

Buenas tardes, said Billy.

The rider nodded. He was riding a good horse and he wore good boots and a good Stetson hat and he was smoking a small black puro. He took the puro out of his mouth and spat and put it back.

You speak american? he said.

Yessir. I do.

I thought you looked about halfway sensible. What the hell are you doin out here? What’s wrong with that horse?

Well sir, I guess I’m mindin my own business. I reckon I could even say the same about the horse.

The man paid no attention. He aint dead is he?

No. He aint. He got cut by roadagents.

Cut by roadagents?

Yessir.

You mean they putted him?

No. I mean they stabbed him in the chest with a pigsticker. Whatever in the hell for?

You tell me.

I dont know.

Well I dont either.

The rider sat smoking contemplatively. He looked out across the landscape to the west of the river. I dont understand this country, he said. Not the first thing about it. You aint got any coffee anywheres about your person I dont reckon

I got some perkin. You want to light I got some supper fixin. It aint much but you’re welcome.

Well I’d take it as a kindness.

He stepped down wearily and passed the bridlereins behind his back and adjusted his hat again and came forward leading the horse. Not the first damn thing, he said. Did you see my airplane come through here?

They squatted by the fire as the woods darkened and they waited for the coffee to boil. I never would of thought about them gypsies stickin the way they done, the man said. I had my doubts about em. One thing about me, when I’m wrong I’ll admit it.

Well. That’s a good trait to have.

Yes it is.

They ate the beans rolled up in the tortillas together with the melted cheese. The cheese was rank and goaty. Billy lifted the lid from the coffeepot with a stick and looked in and put the lid back. He looked at the man. The man was seated tailorwise on the ground holding the soles of his boots together with one hand.

You look like you might of been, down here a while, the man said.

I dont know. What does that look like?

Like you need to get back.

Well. You probably right about that. This is my third trip. It’s the only time I was ever down here that I got what I come after. But it sure as hell wasnt what I wanted.

The man nodded. He didnt seem to need to know what that was. I’ll tell you what, he said. It will be one cold day in hell when you catch me down here again. A frosty son of a bitch. I’ll tell you that flat out.

Billy poured the coffee. They drank. The coffee was vilely hot in the tin cups but the man seemed not to notice. He drank and sat looking out through the dark woods toward the river and the silver panels of the river plaited over the gravel bars in the moonlight. Downriver the nacre bowl of the moon sat swaged into the reefs of cloud like a candled skull. He flipped the dregs of coffee into the darkness. I better get on, he said.

You welcome to stay.

I enjoy to ride of a night.

Well.

I believe a man can even cover more ground.

There’s robbers all in this country, Billy said.

Robbers, the man said. He contemplated the fire. After a while he took one of the thin black cigars from his pocket and studied that. Then he bit the tip from it and spat it into the fire.