No Country for Old Men- 第5部分

its　four　oclock　in　the　mornin。　do　you　know　where　your　darlin　boy　is　at？

ill　tell　you　what。　why　dont　you　just　get　in　your　truck　and　go　on　out　there　and　take　the　　son　of　a　bitch　a　drink　of　water？

the　moon　was　high　and　small。　he　kept　his　eye　on　the　plain　below　as　he　climbed　along　　the　slope。　how　motivated　are　you？　he　said。

pretty　damn　motivated。

you　better　be。

he　could　hear　the　truck。　it　came　around　the　foreland　head　of　the　ridge　with　the　lights　off　　and　started　down　the　edge　of　the　floodplain　in　the　moonlight。　he　flattened　himself　in　the　　rocks。　in　addition　to　the　other　bad　news　his　thoughts　ran　to　scorpions　and　rattlesnakes。

the　spotlight　kept　rowing　back　and　forth　across　the　face　of　the　ridge。　methodically。

bright　shuttle；　dark　loom。　he　didnt　move。

the　truck　crossed　to　the　other　side　and　came　back。　tooling　along　in　second　gear；　　stopping；　the　motor　loping。　he　pushed　himself　forward　to　where　he　could　see　it　better。

blood　kept　running　into　his　eye　from　a　cut　in　his　forehead。　he　didnt　even　know　where　　hed　gotten　it。　he　wiped　his　eye　with　the　heel　of　his　hand　and　wiped　his　hand　on　his　　jeans。　he　took　out　his　kerchief　and　pressed　it　to　his　head。

you　could　head　south　to　the　river。

yeah。　you　could。

less　open　ground。

less　aint　none。

he　turned；　still　holding　the　handkerchief　to　his　forehead。　no　cloud　cover　in　sight。

you　need　to　be　somewhere　e　daylight。

home　in　bed　would　be　good。

he　studied　the　blue　floodplain　out　there　in　the　silence。　a　vast　and　breathless　　amphitheatre。　waiting。　hed　had　this　feeling　before。　in　another　country。　he　never　　thought　hed　have　it　again。

he　waited　a　long　time。　the　truck　didnt　e　back。　he　made　his　way　south　along　the　　ridge。　he　stood　and　listened。　not　a　coyote；　nothing。

by　the　time　hed　descended　onto　the　river　plain　the　sky　to　the　east　carried　the　first　faint　　wash　of　light。　it　was　the　darkest　this　night　was　going　to　get。　the　plain　ran　to　the　breaks　　of　the　river　and　he　listened　one　last　time　and　then　set　out　at　a　trot。

it　was　a　long　trek　and　he　was　still　some　two　hundred　yards　from　the　river　when　he　heard　　the　truck。　a　raw　gray　light　was　breaking　over　the　hills。　when　he　looked　back　he　could　　see　the　dust　against　the　new　skyline。　still　the　better　part　of　a　mile　away。　in　the　dawn　　quiet　the　sound　of　it　no　more　sinister　than　a　boat　on　a　lake。　then　he　heard　it　downshift。

he　pulled　the　。45　from　his　belt　so　that　he　wouldnt　lose　it　and　set　out　at　a　dead　run。

when　he　looked　back　again　it　had　closed　a　good　part　of　the　distance。　he　was　still　a　　hundred　yards　from　the　river　and　he　didnt　know　what　hed　find　when　he　got　there。　a　　sheer　rock　gorge。　the　first　long　panes　of　light　were　standing　through　a　gap　in　the　　mountains　to　the　east　and　fanning　over　the　country　before　him。　the　truck　was　ablaze　　with　lights；　roof　rack　and　bumper　spots。　the　engine　kept　racing　away　into　a　howl　where　　the　wheels　left　the　ground。

they　wont　shoot　you；　he　said。　they　cant　afford　to　do　that。

the　long　crack　of　a　rifle　went　caroming　out　over　the　pan。　what　hed　heard　whisper　　overhead　he　realized　was　the　round　passing　and　vanishing　toward　the　river。　he　looked　　back　and　there　was　a　man　standing　up　out　of　the　sunroof；　one　hand　on　top　of　the　cab；　the　　other　cradling　a　rifle　upright。

where　he　reached　the　river　it　made　a　broad　sweep　out　of　a　canyon　and　carried　down　　past　great　stands　of　carrizo　cane。　downriver　it　washed　up　against　a　rock　bluff　and　then　　bore　away　to　the　south。　darkness　deep　in　the　canyon。　the　water　dark。　he　dropped　into　　the　cut　and　fell　and　rolled　and　rose　and　began　to　make　his　way　down　a　long　sandy　ridge　　toward　the　river。　he　hadnt　gone　twenty　feet　before　he　realized　that　he　had　no　time　to　do　　that。　he　glanced　back　once　at　the　rim　and　then　squatted　and　shoved　himself　off　down　　the　side　of　the　slope；　holding　the　。45　before　him　in　both　hands。

he　rolled　and　slid　a　good　ways；　his　eyes　almost　shut　against　the　dust　and　sand　he　was　　plowing　up；　the　pistol　clutched　to　his　chest。　then　all　that　stopped　and　he　was　simply　　falling。　he　opened　his　eyes。　the　fresh　world　of　morning　above　him；　turning　slowly。

he　slammed　into　a　gravel　bank　and　gave　out　a　groan。　then　he　was　rolling　through　some　　sort　of　rough　grass。　he　came　to　a　stop　and　lay　there　on　his　stomach　gasping　for　air。

the　pistol　was　gone。　he　crawled　back　through　the　flattened　grass　until　he　found　it　and　　he　picked　it　up　and　turned　to　scan　the　rim　of　the　river　breaks　above　him；　whacking　the　　pistolbarrel　across　his　forearm　to　shake　out　the　dirt。　his　mouth　was　full　of　sand。　his　　eyes。　he　saw　two　men　appear　against　the　sky　and　he　cocked　the　pistol　and　fired　at　them　　and　they　went　away　again。

he　knew　he　didnt　have　time　to　crawl　to　the　river　and　he　just　rose　and　made　a　run　for　it；　　splashing　across　the　braided　gravel　flats　and　down　a　long　sandbar　until　he　came　to　the　　main　channel。　he　got　out　his　keys　and　his　billfold　and　buttoned　them　into　his　　shirtpocket。　the　cold　wind　blowing　off　the　water　smelled　of　iron。　he　could　taste　it。　he　　threw　away　the　flashlight　and　lowered　the　hammer　on　the　。45　and　shoved　it　into　the　　crotch　of　his　jeans。　then　he　shucked　off　his　boots　and　pulled　them　inside　his　belt　upside　　down　at　either　side　and　tightened　the　belt　as　far　as　he　could　pull　it　and　turned　and　dove　　into　the　river。

the　cold　took　his　breath。　he　turned　and　looked　back　toward　the　rim；　blowing　and　　backpedaling　through　the　slate…blue　water。　nothing　there。　he　turned　and　swam。

the　current　carried　him　down　into　the　bend　of　the　river　and　hard　up　against　the　rocks。

he　pushed　himself　off。　the　bluff　above　him　rose　dark　and　deeply　cupped　and　the　water　　in　the　shadows　was　black　and　choppy。　when　he　finally　spilled　out　into　the　tailwater　and　　looked　back　he　could　see　the　truck　parked　at　the　top　of　the　bluff　but　he　couldnt　see　　anyone。　he　checked　to　see　that　he　still　had　his　boots　and　the　gun　and　then　turned　and　　began　to　stroke　for　the　far　shore。

by　the　time　he　dragged　himself　shivering　out　of　the　river　he　was　the　better　part　of　a　mile　　from　where　hed　gone　in。　his　socks　were　gone　and　he　set　out　at　a　jog　barefoot　toward　　the　standing　cane。　round　cups　in　the　shelving　rock　where　the　ancients　had　ground　their　　meal。　when　he　looked　back　again　the　truck　was　gone。　two　men　were　trotting　along　the　　high　bluff　silhouetted　against　the　sky。　he　was　almost　to　the　cane　when　it　rattled　all　　about　him　and　there　was　a　heavy　whump　and　then　the　echo　of　it　from　across　the　river。

he　was　hit　in　the　upper　arm　by　a　buckshot　and　it　stung　like　a　hornet。　he　put　his　hand　　over　it　and　dove　into　the　cane；　the　lead　ball　half　buried　in　the　back　of　his　arm。　his　left　　leg　kept　wanting　to　give　out　beneath　him　and　he　was　having　trouble　breathing。

deep　in　the　brake　he　dropped　to　his　knees　and　knelt　there　sucking　air。　he　undid　his　belt　　and　let　the　boots　drop　into　the　sand　and　reached　down　and　got　the　。45　and　laid　it　to　one　　side　and　felt　the　back　of　his　arm。　the　buckshot　was　gone。　he　unbuttoned　his　shirt　and　　took　it　off　and　pulled　his　arm　around　to　see　the　wound。　it　was　just　the　shape　of　the　　buckshot；　bleeding　slightly；　pieces　of　shirtfiber　packed　into　it。　the　whole　back　of　his　　arm　was　already　being　an　ugly　purple　bruise。　he　wrung　the　water　out　of　his　shirt　　and　put　it　on　again　and　buttoned　it　and　pulled　on　the　boots　and　stood　and　buckled　his　　belt。　he　picked　up　the　pistol　and　took　the　clip　out　of　it　and　ejected　the　round　from　the　　chamber　and　then　shook　the　gun　and　blew　through　the　barrel　and　reassembled　it。　he　　didnt　know　if　it　would　fire　or　not　but　he　thought　it　probably　would。

when　he　came　out　of　the　cane　on　the　far　side　he　stopped　to　look　back　but　the　cane　was　　thirty　feet　high　and　he　couldnt　see　anything。　downriver　was　a　broad　bench　of　land　and　a　　stand　of　cottonwoods。　by　the　time　he　got　there　his　feet　were　already　beginning　to　blister　　from　walking　barefoot　in　the　wet　boots。　his　arm　was　swollen　and　throbbing　but　the　　bleeding　seemed　to　have　stopped　and　he　walked　out　into　the　sun　on　a　gravel　bar　and　sat　　there　and　pulled　off　the　boots　and　looked　at　the　raw　red　sores　on　his　heels。　as　soon　as　　he　sat　down　his　leg　began　to　hurt　again。

he　unsnapped　the　small　leather　holster　at　his　belt　and　got　out　his　knife　and　then　stood　　up　and　took　off　his　shirt　again。　he　cut　off　the　sleeves　at　the　elbow　and　sat　and　wrapped　　his　feet　in　them　and　pulled　on　the　boots。　he　put　the　knife　back　in　the　holster　and　　fastened　it　and　picked　up　the　pistol　and　stood　and　listened。　a　redwing　blackbird。

nothing。

as　he　turned　to　go　he　heard　the　truck　very　faintly　on　the　far　side　of　the　river。　he　looked　　for　it　but　he　couldnt　see　it。　he　thought　that　by　now　probably　the　two　men　had　crossed　　the　river　and　were　somewhere　behind　him。

he　went　on　through　the　trees。　the　trunks　silted　up　from　the　high　water　and　the　roots　　tangled　among　the　rocks。　he　took　off　his　boots　again　to　try　to　cross　the　gravel　without　　leaving　any　tracks　and　he　climbed　a　long　and　rocky　rincon　toward　the　south　rim　of　the　　river　canyon　carrying　the　boots　and　the　wrappings　and　the　pistol　and　keeping　an　eye　on　　the　terrain　below。　the　sun　was　in　the　canyon　and　the　rocks　hed　crossed　would　dry　in　　minutes。　at　a　bench　near　the　rim　he　stopped　and　lay　on　his　belly　with　his　boots　in　the　　grass　beside　him。　it　was　only　anoth