Read Online All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cormac McCarthy
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Rawlins put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it and flipped away the match. I dont know. Maybe.
I knowed you was a infidel, said Blevins.
You dont know a goddamned thing, said Rawlins. Just be quiet and dont make no bigger ass of yourself than what you already are.
John Grady got up and walked over and picked up his saddle by the horn and threw his blanket over his shoulder and turned and looked at them. Let’s go, he said.
They were down out of the mountains by midmorning and riding on a great plain grown with sideoats grama and basket-grass and dotted with lechugilla. Here they encountered the first riders they’d seen and they halted and watched while they approached on the plain a mile away, three men on horses leading a train of packanimals carrying empty kiacks.
What do you reckon they are? said Rawlins.
We ought not to be stopped like this, said Blevins. If we can see them they can see us.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? said Rawlins.
What would you think if you seen them stop?
He’s right, said John Grady. Let’s keep ridin.
They were zacateros headed into the mountains to gather chino grass. If they were surprised to see Americans horseback in that country they gave no sign. They asked them if they’d seen a brother to one of them who was in the mountains with his wife and two grown girls but they’d seen no one. The Mexicans sat their horses and took in their outfits with slow movements of their dark eyes. They themselves were a rough lot, dressed half in rags, their hats marbled with grease and sweat, their boots mended with raw cowhide. They rode old squareskirted saddles with the wood worn through the leather and they rolled cigarettes in strips of cornhusks and lit them with esclarajos of flint and steel and bits of fluff in an empty cartridge case. One of them carried an old worn Colt stuck in his belt with the gateflipped open to keep it from sliding through and they smelled of smoke and tallow and sweat and they looked as wild and strange as the country they were in.
Son de Tejas? they said.
Sí, said John Grady.
They nodded.
John Grady smoked and watched them. For all their shabbiness they were well mounted and he watched those black eyes to see could he tell what they thought but he could tell nothing. They spoke of the country and of the weather in the country and they said that it was yet cold in the mountains. No one offered to dismount. They looked out over the terrain as if it were a problem to them. Something they’d not quite decided about. The little mules entrained behind them had dropped asleep standing almost as soon as they’d halted.
The leader finished his cigarette and let fall the stub of it into the track. Bueno, he said. Vámonos.
He nodded at the Americans. Buena suerte, he said. He put the long rowels of his spurs to the horse and they moved on. The mules passed on behind them eyeing the horses in the road and switching their tails although there seemed to be no flies in that country at all.
In the afternoon they watered the horses at a clear stream running out of the southwest. They walked the creek and drank and filled and stoppered their canteens. There were antelope out on the plain perhaps two miles distant, all standing with their heads up.
They rode on. There was good grass in the level floor of the valley and cattle the color of housecats to tortoiseshell and calico moved off constantly before them up through the buckthorn or stood along the low rise of ancient ground running down to the east to watch them as they passed along the road. That night they camped in the low hills and they cooked a jackrabbit that Blevins had shot with his pistol. He fielddressed it with his pocketknife and buried it in the sandy ground with the skin on and built the fire over it. He said it was the way the indians did.
You ever eat a jackrabbit? said Rawlins.
He shook his head. Not yet, he said.
You better rustle some more wood if you aim to
Rawlins put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it and flipped away the match. I dont know. Maybe.
I knowed you was a infidel, said Blevins.
You dont know a goddamned thing, said Rawlins. Just be quiet and dont make no bigger ass of yourself than what you already are.
John Grady got up and walked over and picked up his saddle by the horn and threw his blanket over his shoulder and turned and looked at them. Let’s go, he said.
They were down out of the mountains by midmorning and riding on a great plain grown with sideoats grama and basket-grass and dotted with lechugilla. Here they encountered the first riders they’d seen and they halted and watched while they approached on the plain a mile away, three men on horses leading a train of packanimals carrying empty kiacks.
What do you reckon they are? said Rawlins.
We ought not to be stopped like this, said Blevins. If we can see them they can see us.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? said Rawlins.
What would you think if you seen them stop?
He’s right, said John Grady. Let’s keep ridin.
They were zacateros headed into the mountains to gather chino grass. If they were surprised to see Americans horseback in that country they gave no sign. They asked them if they’d seen a brother to one of them who was in the mountains with his wife and two grown girls but they’d seen no one. The Mexicans sat their horses and took in their outfits with slow movements of their dark eyes. They themselves were a rough lot, dressed half in rags, their hats marbled with grease and sweat, their boots mended with raw cowhide. They rode old squareskirted saddles with the wood worn through the leather and they rolled cigarettes in strips of cornhusks and lit them with esclarajos of flint and steel and bits of fluff in an empty cartridge case. One of them carried an old worn Colt stuck in his belt with the gateflipped open to keep it from sliding through and they smelled of smoke and tallow and sweat and they looked as wild and strange as the country they were in.
Son de Tejas? they said.
Sí, said John Grady.
They nodded.
John Grady smoked and watched them. For all their shabbiness they were well mounted and he watched those black eyes to see could he tell what they thought but he could tell nothing. They spoke of the country and of the weather in the country and they said that it was yet cold in the mountains. No one offered to dismount. They looked out over the terrain as if it were a problem to them. Something they’d not quite decided about. The little mules entrained behind them had dropped asleep standing almost as soon as they’d halted.
The leader finished his cigarette and let fall the stub of it into the track. Bueno, he said. Vámonos.
He nodded at the Americans. Buena suerte, he said. He put the long rowels of his spurs to the horse and they moved on. The mules passed on behind them eyeing the horses in the road and switching their tails although there seemed to be no flies in that country at all.
In the afternoon they watered the horses at a clear stream running out of the southwest. They walked the creek and drank and filled and stoppered their canteens. There were antelope out on the plain perhaps two miles distant, all standing with their heads up.
They rode on. There was good grass in the level floor of the valley and cattle the color of housecats to tortoiseshell and calico moved off constantly before them up through the buckthorn or stood along the low rise of ancient ground running down to the east to watch them as they passed along the road. That night they camped in the low hills and they cooked a jackrabbit that Blevins had shot with his pistol. He fielddressed it with his pocketknife and buried it in the sandy ground with the skin on and built the fire over it. He said it was the way the indians did.
You ever eat a jackrabbit? said Rawlins.
He shook his head. Not yet, he said.
You better rustle some more wood if you aim to
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