The dog they were waiting for came in limping badly and circled the fire. Travis called to her. She halted with her red eyes and looked at them. He rose and called her again and she came up and he took hold of her collar and turned her to the light. There were four bloody furrows along her flank. There was a flap of skin ripped loose at her shoulder exposing the muscle underneath and blood was dripping slowly from one ripped ear onto the sandy dirt where she stood.
We need to get that sewed up, Travis said.
Archer pulled a leash from among those he'd strung through his belt and he clipped it onto the D-ring of her collar. She carried the only news they would have of the hunt, bearing witness to things they could only imagine or suppose out there in the night. She winced when Archer touched her ear and when he let go of her she stepped back and stood with her forefeet braced and shook her head. Blood sprayed the hunters and hissed in the fire. They rose to go.
Let's go, cowboy, Billy said.
John Grady sat up and reached about on the ground for his hat.
Hell of a lionhunter you turned out to be.
Is the peeler awake? said JC.
The peeler's awake.
A man that's been huntin that bear I dont believe these old mountain lions hold much interest.
I think you got that right.
Chips all down and where was he? And us at the mercy of the old folks here. Could of used some help, son. We been outlied till it's pitiful. I mean sent to the showers. Wasnt even a contest, was it Billy?
Not even a contest.
John Grady squared his hat and walked out along the edge of the bluff. The desert plain lay cold and blue below them in the graying light and the shape of the river running down from the north through the break of gray winter trees lay in a pale serpentine of mist. To the south the cold gray grid of the distant city and the shape of the older city across the river like stampings in the desert soil. Beyond them the mountains of Mexico. The injured hound had come from the fire where the men were sorting and chaining the dogs and it walked out and stood beside John Grady and studied with him the plain below. John Grady sat and let his boots dangle over the edge of the rock and the dog lay down and rested its bloody head alongside his leg and after a while he put his arm around it.
BILLY SAT LEANING with his elbows on the table and his arms crossed. He watched John Grady. John Grady pursed his lips. He moved the remaining white knight. Billy looked at Mac. Mac studied the move and he looked at John Grady. He sat back in his chair and studied the board. No one spoke.
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 Juarez 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.
Was he a pachuco?
Sure. Of course he was.
He brushed the boot and then chucked the brush back into the box and took out his cloth and popped it and bent and began to rifle the cloth back and forth over the toe of the boot.
He joined the marines. He got two purple hearts.
What about you?
What about me what.
What did you join.
He glanced up at John Grady. He whipped the cloth around the counter of the boot. I sure didnt join no marines, he said.
What about the pachucos.
Nah.
You're not a pachuco?
Nah.
Are you a bullshitter?
Sure.
A big one?
Pretty big. Let me have the other foot.
What about the black around the edges?
I do that last. Dont worry about everything.
John Grady put his other foot on the box and turned up his trouserleg.
Appearance is important with women, the boy said. Dont think they dont look at your boots.
You got a girl?
Shit no.
You sound like you've had some bad experiences.
Who aint? You fool with em and that's the kind you'll have.
There'll be some sweet young thing nail you down one of these days.
I hope not.
How old are you?
Fourteen.
You lie about your age?
Yeah. Sure.
I guess if you admit it then it aint a lie.
The boy ceased rubbing in the polish for a moment and sat looking at the boot. Then he began again.
If there's somethin I want to be a different way from what it is then that's how I say it is. What's wrong with that?
I dont know.
Who else is goin to?
Nobody, I guess.
Nobody is right.
Is your brother married?
Which brother? I got three.
The one that was in the marines.
Yeah. He's married. They're all married.
If they're all married why did you ask which one?
The shineboy shook his head. Man, he said.
I guess you're the youngest.
No. I got a brother ten years old is married with three kids. Of course I'm the youngest. What do you think?
Well maybe marriage runs in the family.
Marriage dont run in families. Anyway I'm an outlaw. Oveja negra. You speak spanish?
Yeah. I speak spanish.
Oveja negra. That's me.
Black sheep.
I know what it is.
I am too.
The boy looked up at him. He reached and got his brush from the box. Yeah? he said.
Yeah.
You dont look like no outlaw to me.
What does one look like?
Not like you.
He brushed the boot and put away the brush and got his cloth out and popped it. John Grady watched him. What about you? What if you could be anything you wanted?
I'd be a cowboy.
Really?
The boy looked up at him with disgust. Shit no, he said. What's wrong with you? I'd be a rico and lay around on my ass all day. What do you think?
What if you had to do something?
I dont know. Maybe be a airplane pilot.
Yeah?
Sure. I'd fly everywhere.
What would you do when you got there?
Fly somewhere else.
He finished polishing the boot and got out his bottle of blacking and began to paint the heel and the edges of the sole with the swab.
Other boot, he said.
John Grady put his other foot up and the boy painted the edges. Then he put the swab back in the bottle and screwed the cap shut and pitched the bottle into the box. You're done, he said.
John Grady turned his cuffs back down and stood and reached into his pocket and took out a coin and handed it to the boy.
Thanks.
He looked down at his boots. What do you think.
She might let you in the door. Where's your flowers at?
Flowers?
Sure. You're goin to need all the help you can get.
You're probably right.
I shouldnt even be tellin you this stuff.
Why not?
You'd be better off just to be put out of your misery.
John Grady smiled. Where are you from? he said.
Right here.
No you're not.
I grew up in California.
What are you doin over here?
I like it over here.
Yeah?
Yeah.
You like shinin shoes?
I like it all right.
You like the street.
Yeah. I dont like goin to school.
John Grady adjusted his hat and looked off up the street. He looked down at the boy. Well, he said. I never much liked it myself.
Outlaws, the boy said.
Outlaws. I think maybe you're a bigger outlaw than me.
I think you're right.
I'm just kind of gettin the hang of it.
You need any pointers come see me. I'll be happy to show you the ropes.
John Grady smiled. Okay, he said. I'll see you around.
Adios, vaquero.
Adios, bolero.
The boy smiled and waved him on.
THE CRIADA STOOD behind her in the full-length mirror, her mouth bristling with hairpins. She looked at the girl in the mirror, so pale and so slender in her shift with her hair piled atop her head. She looked at Josefina. Josefina stood to the side with one arm crossed and her other elbow propped upon it, her fist to her chin. No, she said. No.
She shook her head and waved her hand as if to dismiss some outrage and the criada began to withdraw the pins and combs from the girl's hair until the long black fall descended again over her shoulders and her back. She took her brush and began again to brush the girl's hair, following with the flat of her hand beneath, holding up the silky blackness with each stroke and letting it fall again. Josefina came forward and took a silver haircomb from the table and swept back the girl's hair along the side and held it there. She studied the girl and she studied the girl in the mirror. The criada had stepped back and stood holding the brush in both hands. She and Josefina studied the girl in the mirror, the three of them in the yellow light of the table-lamp standing there within the gilded plaster scrollwork of the mirror's frame like figures in an antique flemish painting.
Como es, pues, said Josefina.
She was speaking to the girl but the girl did not answer.
Es mas joven. Mas ...
Inocente, said the girl.
The woman shrugged. Inocente pues, she said.
She studied the girl's face in the glass. No le gusta?
Esta bien, the girl whispered. Me gusta.
Bueno, said the woman. She let go her hair and placed the comb in the criada's hand. Bueno.
When she was gone the old woman put the comb back on the table and came forward with her brush again. Bueno, she said. She shook her head and clucked her tongue.
No te preocupes, the girl said.
The old woman brushed her hair more fiercely. Bellisima, she hissed. Bellisima.
She assisted her with care. With solicitude. One by one the hooks and stays. Passing her hands across the lilac velvet, cupping her breasts each in turn and adjusting the border of the decolletage, pinning gown to undergarment. She brushed away bits of lint. She held the girl by her waist and turned her like a toy and she knelt at her feet and fastened the straps of her shoes. She rose and stood back.
Puedes caminar? she said.
No, said the girl.
No? Es mentira. Es una broma. No?
No, said the girl.
The criada made a shooing motion. The girl stepped archly about the room on the tall gold spikes of the slippers.
Te mortifican? said the criada.
Claro.
She stood again before the mirror. The old woman stood behind her. When she blinked only the one eye closed. So that she appeared to be winking in some suggestive complicity. She brushed the gathered hair with her hand, she plucked the shoulders of the sleeves erect.
Como una princesa, she whispered.
Como una puta, said the girl.
The criada seized her by the arm. She hissed at her, her eye glaring in the lamplight. She told her that she would marry a great rich man and live in a fine house and have beautiful children. She told her that she had known many such cases.
Quien? said the girl.
Muchas, hissed the criada. Muchas. Girls, she told her, with no such beauty as hers. Girls with no such dignity or grace. The girl did not answer. She looked across the old woman's shoulder into the eyes in the glass as if it were some sister there who weathered stoically this beleaguerment of her hopes. Standing in the gaudy boudoir that was itself a tawdry emulation of other rooms, other worlds. Regarding her own false arrogance in the pierglass as if it were proof against the old woman's entreaties, the old woman's promises. Standing like some maid in a fable spurning the offerings of the hag which do conceal within them unspoken covenants of corruption. Claims that can never be quit, estates forever entailed. She spoke to that girl standing in the glass and she said that one could not know where it was that one had taken the path one was upon but only that one was upon it.
Mande? said the criada. Cual senda?
Cualquier senda. Esta senda. La senda que escoja.
But the old woman said that some have no choice. She said that for the poor any choice was a gift with two faces.
She was kneeling in the floor repinning the hem of the dress. She'd taken the pins from her mouth and now she laid them on the carpet and took them up one by one. The girl watched her image in the glass. The old woman's gray head bowed at her feet. After a while she said that there was always a choice, even if that choice were death.
Cielos, said the old woman. She blessed herself quickly and went on pinning.
When she entered the salon he was standing at the bar. The musicians were assembling their pieces on the dais and tuning them and the few notes or chords sounded in the quiet of the room as if some ceremony were at hand. Within the shadows of the niche beyond the dais Tiburcio stood smoking, his fingers laced about the thin niellate ebony holder of his cigarette. He looked at the girl and he looked toward the bar. He watched the boy turn and pay and take up his glass and come down the broad stairs where the velvetcovered rope railings led into the salon. He blew smoke slowly from his thin nostrils and then he opened the door behind him. The brief light framed him in silhouette and his long thin shadow fell briefly across the floor of the salon and then the door closed again as if he had not been there at all.