《No Country for Old Men》第23章

at　the　bag　on　his　shoulder。　the　pistolshot　was　just　a　muffled　pop；　flat　and small　in　the　dark　quiet　of　the　town。　he　turned　in　time　to　see　the　muzzleflash　of　the second　shot　faint　but　visible　under　the　pink　glow　of　the　fifteen　foot　high　neon　hotel　sign。
he　didnt　feel　anything。　the　bullet　snapped　at　his　shirt　and　blood　started　running　down his　upper　arm　and　he　was　already　at　a　dead　run。　with　the　next　shot　he　felt　a　stinging pain　in　his　side。　he　fell　down　and　got　up　again　leaving　chigurhs　shotgun　lying　in　the street。　damn；　he　said。　what　a　shot。
he　loped　wincing　down　the　sidewalk　past　the　aztec　theatre。　as　he　passed　the　little round　ticket　kiosk　all　the　glass　fell　out　of　it。　he　never　even　heard　that　shot。　he　spun with　the　shotgun　and　thumbed　back　the　hammer　and　fired。　the　buckshot　rattled　off　the second　storey　balustrade　and　took　the　glass　out　of　some　of　the　windows。　when　he turned　again　a　car　ing　down　main　street　picked　him　up　in　the　lights　and　slowed　and then　speeded　up　again。　he　turned　up　adams　street　and　the　car　skidded　sideways through　the　intersection　in　a　cloud　of　rubbersmoke　and　stopped。　the　engine　had　died and　the　driver　was　trying　to　start　it。　moss　turned　with　his　back　to　the　brick　wall　of　the building。　two　men　had　e　from　the　car　and　were　crossing　the　street　on　foot　at　a　run。
one　of　them　opened　fire　with　a　small　caliber　machinegun　and　he　fired　at　them　twice with　the　shotgun　and　then　loped　on　with　the　warm　blood　seeping　into　his　crotch。　in　the street　he　heard　the　car　start　up　again。
by　the　time　he　got　to　grande　street　a　pandemonium　of　gunfire　had　broken　out　behind him。　he　didnt　think　he　could　run　any　more。　he　saw　himself　limping　along　in　a storewindow　across　the　street；　holding　his　elbow　to　his　side；　the　bag　slung　over　his shoulder　and　carrying　the　shotgun　and　the　leather　document　case；　dark　in　the　glass　and wholly　unaccountable。　when　he　looked　again　he　was　sitting　on　the　sidewalk。　get　up you　son　of　a　bitch；　he　said。　dont　you　set　there　and　die。　you　get　the　hell　up。
he　crossed　ryan　street　with　blood　sloshing　in　his　boots。　he　pulled　the　bag　around　and unzipped　it　and　shoved　the　shotgun　in　and　zipped　it　shut　again。　he　stood　tottering。　then he　crossed　to　the　bridge。　he　was　cold　and　shivering　and　he　thought　he　was　going　to vomit。
there　was　a　changewindow　and　a　turnstile　on　the　american　side　of　the　bridge　and　he put　a　dime　in　the　slot　and　pushed　through　and　staggered　out　onto　the　span　and　eyed　the narrow　walk　ahead　of　him。　just　breaking　first　light。　dull　and　gray　above　the　floodplain along　the　east　shore　of　the　river。　gods　own　distance　to　the　far　side。
half　way　he　met　a　party　returning。　four　of　them；　young　boys；　maybe　eighteen；　partly drunk。　he　set　the　case　on　the　sidewalk　and　took　a　pack　of　the　hundreds　from　his　pocket。
the　money　was　slick　with　blood。　he　wiped　it　on　his　trouser…leg　and　peeled　off　five　of the　bills　and　put　the　rest　in　his　back　pocket。
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。　whatll　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？
ill　give　you　five　hundred　dollars。
bullshit。
e　on　brian。
lets　go；　brian。　hes　drunk。
brian　looked　at　them　and　he　looked　at　moss。　lets　see　the　money；　he　said。
its　right　here。
let　me　see　it。
let　me　hold　the　coat。
lets　go；　brian。
you　take　this　hundred　and　let　me　hold　the　coat。　then　ill　give　you　the　rest。
all　right。
he　slipped　out　of　the　coat　and　handed　it　over　and　moss　handed　him　the　bill。
whats　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？
ive　been　shot。
lets　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。　thats　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