How do you feel? Valdez asked.
The Mexican said nothing, staring up at him with a dazed expression.
Valdez dismounted and went to his knees over the man, raising his arm gently to look at the wound. The shotgun charge had torn through his side at the waist, ripping away his belt and part of his shirt and leather chaps.
You should have this taken care of, Valdez said. You know somebody can sew you up?
The Mexicans eyes were glazed, wet looking. What do you put in that thing?
I told you, something for rabbits. Listen, Im going to get your horse and put you on it.
I cant ride anywhere.
Sure you can. Valdez lowered the Mexicans arm and gave his shoulder a pat. The Mexican winced and Valdez smiled. You ride to Mr. Tanner, all right? Tell him Valdez is coming. You hear what I said? Valdez is coming. But listen, friend, I think you better go there quick.
5
The Mexican was on his back at the edge of the loading platform where they had taken him off his horse and laid him on his back. His eyes looked up at the segundo and at Frank Tanner standing over him. He could hear the people in the street, but he did not have the strength or the desire to turn his head to look at them. He heard the segundo say he was dying and he knew he was dying, now, as the sun went down. He was thinking, I should have gone past him and turned and shot him. Or I should have shot him as he came up, before he saw me. Or I could have gone higher and used the rifle. He wished he could begin it again, do it over from the time Valdez started up the trail, but it was too late. He could see Valdez raising the gun, the blunt double barrels looking at him; he could see Mr. Tanner looking at him, the mouth beneath the moustache barely moving.
What else did he say?
The Mexican who was dying stared up at Mr. Tanner, and the segundo said, Valdez is coming. Thats all.
How do we know its the same one?
Its his name.
There are a hundred Valdezes.
Maybe, but it must be the same one, the segundo said. You said he killed the Negro with a shotgun.
A farmer gun, Tanner said.
I dont know, the segundo said. The way he used it.
Tanner looked up from the Mexican, his gaze lifting beyond the square, beyond the adobes to the ridge of hills in the distance, to the cold red slash of sky above the shadowed slopes. This Valdez killed one of his men up there and said he was coming. For what? It couldnt be to help any dead niggers Indian woman. He couldnt come in and pull a gun to get money. Hed never get in or out. Then what was he doing? Who was he?
The segundo followed Tanners gaze to the hills. Hes gone. He wouldnt be there waiting.
Send somebody and make sure.
He could be anywhere.
Well, goddam it, youve got people who read signs?
Weve got some, sure.
Then send them, Tanner said. I want people all over those hills,
and if hes there I want him brought in, straight up or facedown. I dont care. I want some men sent to Lanoria to look every place he might be and talk to anybody knows him. I want a sign put up on the main street that says Bob Valdez is a dead man and anybody known to be helping him is also dead. You understand me?
We start the drive tomorrow, the segundo said.
Tanner looked at him. We start the drive when I tell you we start it.
The man lying on his back dying, with the wet stain of his blood on the platform now thinking that this shouldnt have happened to him because of the life in him an hour ago and because of the way he saw himself, aware of himself alive and never thinking of himself dying looked up at the sky and didnt have to close the light from his eyes. He saw the beard on the segundos face and the under-brim of his straw hat, and then he didnt see the segundo. He saw Mr. Tanners face and then he didnt see Mr. Tanner anymore. He saw the open sky above him and that was all there was to see. But the sky wasnt something to look at. If he wasnt on the hill tonight he would be in the adobe that was the cantina, with the oil smoke and the women coming in, lighting a cigar as he looked at them and feeling his belly beneath his gunbelts full of beef and tortillas, bringing a woman close to him and drinking mescal with his hand on the curve of her shoulder, touching her neck and feeling strands of her hair between his fingers. But he had done it the wrong way. He should have looked at the three guns on the man and known something. But he had thought of the man as he had remembered him from before, against the wall and with the cross on his back, and he had listened to the man talk even while he planned to kill the man, being careful not being careful enough, not giving the man enough. He should have thought more about the way the man stood at the wall and watched them shoot at him. He should have remembered the way the man got up with the cross on his back and was kicked down and got up again and walked away. Look someone should have said to him, or he should have told himself the man wears three guns and hangs a Remington from his saddle. What kind of man is that? And then he thought, You should know when youre going to die. It should be something in your life you plan. It shouldnt happen but its happening. He tried to raise his left arm but could not. He had no feeling in his left side, from his chest into his legs. His side was hanging open and draining his life as he looked at the sky. He said to himself, What is the sky to me? He said to himself, What are you doing here alone?