No country for old men - By Cormac McCarthy Page 0,9

over the lava and back again. The truck slowed. He could hear the engine idling. The slow lope of the cam. Big block engine. The spotlight swept over the rocks again. It’s all right, he said. You need to be put out of your misery. Be the best thing for everbody.

The engine revved slightly and idled down again. Deep guttural tone to the exhaust. Cam and headers and God knows what else. After a while it moved on in the dark.

When he got to the crest of the ridge he crouched and took the .45 out of his belt and uncocked it and put it back again and looked out to the north and to the east. No sign of the truck.

How would you like to be out there in your old pickup tryin to outrun that thing? he said. Then he realized that he would never see his truck again. Well, he said. There’s lots of things you aint goin to see again.

The spotlight came on again at the head of the caldera and moved across the ridge. Moss lay on his stomach watching. It came back again.

If you knew there was somebody out here afoot that had two million dollars of your money, at what point would you quit lookin for em?

That’s right. There aint no such a point.

He lay listening. He couldnt hear the truck. After a while he rose and made his way down the far side of the ridge. Studying the country. The floodplain out there broad and quiet in the moonlight. No way to cross it and nowhere else to go. Well Bubba, what are your plans now?

It’s four oclock in the mornin. Do you know where your darlin boy is at?

I’ll 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 he’d 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 come daylight.

Home in bed would be good.

He studied the blue floodplain out there in the silence. A vast and breathless amphitheatre. Waiting. He’d had this feeling before. In another country. He never thought he’d have it again.

He waited a long time. The truck didnt come back. He made his way south along the ridge. He stood and listened. Not a coyote, nothing.

By the time he’d 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