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the man stepped away from the vehicle。 chigurh could see the doubt e into his eyes at this bloodstained figure before him but it came too late。 he placed his hand on the mans head like a faith healer。 the pneumatic hiss and click of the plunger sounded like a door closing。 the man slid soundlessly to the ground； a round hole in his forehead from which the blood bubbled and ran down into his eyes carrying with it his slowly uncoupling world visible to see。 chigurh wiped his hand with his handkerchief。 i just didnt want you to get blood on the car； he said。
moss sat with the heels of his boots dug into the volcanic gravel of the ridge and glassed the desert below him with a pair of twelve power german binoculars。 his hat pushed back on his head。 elbows propped on his knees。 the rifle strapped over his shoulder with a harness…leather sling was a heavybarreled 。270 on a 98 mauser action with a laminated stock of maple and walnut。 it carried a unertl telescopic sight of the same power as the binoculars。 the antelope were a little under a mile away。 the sun was up less than an hour and the shadow of the ridge and the datilla and the rocks fell far out across the floodplain below him。 somewhere out there was the shadow of moss himself。 he lowered the binoculars and sat studying the land。 far to the south the raw mountains of mexico。 the breaks of the river。 to the west the baked terracotta terrain of the running borderlands。 he spat dryly and wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his cotton workshirt。
the rifle would shoot half minute of angle groups。 five inch groups at one thousand yards。 the spot hed picked to shoot from lay just below a long talus of lava scree and it would put him well within that distance。 except that it would take the better part of an hour to get there and the antelope were grazing away from him。 the best he could say about any of it was that there was no wind。
when he got to the foot of the talus he raised himself slowly and looked for the antelope。
theyd not moved far from where he last saw them but the shot was still a good seven hundred yards。 he studied the animals through the binoculars。 in the pressed air motes and heat distortion。 a low haze of shimmering dust and pollen。 there was no other cover and there wasnt going to be any other shot。
he wallowed down in the scree and pulled off one boot and laid it over the rocks and lowered the forearm of the rifle down into the leather and pushed off the safety with his thumb and sighted through the scope。
they stood with their heads up； all of them； looking at him。
damn； he whispered。 the sun was behind him so they couldnt very well have seen light reflect off the glass of the scope。 they had just flat seen him。
the rifle had a canjar trigger set to nine ounces and he pulled the rifle and the boot toward him with great care and sighted again and jacked the crosshairs slightly up the back of the animal standing most broadly to him。 he knew the exact drop of the bullet in hundred yard increments。 it was the distance that was uncertain。 he laid his finger in the curve of the trigger。 the boars tooth he wore on a gold chain spooled onto the rocks inside his elbow。
even with the heavy barrel and the muzzlebrake the rifle bucked up off the rest。 when he pulled the animals back into the scope he could see them all standing as before。 it took the 150 grain bullet the better part of a second to get there but it took the sound twice that。 they were standing looking at the plume of dust where the bullet had hit。
then they bolted。 running almost immediately at top speed out upon the barrial with the long whaang of the rifleshot rolling after them and caroming off the rocks and yawing back across the open country in the early morning solitude。
he stood and watched them go。 he raised the glasses。 one of the animals had dropped back and was packing one leg and he thought that the round had probably skipped off the pan and caught him in the left hindquarters。 he leaned and spat。 damn； he said。
he watched them out of sight beyond the rocky headlands to the south。 the pale orange dust that hung in the windless morning light grew faint and then it too was gone。 the barrial stood silent and empty in the sun。 as if nothing had occurred there at all。 he sat and pulled on his boot and picked up the rifle and ejected the spent casing and put it in his shirtpocket and closed the bolt。 then he slung the rifle over his shoulder and set out。
it took him some forty minutes to cross the barrial。 from there he made his way up a long volcanic slope and followed the crest of the ridge southeast to an overlook above the country into which the animals had vanished。 he glassed the terrain slowly。
crossing that ground was a large tailless dog； black in color。 he watched it。 it had a huge head and cropped ears and it was limping badly。 it paused and stood。 it looked behind it。 then it went on。 he lowered the glasses and stood watching it go。
he hiked on along the ridge with his thumb hooked in the shoulderstrap of the rifle； his hat pushed back on his head。 the back of his shirt was already wet with sweat。 the rocks there were etched with pictographs perhaps a thousand years old。 the men who drew them hunters like himself。 of them there was no other trace。
at the end of the ridge was a rockslide； a rough trail leading down。 candelilla and scrub catclaw。 he sat in the rocks and steadied his elbows on his knees and scanned the country with the binoculars。 a mile away on the floodplain sat three vehicles。
he lowered the binoculars and looked over the country at large。 then he raised them again。 there looked to be men lying on the ground。 he jacked his boots into the rocks and adjusted the focus。 the vehicles were four wheel drive trucks or broncos with big all…terrain tires and winches and racks of rooflights。 the men appeared to be dead。 he lowered the glasses。 then he raised them again。 then he lowered them and just sat there。
nothing moved。 he sat there for a long time。
when he approached the trucks he had the rifle unslung and cradled at his waist with the safety off。 he stopped。 he s