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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