No Country for Old Men (7 page)

The driver put the shifter in gear. What room? he said.

Just drive me around. I want to see if somebody's here.

They drove slowly past his room. There was a gap in the curtains he was pretty sure he
hadnt left there. Hard to tell. Not that hard. The cab tolled slowly past. No cars in the
lot that hadnt been there. Keep going, he said.

The driver looked at him in the mirror.

Keep going, said Moss. Dont stop.

I dont want to get in some kind of a jackpot here, buddy.

Just keep going.

Why dont I let you out here and we wont argue about it.

I want you to take me to another motel.

Let's just call it square.

Moss leaned forward and held a hundred dollar bill across the seat. You're already in a
jackpot, he said. I'm tryin to get you out of it. Now take me to a motel.

The driver took the bill and tucked it into his shirtpocket and turned out of the lot and
into the street.

He spent the night at the Ramada Inn out on the highway and in the morning he went down
and ate breakfast in the diningroom and read the paper. Then he just sat there.

They wouldnt be in the room when the maids came to clean it.

Checkout time is eleven oclock.

They could have found the money and left.

Except of course that there were probably at least two parties looking for him and
whichever one this was it wasnt the other and the other wasnt going away either.

By the time he got up he knew that he was probably going to have to kill somebody. He just
didnt know who it was.

He took a cab and went into town and went into a sporting goods store and bought a twelve
gauge Winchester pump gun and a box of double ought buckshot shells. The box of shells
contained almost exactly the firepower of a claymore mine. He had them wrap the gun and he
left with it under his arm and walked up Pecan Street to a hardware store. There he bought
a hacksaw and a flat millfile and some miscellaneous items. A pair of pliers and a pair of
sidecutters. A screwdriver. Flashlight. A roll of duct tape.

He stood on the sidewalk with his purchases. Then he turned and walked back down the
street.

In the sporting goods store again he asked the same clerk if he had any aluminum
tentpoles. He tried to explain that he didnt care what kind of tent it was, he just needed
the poles.

The clerk studied him. Whatever kind of tent it is, he said, we'd still have to special
order poles for it. You need to get the manufacturer and the model number.

You sell tents, right?

We got three different models.

Which one has got the most poles in it?

Well, I guess that would be our ten foot walltent. You can stand up in it. Well, some
people could stand up in it. It's got a six foot clearance at the ridge.

Let me have one.

Yessir.

He brought the tent from the stockroom and laid it on the counter. It came in an orange
nylon bag. Moss laid the shotgun and the bag of hardware on the counter and untied the
strings and pulled the tent from the bag together with the poles and cords.

It's all there, the clerk said.

What do I owe you.

It's one seventy-nine plus tax.

He laid two of the hundred dollar bills on the counter. The tentpoles were in a separate
bag and he pulled this out and put it with his other things. The clerk gave him his change
and the receipt and Moss gathered up the shotgun and his hardware purchases together with
the tentpoles and thanked him and turned and left. What about the tent? the clerk called.

In the room he unwrapped the shotgun and wedged it in an open drawer and held it and sawed
the barrel off just in front of the magazine. He squared up the cut with the file and
smoothed it and wiped out the muzzle of the barrel with a damp facecloth and set it aside.
Then he sawed off the stock in a line that left it with a pistol grip and sat on the bed
and dressed the grip smooth with the file. When he had it the way he wanted it he slid the
forearm back and slid it forward again and let the hammer down with his thumb and turned
it sideways and looked at it. It looked pretty good. He turned it over and opened the box
of shells and fed the heavy waxed loads into the magazine one by one. He jacked the slide
back and chambered a shell and lowered the hammer and then put one more round in the
magazine and laid the gun across his lap. It was less than two feet long.

He called the Trail Motel and told the woman to hold his room for him. Then he shoved the
gun and the shells and the tools under the mattress and went out again.

He went to Wal-Mart and bought some clothes and a small nylon zipper bag to put them in. A
pair of jeans and a couple of shirts and some socks. In the afternoon he went for a long
walk out along the lake, taking the cut-off gunbarrel and the stock with him in the bag.
He slung the barrel out into the water as far as he could throw it and he buried the stock
under a ledge of shale. There were deer moving away through the desert scrub. He heard
them snort and he could see them where they came out on a ridge a hundred yards away to
stand looking back at him. He sat on a gravel beach with the empty bag folded in his lap
and watched the sun set. Watched the land turn blue and cold. An osprey went down the
lake. Then there was just the darkness.

No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

I was sheriff of

this county when I was twenty-five. Hard to believe. My father was not a lawman. Jack was
my grandfather. Me and him was sheriff at the same time, him in Piano and me here. I think
he was pretty proud of that. I know I was. I was just back from the war. I had some medals
and stuff and of course people had got wind of that. I campaigned pretty hard. You had to.
I tried to be fair. Jack used to say that any time you're throwin dirt you're losin ground
but I think mostly it just wasnt in him. To speak ill of anybody. And I never did mind
bein like him. Me and my wife has been married thirty-one years. No children. We lost a
girl but I wont talk about that. I served two terms and then we moved to Denton Texas.
Jack used to say that bein sheriff was one of the best jobs you could have and bein a
ex-sheriff one of the worst. Maybe lots of things is like that. We stayed gone and stayed
gone. I done different things. Was a detective on the railroad for a while. By that time
my wife wasnt all that sure about us comin back here. About me runnin. But she seen I
wanted to so that's what we done. She's a better person than me, which I will admit to
anybody that cares to listen. Not that that's sayin a whole lot. She's a better person
than anybody I know. Period.

People think they know what they want but they generally dont. Sometimes if they're lucky
they'll get it anyways. Me I was always lucky. My whole life. I wouldnt be here otherwise.
Scrapes I been in. But the day I seen her come out of Kerr's Mercantile and cross the
street and she passed me and I tipped my hat to her and got just almost a smile back, that
was the luckiest.

People complain about the bad things that happen to em that they dont deserve but they
seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things. I dont recall that I
ever give the good Lord all that much cause to smile on me. But he did.

When Bell walked into

the cafe on Tuesday morning it was just daylight. He got his paper and went to his table
in the corner. The men he passed at the big table nodded to him and said Sheriff. The
waitress brought him his coffee and went back to the kitchen and ordered his eggs. He sat
stirring the coffee with his spoon although there was nothing to stir since he drank it
black. The Haskins boy's picture was on the front page of the Austin paper. Bell read,
shaking his head. His wife was twenty years old. You know what you could do for her? Not a
damn thing. Lamar had never lost a man in twenty some odd years. This is what he would
remember. This is what he'd be remembered for.

She came with his eggs and he folded the paper and laid it by.

He took Wendell with him and they drove down to the Desert Aire and stood at the door
while Wendell knocked.

Look at the lock, Bell said.

Wendell drew his pistol and opened the door. Sheriff's department, he called.

There aint nobody here.

No reason not to be careful.

That's right. No reason in the world.

They walked in and stood. Wendell would have holstered his pistol but Bell stopped him.
Let's just keep to that careful routine, he said.

Yessir.

He walked over and picked up a small brass slug off of the carpet and held it up.

What's that? said Wendell.

Cylinder out of the lock.

Bell passed his hand over the plywood of the room-divider. Here's where it hit at, he
said. He balanced the piece of brass in his palm and looked toward the door. You could
weigh this thing and measure the distance and the drop and calculate the speed.

I expect you could.

Pretty good speed.

Yessir. Pretty good speed.

They walked through the rooms. What do you think, Sheriff?

I believe they've done lit a shuck.

I do too.

Kindly in a hurry about it, too.

Yep.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and looked in and shut it again. He
looked in the freezer.

So when was he here, Sheriff?

Hard to say. We might of just missed him.

You think this boy has got any notion of the sorts of sons of bitches that are huntin him?

I dont know. He ought to. He seen the same things I seen and it made a impression on me.

They're in a world of trouble, aint they?

Yes they are.

Bell walked back into the livingroom. He sat on the sofa. Wendell stood in the doorway. He
was still holding the revolver in his hand. What are you thinkin? he said.

Bell shook his head. He didnt look up.

By Wednesday half of the State of Texas was on its way to Sanderson. Bell sat at his table
in the cafe and read the news. He lowered the paper and looked up. A man about thirty
years old that he'd never seen before was standing there. He introduced himself as a
reporter for the San Antonio Light. What's all this about, Sheriff? he said.

It appears to be a huntin accident.

Hunting accident?

Yessir.

How could it be a hunting accident? You're pulling my leg.

Let me ask you somethin.

All right.

Last year nineteen felony charges were filed in the Terrell County Court. How many of
those would you say were not drug related?

I dont know.

Two. In the meantime I got a county the size of Delaware that is full of people who need
my help. What do you think about that?

I dont know.

I dont either. Now I just need to eat my breakfast here. I got kindly a full day ahead.

He and Torbert drove out in Torbert's four wheel drive truck. All was as they'd left it.
They parked a ways from Moss's truck and waited. It's ten, Torbert said.

What?

It's ten. Deceased. We forgot about old Wyrick. It's ten.

Bell nodded. That we know about, he said.

Yessir. That we know about.

The helicopter arrived and circled and set down in a whirl of dust out on the bajada.
Nobody got out. They were waiting for the dust to blow away. Bell and Torbert watched the
rotor winding down.

The DEA agent's name was McIntyre. Bell knew him slightly and liked him about well enough
to nod to. He got out with a clipboard in his hand and walked toward them. He was dressed
in boots and hat and a Carhartt canvas jacket and he looked all right until he opened his
mouth.

Sheriff Bell, he said.

Agent McIntyre.

What vehicle is this?

It's a '72 Ford pickup.

McIntyre stood looking out down the bajada. He tapped the clipboard against his leg. He
looked at Bell. I'm happy to know that, he said. White in color.

I'd say white. Yes.

Could use a set of tires.

He went over and walked around the truck. He wrote on his clipboard. He looked inside. He
folded the seat forward and looked in the back.

Who cut the tires?

Bell was standing with his hands in his back pockets. He leaned and spat. Deputy Hays here
believes it was done by a rival party.

Rival party.

Yessir.

I thought these vehicles were all shot up.

They are.

But not this one.

Not this one.

McIntyre looked toward the chopper and he looked down the bajada toward the other
vehicles. Can I get a ride down there with you?

Sure you can.

They walked toward Torbert's truck. The agent looked at Bell and he tapped the clipboard
against his leg. You dont intend to make this easy, do you?

Hell, McIntyre. I'm just messin with you.

They walked around in the bajada looking at the shot-up trucks. McIntyre held a kerchief
to his nose. The bodies were bloated in their clothes. This is about the damnedest thing I
ever saw, he said.

He stood making notes on his clipboard. He paced distances and made a rough sketch of the
scene and he copied out the numbers off the license plates.

Were there no guns here? he said.

Not as many as there should of been. We got two pieces in evidence.

How long you think they've been dead?

Four or five days.

Somebody must have got away.

Bell nodded. There's another body about a mile north of here.

There's heroin spilled in the back of that Bronco.

Yep.

Mexican black tar.

Bell looked at Torbert. Torbert leaned and spat.

If the heroin is missing and the money is missing then my guess is that somebody is
missing.

I'd say that's a reasonable guess.

McIntyre continued writing. Dont worry, he said. I know you didnt get it.

I aint worried.

McIntyre adjusted his hat and stood looking at the trucks. Are the rangers coming out here?

Rangers are comin. Or one is. DPS drug unit.

I've got .380's, .45's, nine millimeter parabellum, twelve gauge, and .38 special. Did you
all find anything else?

I think that was it.

McIntyre nodded. I guess the people waiting for their dope have probably figured out by
now that it's not coming. What about the Border Patrol?

Everbody's comin as far as I know. We expect it to get right lively. Might could be a
bigger draw than the flood back in '65.

Yeah.

What we need is to get these bodies out of here.

McIntyre tapped the clipboard against his leg. Aint that the truth, he said.

Nine millimeter parabellum, said Torbert.

Bell nodded. You need to put that in your files.

Chigurh picked up the signal from the transponder coming across the high span of the
Devil's River Bridge just west of Del Rio. It was near midnight and no cars on the
highway. He reached over into the passenger seat and turned the dial slowly forward and
then back, listening.

The headlights picked up some kind of a large bird sitting on the aluminum bridgerail up
ahead and Chigurh pushed the button to let the window down. Cool air coming in off the
lake. He took the pistol from beside the box and cocked and leveled it out the window,
resting the barrel on the rearview mirror. The pistol had been fitted with a silencer
sweated onto the end of the barrel. The silencer was made out of brass mapp-gas burners
fitted into a hairspray can and the whole thing stuffed with fiberglass roofing insulation
and painted flat black. He fired just as the bird crouched and spread its wings.

It flared wildly in the lights, very white, turning and lifting away into the darkness.
The shot had hit the rail and caromed off into the night and the rail hummed dully in the
slipstream and ceased. Chigurh laid the pistol in the seat and put the window back up
again.

Moss paid the driver and stepped out into the lights in front of the motel office and
slung the bag over his shoulder and shut the cab door and turned and went in. The woman
was already behind the counter. He set the bag in the floor and leaned on the counter. She
looked a little flustered. Hi, she said. You fixin to stay a while?

I need another room.

You want to change rooms or you want another one besides the one you've got?

I want to keep the one I got and get another one.

All right.

Have you got a map of the motel?

She looked under the counter. There used to be a sort of a one. Wait a minute. I think
this is it.

She laid an old brochure on the counter. It showed a car from the fifties parked in front.
He unfolded it and flattened it out and studied it.

What about one forty-two?

You can have one next to yours if you want it. One-twenty aint took.

That's all right. What about one forty-two?

She reached and got the key off the board behind her. You'll owe for two nights, she said.

He paid and picked up the bag and walked out and turned down the walkway at the rear of
the motel. She leaned over the counter watching him go.

In the room he sat on the bed with the map spread out. He got up and went into the
bathroom and stood in the tub with his ear to the wall. A TV was playing somewhere. He
went back and sat and unzipped the bag and took out the shotgun and laid it to one side
and then emptied the bag out onto the bed.

He took the screwdriver and got the chair from the desk and stood on it and unscrewed the
airduct grille and stepped down and laid it dustside up on the cheap chenille bedspread.
Then he climbed up and put his ear to the duct. He listened. He stood down and got the
flashlight and climbed back up again.

There was a junction in the ductwork about ten feet down the shaft and he could see the
end of the bag sticking out. He turned off the light and stood listening. He tried
listening with his eyes shut.

He climbed down and got the shotgun and went to the door and turned off the light at the
switch there and stood in the dark looking out through the curtain at the courtyard. Then
he went back and laid the shotgun on the bed and turned on the flashlight.

He untied the little nylon bag and slid the poles out. They were lightweight aluminum
tubes three feet long and he assembled three of them and taped the joints with duct tape
so that they wouldnt pull apart. He went to the closet and came back with three wire
hangers and sat on the bed and cut the hooks off with the sidecutters and wrapped them
into one hook with the tape. Then he taped them to the end of the pole and stood up and
slid the pole down the ductwork.

He turned the flashlight off and pitched it onto the bed and went back to the window and
looked out. Drone of a truck passing out on the highway. He waited till it was gone. A cat
that was crossing the courtyard stopped. Then it went on again.

He stood on the chair with the flashlight in his hand. He turned on the light and laid the
lens up close against the galvanized metal wall of the duct so as to mute the beam and ran
the hook down past the bag and turned it and brought it back. The hook caught and turned
the bag slightly and then slipped free again. After a few tries he managed to get it
caught in one of the straps and he towed it silently up the duct hand over hand through
the dust until he could let go the pole and reach the bag.