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Dying
was
nothing
and
he
had
no
picture
of
it
nor
fear
of
it
in
his
mind
.
But
living
was
a
field
of
grain
blowing
in
the
wind
on
the
side
of
a
hill
.
Living
was
a
hawk
in
the
sky
.
Living
was
an
earthen
jar
of
water
in
the
dust
of
the
threshing
with
the
grain
flailed
out
and
the
chaff
blowing
.
Living
was
a
horse
between
your
legs
and
a
carbine
under
one
leg
and
a
hill
and
a
valley
and
a
stream
with
trees
along
it
and
the
far
side
of
the
valley
and
the
hills
beyond
.
Sordo
passed
the
wine
bottle
back
and
nodded
his
head
in
thanks
.
He
leaned
forward
and
patted
the
dead
horse
on
the
shoulder
where
the
muzzle
of
the
automatic
rifle
had
burned
the
hide
.
He
could
still
smell
the
burnt
hair
.
He
thought
how
he
had
held
the
horse
there
,
trembling
,
with
the
fire
around
them
,
whispering
and
cracking
,
over
and
around
them
like
a
curtain
,
and
had
carefully
shot
him
just
at
the
intersection
of
the
cross
-
lines
between
the
two
eyes
and
the
ears
.
Then
as
the
horse
pitched
down
he
had
dropped
down
behind
his
warm
,
wet
back
to
get
the
gun
to
going
as
they
came
up
the
hill
.
"
Eras
mucho
caballo
,
"
he
said
,
meaning
,
"
Thou
wert
plenty
of
horse
.
"
El
Sordo
lay
now
on
his
good
side
and
looked
up
at
the
sky
.
He
was
lying
on
a
heap
of
empty
cartridge
hulls
but
his
head
was
protected
by
the
rock
and
his
body
lay
in
the
lee
of
the
horse
.
His
wounds
had
stiffened
badly
and
he
had
much
pain
and
he
felt
too
tired
to
move
.
"
What
passes
with
thee
,
old
one
?
"
the
man
next
to
him
asked
.
"
Nothing
.
I
am
taking
a
little
rest
.
"
"
Sleep
,
"
the
other
said
.
"
They
will
wake
us
when
they
come
.
"
Just
then
some
one
shouted
from
down
the
slope
.
"
Listen
,
bandits
!
"
the
voice
came
from
behind
the
rocks
where
the
closest
automatic
rifle
was
placed
.
"
Surrender
now
before
the
planes
blow
you
to
pieces
.
"
