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Robert
Jordan
was
on
the
big
gray
he
had
first
seen
in
the
snow
of
the
morning
of
the
day
before
and
he
felt
that
it
was
much
horse
between
his
legs
and
under
his
hands
.
He
was
wearing
rope
-
soled
shoes
and
the
stirrups
were
a
little
too
short
;
his
submachine
gun
was
slung
over
his
shoulder
,
his
pockets
were
full
of
clips
and
he
was
sitting
reloading
the
one
used
clip
,
the
reins
under
one
arm
,
tight
,
watching
Pilar
mount
into
a
strange
sort
of
seat
on
top
of
the
duffle
lashed
onto
the
saddle
of
the
buckskin
.
"
Cut
that
stuff
loose
for
God
’
s
sake
,
"
Primitivo
said
.
"
Thou
wilt
fall
and
the
horse
cannot
carry
it
.
"
"
Shut
up
,
"
said
Pilar
.
"
We
go
to
make
a
life
with
this
.
"
"
Canst
ride
like
that
,
woman
?
"
Pablo
asked
her
from
the
guardia
civil
saddle
on
the
great
bay
horse
.
"
Like
any
milk
peddler
,
"
Pilar
told
him
.
"
How
do
you
go
,
old
one
?
"
"
Straight
down
.
Across
the
road
.
Up
the
far
slope
and
into
the
timber
where
it
narrows
.
"
"
Across
the
road
?
"
Agustín
wheeled
beside
him
,
kicking
his
soft
-
heeled
,
canvas
shoes
against
the
stiff
,
unresponding
belly
of
one
of
the
horses
Pablo
had
recruited
in
the
night
.
"
Yes
,
man
.
It
is
the
only
way
,
"
Pablo
said
.
He
handed
him
one
of
the
lead
ropes
.
Primitivo
and
the
gypsy
had
the
others
.
"
Thou
canst
come
at
the
end
if
thou
will
,
Inglés
,
"
Pablo
said
.
"
We
cross
high
enough
to
be
out
of
range
of
that
máquina
.
But
we
will
go
separately
and
riding
much
and
then
be
together
where
it
narrows
above
.
"
