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-
Perhaps
the
campfires
are
a
message
,
spelled
out
letter
by
letter
.
Take
a
powder
.
Or
,
the
end
draweth
nigh
.
Or
maybe
even
,
Eat
at
Joe
’
s
.
It
didn
’
t
matter
.
He
had
no
understanding
of
the
ideograms
,
if
they
were
ideograms
.
And
the
remains
were
as
cold
as
all
the
others
.
He
knew
he
was
closer
,
but
did
not
know
how
he
knew
.
That
didn
’
t
matter
either
.
He
stood
up
,
brushing
his
hands
.
No
other
trace
;
the
wind
,
razor
-
sharp
,
had
of
course
filed
away
even
what
scant
tracks
the
hardpan
held
.
He
had
never
even
been
able
to
find
his
quarry
’
s
droppings
.
Nothing
.
Only
these
cold
campfires
along
the
ancient
highway
and
the
relentless
range
-
finder
in
his
own
head
.
He
sat
down
and
allowed
himself
a
short
pull
from
the
waterbag
.
He
scanned
the
desert
,
looked
up
at
the
sun
,
which
was
now
sliding
down
the
far
quadrant
of
the
sky
.
He
got
up
,
removed
his
gloves
from
his
belt
,
and
began
to
pull
devil
-
grass
for
his
own
fire
,
which
he
laid
over
the
ashes
the
man
in
black
had
left
.
He
found
the
irony
,
like
the
romance
of
his
thirst
,
bitterly
appealing
.
He
did
not
use
the
flint
and
steel
until
the
remains
of
the
day
were
only
the
fugitive
heat
in
the
ground
beneath
him
and
a
sardonic
orange
line
on
the
monochrome
western
horizon
.
He
watched
the
south
patiently
,
toward
the
mountains
,
not
hoping
or
expecting
to
see
the
thin
straight
line
of
smoke
from
a
new
campfire
,
but
merely
watching
because
that
was
a
part
of
it
.
There
was
nothing
.
He
was
close
,
but
only
relatively
so
.
Not
close
enough
to
see
smoke
at
dusk
.
He
struck
his
spark
to
the
dry
,
shredded
grass
and
lay
down
upwind
,
letting
the
dreamsmoke
blow
out
toward
the
waste
.
The
wind
,
except
for
occasional
gyrating
dust
devils
,
was
constant
.
Above
,
the
stars
were
unwinking
,
also
constant
.
Suns
and
worlds
by
the
million
.
Dizzying
constellations
,
cold
fire
in
every
primary
hue
.
As
he
watched
,
the
sky
washed
from
violet
to
ebony
.
A
meteor
etched
a
brief
,
spectacular
arc
and
winked
out
.
The
fire
threw
strange
shadows
as
the
devil
-
grass
burned
its
slow
way
down
into
new
patterns
-
not
ideograms
but
a
straightforward
crisscross
vaguely
frightening
in
its
own
no
-
nonsense
surety
.
He
had
laid
his
fuel
in
a
pattern
that
was
not
artful
but
only
workable
.
It
spoke
of
blacks
and
whites
.
It
spoke
of
a
man
who
might
straighten
bad
pictures
in
strange
hotel
rooms
.
The
fire
burned
its
steady
,
slow
flame
,
and
phantoms
danced
in
its
incandescent
core
.
The
gunslinger
did
not
see
.
He
slept
.
The
two
patterns
,
art
and
craft
,
were
welded
together
.
The
wind
moaned
Every
now
and
then
a
perverse
downdraft
would
make
the
smoke
whirl
and
eddy
toward
him
,
and
sporadic
whiffs
of
the
smoke
touched
him
.
They
built
dreams
in
the
same
way
that
a
small
irritant
may
build
a
pearl
in
an
oyster
.
Occasionally
the
gunslinger
moaned
with
the
wind
.
The
stars
were
as
indifferent
to
this
as
they
were
to
wars
,
crucifixions
,
resurrections
.
This
also
would
have
pleased
him
.
He
had
come
down
off
the
last
of
the
foothills
leading
the
donkey
,
whose
eyes
were
already
dead
and
bulging
with
the
heat
.
He
had
passed
the
last
town
three
weeks
before
,
and
since
then
there
had
only
been
the
deserted
coach
track
and
an
occasional
huddle
of
border
dwellers
’
sod
dwellings
.
The
huddles
had
degenerated
into
single
dwellings
,
most
inhabited
by
lepers
or
madmen
.
He
found
the
madmen
better
company
.
One
had
given
him
a
stainless
steel
Silva
compass
and
bade
him
give
it
to
Jesus
.
The
gun
slinger
took
it
gravely
.
If
he
saw
Him
,
he
would
turn
over
the
compass
.
He
did
not
expect
to
.
Five
days
had
passed
since
the
last
hut
,
and
he
had
begun
to
suspect
there
would
be
no
more
when
he
topped
the
last
eroded
hill
and
saw
the
familiar
low
-
backed
sod
roof
.
The
dweller
,
a
surprisingly
young
man
with
a
wild
shock
of
strawberry
hair
that
reached
almost
to
his
waist
,
was
weeding
a
scrawny
stand
of
corn
with
zealous
abandon
.
The
mule
let
out
a
wheezing
grunt
and
the
dweller
looked
up
,
glaring
blue
eyes
coming
target
-
center
on
the
gunslinger
in
a
moment
He
raised
both
hands
in
curt
salute
and
then
bent
to
the
corn
again
,
humping
up
the
row
next
to
his
hut
with
back
bent
,
tossing
devil
-
grass
and
an
occasional
stunted
corn
plant
over
his
shoulder
.
His
hair
flopped
and
flew
in
the
wind
that
now
came
directly
from
the
desert
,
with
nothing
to
break
it
