All the Pretty Horses

up into the saddle and turned the horse and rode down the bay and out the door.
    That night as he lay in his cot he could hear music from the house and as he was drifting to sleep his thoughts were of horsesand of the open country and of horses. Horses still wild on the mesa who’d never seen a man afoot and who knew nothing of him or his life yet in whose souls he would come to reside forever.
    They went up into the mountains a week later with the mozo and two of the vaqueros and after the vaqueros had turned in in their blankets he and Rawlins sat by the fire on the rim of the mesa drinking coffee. Rawlins took out his tobacco and John Grady took out cigarettes and shook the pack at him. Rawlins put his tobacco back.
    Where’d you get the ready rolls?
    In La Vega.
    He nodded. He took a brand from the fire and lit the cigarette and John Grady leaned and lit his own.
    You say she goes to school in Mexico City?
    Yeah.
    How old is she?
    Seventeen.
    Rawlins nodded. What kind of a school is it she goes to?
    I dont know. It’s some kind of a prep school or somethin.
    Fancy sort of school.
    Yeah. Fancy sort of school.
    Rawlins smoked. Well, he said. She’s a fancy sort of girl.
    No she aint.
    Rawlins was leaning against his propped saddle, sitting with his legs crossed sideways on to the fire. The sole of his right boot had come loose and he’d fastened it back with hogrings stapled through the welt. He looked at the cigarette.
    Well, he said. I’ve told you before but I dont reckon you’ll listen now any more than you done then.
    Yeah. I know.
    I just figure you must enjoy cryin yourself to sleep at night.
    John Grady didnt answer.
    This one of course she probably dates guys got their own airplanes let alone cars.
    You’re probably right.
    I’m glad to hear you say it.
    It dont help nothin though, does it?
    Rawlins sucked on the cigarette. They sat for a long time. Finally he pitched the stub of the cigarette into the fire. I’m goin to bed, he said.
    Yeah, said John Grady. I guess that’s a good idea.
    They spread their soogans and he pulled off his boots and stood them beside him and stretched out in his blankets. The fire had burned to coals and he lay looking up at the stars in their places and the hot belt of matter that ran the chord of the dark vault overhead and he put his hands on the ground at either side of him and pressed them against the earth and in that coldly burning canopy of black he slowly turned dead center to the world, all of it taut and trembling and moving enormous and alive under his hands.
    What’s her name? said Rawlins in the darkness.
    Alejandra. Her name is Alejandra.
    Sunday afternoon they rode into the town of La Vega on horses they’d been working out of the new string. They’d had their hair cut with sheepshears by an esquilador at the ranch and the backs of their necks above their collars were white as scars and they wore their hats cocked forward on their heads and they looked from side to side as they jogged along as if to challenge the countryside or anything it might hold. They raced the animals on the road at a fifty-cent bet and John Grady won and they swapped horses and he won on Rawlins’ horse. They rode the horses at a gallop and they rode them at a trot and the horses were hot and lathered and squatted and stamped in the road and the campesinos afoot in the road with baskets of garden-stuff or pails covered with cheesecloth would press to the edge of the road or climb through the roadside brush and cactus to watch wide eyed the young horsemen on their horses passing and the horses mouthing froth and champing and the riders calling to one another in their alien tongue and passing in amuted fury that seemed scarcely to be contained in the space allotted them and yet leaving all unchanged where they had been: dust, sunlight, a singing bird.
    In the tienda the topmost shirts folded upon the shelves when shaken out retained a square of paler color where dust had settled on the cloth or sun had faded it or both. They sorted through the stacks to find one with sleeves long enough for Rawlins, the woman holding out the sleeve along the outstretched length of his arm, the pins caught in her mouth like a seamstress where she meant to refold, repin the shirt, shaking her head doubtfully. They carried stiff new canvas pants to the rear of the store and tried them on in a bedroom that had three beds in it and a cold concrete floor that had once been painted green. They sat