All the Pretty Horses

barn the five horses were standing under the pecan trees at the far side of the house. They hadnt been unsaddled and in the morning they were gone. The following night she came to his bed and she came every night for nine nights running, pushing the door shut and latching it and turning in the slatted light at God knew what hour and stepping out of her clothes and sliding cool and naked against him in the narrow bunk all softness and perfume and the lushness of her black hair falling over him and no caution to her at all. Saying I dont care I dont care. Drawing blood with her teeth where he held the heel of his hand against her mouth that she not cry out. Sleeping against his chest where he could not sleep at all and rising when the east was already gray with dawn and going to the kitchen to get her breakfast as if she were only up early.
    Then she was gone back to the city. The following evening when he came in he passed Estéban in the barn bay and spoke to the old man and the old man spoke back but did not look at him. He washed up and went to the house and ate his dinner in the kitchen and after he’d eaten he and the hacendado sat at the diningroom table and logged the stud book and the hacendado questioned him and made notes on the mares and then leanedback and sat smoking his cigar and tapping his pencil against the edge of the table. He looked up.
    Good, he said. How are you progressing with the Guzmán?
    Well, I’m not ready for volume two.
    The hacendado smiled. Guzmán is excellent. You dont read french?
    No sir.
    The bloody French are quite excellent on the subject of horses. Do you play billiards?
    Sir?
    Do you play billiards?
    Yessir. Some. Pool anyways.
    Pool. Yes. Would you like to play?
    Yessir.
    Good.
    The hacendado folded shut the books and pushed back his chair and rose and he followed him out down the hall and through the salon and through the library to the paneled double doors at the far end of the room. The hacendado opened these doors and they entered a darkened room that smelled of must and old wood.
    He pulled a tasseled chain and lit an ornate tin chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Beneath it an antique table of some dark wood with lions carved into the legs. The table was covered with a drop of yellow oilcloth and the chandelier had been lowered from the twentyfoot ceiling by a length of common tracechain. At the far end of the room was a very old carved and painted wooden altar above which hung a lifesize carved and painted wooden Christ. The hacendado turned.
    I play seldom, he said. I hope you are not an expert?
    No sir.
    I asked Carlos if he could make the table more level. The last time we played it was quite crooked. We will see what has been done. Just take the corner there. I will show you.
    They stood on either side of the table and folded the cloth toward the middle and folded it again and then lifted it awayand took it past the end of the table and walked toward each other and the hacendado took the cloth and carried it over and laid it on some chairs.
    This was the chapel as you see. You are not superstitious?
    No sir. I dont think so.
    It is supposed to be made unsacred. The priest comes and says some words. Alfonsa knows about these matters. But of course the table has been here for years now and the chapel has yet to be whatever the word is. To have the priest come and make it be no longer a chapel. Personally I question whether such a thing can be done at all. What is sacred is sacred. The powers of the priest are more limited than people suppose. Of course there has been no Mass said here for many years.
    How many years?
    The hacendado was sorting through the cues where they stood in and out of a mahogany rack in the corner. He turned.
    I received my First Communion in this chapel. I suppose that may have been the last Mass said here. I would say about nineteen eleven.
    He turned back to the cues. I would not let the priest come to do that thing, he said. To dissolve the sanctity of the chapel. Why should I do that? I like to feel that God is here. In my house.
    He racked the balls and handed the cueball to John Grady. It was ivory and yellow with age and the grain of the ivory was visible in it. He broke the balls and they played straight pool and the hacendado beat him easily, walking about the table and chalking his cue with a deft rotary motion and announcing the shots in Spanish. He played slowly and studied the shots and the lay of the table and as he studied