All the Pretty Horses

knife. The man he’d never seen before and the knife was no homemade trucha ground out of a trenchspoon but an Italian switchblade with black horn handles and nickle bolsters and he held it at waist level and passed it three times across Rawlins’ shirt while Rawlins leaped three times backward with his shoulders hunched and his arms outflung like a man refereeing his own bloodletting. At the third pass he turned and ran. He ran with one hand across his stomach and his shirt was wet and sticky.
    When John Grady got to him he was sitting with his back to the wall holding his arms crossed over his stomach and rocking back and forth as if he were cold. John Grady knelt and tried to pull his arms away.
    Let me see, damn it.
    That son of a bitch. That son of a bitch.
    Let me see.
    Rawlins leaned back. Aw shit, he said.
    John Grady lifted the bloodsoaked shirt.
    It aint that bad, he said. It aint that bad.
    He cupped his hand and ran it across Rawlins’ stomach to chase the blood. The lowest cut was the deepest and it had severed the outer fascia but it had not gone through into the stomach wall. Rawlins looked down at the cuts. It aint good, he said. Son of a bitch.
    Can you walk?
    Yeah, I can walk.
    Come on.
    Aw shit, said Rawlins. Son of a bitch.
    Come on, bud. You cant set here.
    He helped Rawlins to his feet.
    Come on, he said. I got you.
    They crossed the quadrangle to the gateshack. The guard looked out through the sallyport. He looked at John Grady andhe looked at Rawlins. Then he opened the gate and John Grady passed Rawlins into the hands of his captors.
    They sat him in a chair and sent for the alcaide. Blood dripped slowly onto the stone floor beneath him. He sat holding his stomach with both hands. After a while someone handed him a towel.
    In the days that followed John Grady moved about the compound as little as possible. He watched everywhere for the cuchillero who would manifest himself from among the anonymous eyes that watched back. Nothing occurred. He had a few friends among the inmates. An older man from the state of Yucatán who was outside of the factions but was treated with respect. A dark indian from Sierra León. Two brothers named Bautista who had killed a policeman in Monterrey and set fire to the body and were arrested with the older brother wearing the policeman’s shoes. All agreed that Pérez was a man whose power could only be guessed at. Some said he was not confined to the prison at all but went abroad at night. That he kept a wife and family in the town. A mistress.
    He tried to get some word from the guards concerning Rawlins but they claimed to know nothing. On the morning of the third day after the stabbing he crossed the yard and tapped at Pérez’s door. The drone of noise in the yard behind him almost ceased altogether. He could feel the eyes on him and when Pérez’s tall chamberlain opened the door he only glanced at him and then looked beyond and raked the compound with his eyes.
    Quisiera hablar con el señor Pérez, said John Grady.
    Con respecto de que?
    Con respecto de mi cuate.
    He shut the door. John Grady waited. After a while the door opened again. Pásale, said the chamberlain.
    John Grady stepped into the room. Pérez’s man shut the door and then stood against it. Pérez sat at his table.
    How is the condition of your friend? he said.
    That’s what I come to ask you.
    Pérez smiled.

    Sit down. Please.
    Is he alive?
    Sit down. I insist.
    He stepped to the table and pulled back a chair and sat.
    Perhaps you like some coffee.
    No thank you.
    Pérez leaned back.
    Tell me what I can do for you, he said.
    You can tell me how my friend is.
    But if I answer this question then you will go away.
    What would you want me to stay for?
    Pérez smiled. My goodness, he said. To tell me stories of your life of crime. Of course.
    John Grady studied him.
    Like all men of means, said Pérez, my only desire is to be entertained.
    Me toma el pelo.
    Yes. In english you say the leg, I believe.
    Yes. Are you a man of means?
    No. It is a joke. I enjoy to practice my english. It passes the time. Where did you learn castellano?
    At home.
    In Texas.
    Yes.
    You learn it from the servants.
    We didnt have no servants. We had people worked on the place.
    You have been in some prison before.
    No.
    You are the oveja negra, no? The black sheep?
    You dont know nothin about me.
    Perhaps not. Tell me, why do you believe that you can be release from your confinement in some abnormal way?
    I told