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BIRD
1. Bird
Bird. The old gunfighter. The oldest. Roads on his face, roads walked by innumerable gunfights, said Shatzy. His eyes swallowed up in his skull, and hands of olivewood, quick hands, like branches in winter. Weary. The comb, in the morning, dipped in water, parting the white hair, transparent by now. Tobacco lungs in the voice that says softly: What a wind today.
Nothing worse for a gunfighter than not to die.
Look around, every unfamiliar face could be that of yet another fool arriving from far away to become the one who killed Clay “Bird” Puller. If you want to know when you become a legend, then listen: it’s when your enemies always come from behind. As long as they come at you from the front you’re only a gunfighter. Glory is a trail of shit, behind your back.
Hurry up, asshole, I said to him without even turning around. The boy wore a black hat, and in his pocket was some piece of crap that was the memory of a distant hatred, and the promise of some sort of vengeance. Too late, asshole.
With these roads on my face, cowardly old age, peeing on myself in the night, the goddam pain below the belt, like a burning rock between belly and ass, day never comes, and when it comes it’s a desert of empty time to cross. How did I get here? Me.
The way Bird shot. He wore his holster backward, with the butts of the guns facing forward. He would draw with his arms crossed, the right gun in his left hand and vice versa. That way, when he came toward you, his fingers touching the gun butts, he seemed like a condemned man, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, with his arms crossed in front. A second later he was a bird of prey opening its wings, a whip in the air, and the straight flight of two bullets. Bird.
What is this creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to count the hours, I who knew instants, and that was the only time that existed for me. The swerve of a pupil, the whitened knuckles around a glass, a spur in the side of the horse, the shadow of a shadow on the blue wall. They saw a flash where I saw a map, a star where I saw heavens. I looked within the folds of time that for them were already a memory. There was no other way, I had been taught, to see death before it arrives. What is that, creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to spy on the cards of others, searching for cues from my seat, always in the second row, in the evening throwing rocks at the dogs, in my pocket an old man’s money that the whores don’t want, a mariachi player will take it when he comes, may your song be long and sad, boy, I want to dance tonight, until sunset.
They said that Bird always carried a dictionary with him. French. He had learned all the words, one after another, in alphabetical order. He was so old that he had already been around once and now was in the “G”s for the second time. No one knew why in the world he did it. But once, in Tandeltown, they say that he went up to a woman, she was beautiful, tall, green-eyed, you had to wonder how she had ended up there. He went up to her and said: Enchanté.
Clay “Bird” Puller. He’ll have a wonderful death, said Shatzy. I’ve promised him: a wonderful death.

THE WHORE OF CLOSINGTOWN
2. Prologo
Beautiful was the whore of Closingtown, beautiful. Black-haired was the whore of Closingtown, black-haired. There were dozens of books in her room, on the second floor of the saloon, and she read them when she was waiting, stories with a beginning and an end, if you ask her she’ll tell you the stories. Young was the whore of Closingtown, young. Holding you between her legs she whispers: my love.
Shatzy said that she cost the same as four beers.
A thirst for her, in all the pants in town.
Her name was Fanny.
They all loved her, but only one loved her truly, and that was Pat Cobhan. He stayed below, drinking beer, and waited. When she was finished, she came down.
Hello, Fanny.
Hello.
They walked up and down, from one end of the town to the other, holding each other tight, in the dark, and speaking of the wind that never stopped.
Good night, Fanny.
Good night.
Pat Cobhan was seventeen. Green were the eyes of the whore of Closingtown, green.

3. Se vuoi capire la loro storia
In order to understand their story-Shatzy said-you have to know how many shots a pistol had in those days.
Six.
She said it was a perfect number. Think about it. And sound that rhythm. Six shots, one two three four five six. Perfect. You hear the silence afterward? Yes, that’s a silence. One two three four. Five six. Silence. It’s like a breath. Every six shots is a breath. You can breathe fast or slow, but every breath is perfect. One two three four five. Six. Now breathe silence.
How many shots were there in a pistol?
Six.
Then she told you the story.

4. Pat Cobhan ride
Pat Cobhan laughs, downstairs, with foam from the beer in his beard and the smell of horses on his hands. There’s a violinist playing, and he has a trained dog. People throw him money, the dog retrieves it, and then, walking on his hind legs, goes back to his master and puts the money in his pocket. The violinist is blind. Pat Cobhan laughs.
Fanny is working, upstairs, with the preacher’s son between her legs. My love. The preacher’s son is called Young. He’s kept his shirt on, and his black hair is soaked with sweat. Something like terror, in his eyes. Fanny says to him Fuck me, Young, but he grows rigid and slides away from her parted thighs-white lace-trimmed stockings that come just above the knee and then nothing else. He doesn’t know where to look. He takes her hand and presses it on his sex. Yes, Young, she says. She caresses it, you’re handsome, Young, she says. She licks the palm of his hand, looking him in the eyes, then caresses him again, barely touching him. Come on, says Young. Come on. She clasps his sex in the palm of her hand. He closes his eyes and thinks I must not think. Of anything. She looks at her own hand, and then at the sweat on Young’s face, on his chest, and again at her hand sliding over his sex. I like your dick, Young, I want it, your dick. He’s lying on his side, leaning on one arm. The arm trembles. Come Young, she says. His eyes are closed. Come. He turns to lie on top of her, and pushes between her open thighs. That’s it, Young, that’s it, she says. He opens his eyes. Something like terror, in his eyes. He grimaces, and slides off. Wait, Young, she says, holding his head in her hands and kissing him. Wait, he says.
Pat Cobhan laughs, downstairs, and glances at the clock, behind the bar. He asks for another beer and plays with a silver coin, trying to balance it on the rim of the empty glass.
Want to marry me, Fanny?
Don’t talk nonsense, Pat.
I’m serious.
Stop it.
Do you like me, Fanny?
Yes.
I like you, Fanny.
The coin falls into the glass, Pat Cobhan turns the glass upside down, the coin falls out, on the wood of the bar, what’s left of the beer drips out, liquid and foam. He takes the coin and dries it on his pants. He looks at it. He would like to sniff it. He places
it on the edge of the glass. He glances at the clock. He thinks: Young, you bastard, will you finish up? Sweet is the scent of the whore of Closingtown, sweet.

5. Fanny scrivola con le labbra
Fanny glides her lips over Young’s sex, and he looks at her: he likes this. He puts one hand in her hair and pulls her to him. She moves the hand away, still kissing him. He looks at her. His hand is in her hair again, she stops, looks at him and says Be good, Young. Be quiet, he says, and with his hand pushes her head toward his sex. She takes it in her mouth and closes her eyes. She slides faster and faster, back and forth. Like that, whore, he says. Like that. She opens her eyes and sees the skin on Young’s stomach shiny with sweat. She sees the muscles contract, suddenly, as in a kind of agony. Come on, he says. Don’t stop. A kind of agony. He looks at her. He likes her. Looks at her. He places his hands on her shoulders and suddenly shoves her back and lies on top of her. Slowly, Young, she says. He closes his eyes and begins to push against her. Slowly, Young. With her hand, she feels for his sex, but he moves her away. He pushes hard between her thighs. Shit, he says. Shit. His hair, wet with sweat, is pasted to his forehead. Shit. He slides away again, suddenly. She turns her head to one side, lifts her eyes to heaven for an instant, and sighs. And he sees her. Sees her.

6. Pat Cobhan alza gli occhi
Pat Cobhan looks up, looks at the stairs that lead to the second floor. Then he looks at the full glass of beer in front of him.
Hey, Carver.
Pat?
Keep it cold for me.
You going?
I’ll be back.
Everything all right, Pat?
Everything’s O.K., yes, it’s O.K. Keep it cold for me.
He remains leaning on the bar. He turns and glances at the door of the saloon. He spits on the floor, then crushes the knot of saliva with his boot, and looks at the wet dust, on the floor. He raises his head again. He nods at Carver. Make sure no one pees in it, O.K.? and smiles.
Why don’t you go home, Pat?
Go yourself, Carver.
You ought to go home.
Don’t tell me what to do.
Carver shakes his head. Pat Cobhan snickers. He picks up his glass of beer and takes a swallow. He puts the glass down, turns, looks at the stairs that lead to the second floor, You bastard, he says softly.

7. Young
Young has turned, he has stretched one hand toward the belt hanging on the chair, he has taken the pistol out of the holster and now he holds it tight in his fist. He slides the barrel over Fanny’s skin. White is the skin of the whore of Closingtown, white. She starts to get up. Stay put, he says. He sticks the barrel of the pistol under her chin, presses it there. Don’t move. Don’t cry out. What on earth are you doing, she says. Quiet. He slides the gun barrel over her skin, lower and lower. He spreads her legs. He rests the pistol on her sex. Please, Young, she says. Slowly he pushes the gun in. He takes it out and slowly sticks it back in. Do you like that? he says. She starts to tremble. Isn’t that what you wanted? he says. He pushes the pistol deep in. She arches her back, puts a hand on Young’s cheek, gently. Please, Young, she says. Please. She looks at him. He stops. Calm down, she says. You’re a good boy, Young, right? You’re a good boy. Tears are falling from her eyes, falling all over her face. Let me kiss you, I like kissing you, come here, Young, kiss me. She speaks softly, without taking her eyes off him. Stay with me, let’s make love, would you like that? Yes, he says. And he starts moving the gun again, back and forth. Let’s make love, he says. She closes her eyes. A grimace of pain that contorts her face. I beg you, Young. He looks at the gun barrel moving in and out of her flesh. He sees that it’s covered with blood. He cocks the trigger with his thumb. I like to make love, he says.

8. ‘Affanculo
Fuck you, says Pat Cobhan. He moves away from the bar. I’ll be back, he says. He passes the Castorp brothers’ table, greets them, and heads for the stairs.
He looks up and sees nothing. He climbs a few steps. He thinks he’d like to have a gun. His father doesn’t want him to carry a gun. That way, you don’t get in trouble. No one shoots at an unarmed kid. He stops. He thinks of Young. He can’t remember exactly how much time has passed. He tries to remember, but he can’t. He looks down into the saloon and thinks it’s like being a bird perched on a branch. It would be nice to open your wings and fly, grazing the heads of the men in the bar and landing on the hat of the blind musician. I would have shiny black feathers, he thinks, while with his right hand he feels in his pants pocket for the hard outline of his knife. It’s a small knife, the blade folded into the wooden handle. He looks farther up the stairs and sees nothing. A closed door, no sound, nothing. I’m just being stupid, he thinks. He stands there, lowers his gaze, sees his boot on the step. Dust thick on the worn leather. Taps twice, with his heel, on the wood. Then he leans over and with a finger polishes the tip. Just at that moment he hears from above the dry sound of a shot and a brief cry. And he realizes it’s all over. Then he hears a second shot, and, one after the other, the third and the fourth and the fifth. He is frozen. He waits. He has a strange buzzing in his head and everything seems far away. He feels someone shove him aside, and people are running up the stairs, shouting. In his eyes is the shiny tip of his boot. He waits. But he hears nothing. Then he gets up, and goes slowly down the stairs. He crosses the saloon, goes out the door, gets on his horse. He rides all night and at dawn he reaches Abilene. The next day he heads north, passing through Bartleboro and Connox, following the river as far as Contertown, and then for days he rides toward the mountains. Berbery, Tucson City, Pollak, to Full Creek, where the railroad goes. He follows the tracks for miles and miles. Quartzite, Coltown, Oldbridge, and then Rider, Rio Solo, Sullivan and Preston. After twenty-two days he comes to a place called Stonewall. He looks at the tops of the trees and the way the birds fly. He gets off his horse, picks up a handful of dust, and lets it slide slowly between his fingers. There’s no wind here, he thinks. He sells the horse, buys a gun. Gun belt, holster, and gun. That night he goes to the saloon. He doesn’t talk to anyone, he sits there, drinking and watching. He studies them all, one by one. Then he chooses a man who is playing cards, who has white uncallused hands, gleaming spurs. A narrow beard, cut with care and deliberation.

9. Quell’uomo bara, dice
That man’s cheating, he says.
Something wrong, kid?
I don’t like bastards, that’s all.
Get your shit tongue outside, and fast.
I don’t like cowards, that’s all.
Kid. Let’s do one thing. I didn’t hear a word, you get up, you disappear, and for the rest of your days thank heaven it ended like this.
Let’s do something else. You put down the cards, get up, and go cheat somewhere else.
The man pushes back his chair, slowly gets up, stands there, his arms by his sides and his hands just touching his guns. He looks at the boy.
Pat Cobhan spits. He gets up. He looks at the tips of his boots, as if he were searching for something. Then he lifts his eyes toward the man.
You fool, the man says.
Pat Cobhan suddenly grabs his gun. But he doesn’t draw. He feels the sixth shot, now. Then nothing else, forever.
Silence.
What a silence.

10. Finale
Shatzy had a poem by Robert Curts stuck on the door of the fridge. She had copied it because she liked it. Not all of it, but she liked the bit near the end where it said: Lovers die in the same breath. It also had a nice conclusion, but the best part was that line. Lovers die in the same breath.
And another thing. Shatzy was always humming a rather stupid song, which she had learned as a child. It had a lot of stanzas. The refrain began like this: Red are the fields of our paradise, red. It wasn’t much, as a song. And it was so long that you might be dead before you’d sung the whole thing. Truly.
Young died in his cell, the day before the trial. His father went to see him, and shot him in the face, pointblank.

MANHUNT
11. Prologo
Benjamin Clark’s body was found after a four-day search, buried under two feet of dirt, near the river. Doc examined it and said that Benjamin had died of suffocation, probably he had been buried alive. He had bruises on his arms, his neck, and his back. Before he was buried, he had been raped. Benjamin was eleven years old.
Now listen to a strange story, Shatzy said.
The same day Benjamin was found, an Indian everyone called Dark disappeared from the Clark ranch. Someone said he’d seen him leave town, on horseback, heading for the mountains. Dark was Benjamin’s friend. Benjamin always listened to him. They often went swimming together, down at the river. And they hunted snakes. They’d keep them alive for a while, feeding them mice. Then they killed them. Dark must have been about twenty. They called him that because he was odd. With people, he was odd. Under his cot they found a tin can and in the can a bracelet that Benjamin always wore on his right wrist. It was made of snakeskin.
Shatzy said that many people volunteered to go after the Indian. It was intoxicating, to hunt a man. But the sheriff said: I’m going. Alone. His name was Wister, and he was a fine man. He didn’t like hangings and he believed in trials. He knew Benjamin, every so often he took him fishing, and he had also promised him that when he was fourteen he would teach him to shoot-to hit a bottle, at ten paces, with his eyes closed. He said: Dark is my business. He left in the morning, while the wind raised whirlpools of dust under the grill of a burning sun.
Music.
Shatzy did the music, with her mouth closed, something like a big orchestra, violins and trumpets, it was done well. Then she asked you: everything clear?
More or less.
You’ll see, it’s not hard.
All right.
Shall we go?
Let’s go.

12. Il primo giorno
Sheriff Wister heads for the mountains. He takes the trail for Quarter Pass. He chooses the way through the forest, figuring Dark must have half a day’s advantage. He climbs the mountain ridge, stopping every so often to study the hoofprints on the trail. It takes a while but finally he is able to recognize those of Dark’s horse. He knows that the Indian, if he wanted, could have made them vanish. The boy must be sure of himself, he thinks. Maybe he thinks he’s not being followed. Surely he wants to get to the border. He spurs his horse and crosses Quarter Pass, descends to a valley, comes out of the woods, and stops. No more than five hundred yards ahead, he sees Dark. It’s strange: he looks like a statue: he’s motionless, sitting in the saddle of a dappled bay. Here already, boy? thinks Sheriff Wister. He keeps his horse at a walk, and heads toward Dark, slowly, without taking his eyes off him. Minutes and minutes, like that. Why the hell doesn’t he run? thinks Sheriff Wister. Then he loads his rifle and checks his pistols. He looks at the sun. He sees that it’s about to go behind him. He smiles. You’re finished, kid. He takes off at a gallop. A hundred yards, then another hundred, the boy doesn’t move, the sheriff rides bent over his horse, they were distant, now they are close, two hundred yards, a hundred, a rifle shot. It’s when the sheriff raises his gun that Dark, suddenly, spurs his horse and takes off at a gallop. He leaves the trail and flees to the east. You woke up, boy, thinks Sheriff Wister. And follows him. Dark turns to the east, then to the west, and again to the east. The sheriff doesn’t let go. They gallop together, the distance between them never changing, for a long time. They draw aimless curves, in the void at the edge of the desert. An absurd dance. What sort of game is it? thinks Sheriff Wister. He straightens up in the saddle, slows his pace, and after a while he stops. He sees Dark, ahead of him, pull on the reins and stop his horse. They remain there, motionless, looking at each other. A hundred yards, no more. Until Wister spurs his horse to a gallop, and Dark again flees, turns again to the east, and then west, the dance begins again, the colors fade, the light falls, it’s cold, suddenly. Wister stops. He shakes his head. OK, kid. I’m not in a hurry. He dismounts, makes camp, lights a fire. Before he goes to sleep, he sees in the darkness the light of Dark’s campfire, not far from him. Good night, kid.

13. Il secondo giorno
On the second day, Sheriff Wister wakes before dawn. He stirs the fire, heats the coffee. He waits for dawn. At daybreak, he sees Dark in the distance, standing motionless beside the dappled bay. He takes the binoculars. He sees that the boy doesn’t have a rifle. He smiles. Maybe a pistol. Then he sits down on the ground. And he says softly, The first move is yours, kid. They stay like that for hours. Sun burning the emptiness all around. Every half hour Sheriff Wister takes a swallow of water and one of whiskey. The light is blinding. Suddenly he sees Benjamin again, laughing, running. Die, you son of a bitch, die, you Indian bastard. He gets up. He feels his head spinning. He takes the reins in his hand and begins to walk, leading the horse. He walks slowly, but in front of him Dark doesn’t move, doesn’t get on his horse, doesn’t run away. Two hundred yards. Maybe less. Sheriff Wister stops. He shouts: End it, Dark. He says softly: Get yourself killed, like a good boy. And again shouting: Dark, don’t be a fool. The boy remains motionless. Wister checks rifle and pistols. Then he climbs into the saddle. He takes off at a gallop. He sees Dark mount his horse and go. They go forward like that, until their horses are exhausted. A pueblo appears on the horizon, forgotten in the emptiness. Dark heads for it, Wister follows. Ten minutes later Dark enters the pueblo at a gallop and disappears. Sheriff Wister slows down and gets off his horse before he enters the town. He draws his gun as he reaches the first houses. Not a living soul. He walks slowly, keeping close to the walls, alert to the slightest sound. He looks in every window, reads every shadow. He feels his heart pounding in his ears. Stay calm, he thinks. Probably he’s not even armed. All you have to do is find him and get rid of him. He’s just a kid. He keeps walking and finally he sees an old woman standing in the doorway of a posada. He approaches. He asks her in Spanish if she’s seen an Indian, on a dappled horse. She nods her head yes, and points toward the other end of the village, where the trail goes on into the emptiness. Wister aims the rifle at her head. Don’t lie, he says in Spanish. She makes the sign of the cross, and again points to the far end of the village. The sheriff puts away his gun. Do you have anything to drink? The woman goes into the posada and comes out with some whiskey. Sheriff Wister drinks. Did he take water with him, the Indian? The woman nods no. You know who he is? Then the woman says: yes. Es un chico que va detras de un asesino. Sheriff Wister stares at her. Did he tell you that? Yes. Sheriff Wister takes another swallow of whiskey. You’re dead, kid, he thinks. He gets on his horse, tosses a coin to the old woman, puts the whiskey in his pack, and proceeds, slowly, to the edge of the village. When he passes the last house he looks ahead. Nothing. But when he turns to the right he sees Dark, motionless in the saddle, no more than a hundred yards away. Es un chico que va detras de un asesino. Sheriff Wister passes one hand over his face. Stay calm, he thinks. He remains staring at Dark. He wants to shout something at him, but doesn’t know what. He turns his horse, goes back to the first house, and dismounts. He spends the night there. But he can’t sleep. A gun, always, in his hand.

14. Il terzo giorno
On the third day, Sheriff Wister leaves the pueblo and sees Dark in the distance, on the trail that leads to the desert. He gets on his horse and follows him, slowly. He lets the horse carry him. Every so often he falls asleep: from the heat, the exhaustion. After three hours he stops at a spring. The Indian might have poisoned it, he thinks. He refills his canteens and sets off. I can’t let him reach the desert, he thinks. We’ll both die there. He has a swallow of whiskey. He waits until the sun is lower on the horizon. Then he says softly, End of the game, kid, and he takes off at a gallop. Dark doesn’t seem to be aware of him. He keeps going, slowly, without turning. Perhaps he’s sleeping. He’s mine, thinks Sheriff Wister. Three hundred yards. Two hundred yards. A hundred yards. Sheriff Wister draws his gun. Fifty yards. Dark turns, he has a rifle with a long barrel in his hand, he aims and shoots. One shot. Wister’s horse swerves to the right, then collapses on its front legs, and falls to the ground, lying on its side. Wister manages to slide out from under it. He feels a burning pain in his shoulder. Then he hears a second shot enter the animal’s flesh. He raises his head, and, leaning against the horse’s body, fires three shots, one after the other. Dark’s horse rears up on its hind legs and rolls over on its back, legs in the air, kicking. Sheriff Wister grabs his rifle from the saddle. Dark regains control of his horse and gallops off, trying to escape. Wister aims and fires two shots. It seems to him that he sees Dark fold over the animal’s neck. Then he sees the horse break its stride, stagger, move another twenty yards, and collapse. He sees Dark’s body flung in the dust. Adios, kid, he thinks. He loads the gun, takes aim. Dark is trying to get up. Wister fires. He sees a swirl of dust, ten yards in front of Dark’s body. Shit, he says. He fires again. The second bullet hits beside the first. Shit. Dark gets up. He retrieves his gun. With the other hand he unhooks the saddlebags from the saddle. He stands there, staring at Wister. Eighty yards between them. A gunshot. Something more. Sheriff Wister looks at the sun. He doesn’t have much time before dark, he thinks. His shoulder hurts, he can’t move the arm without feeling a sharp pain. He unhooks his saddlebags and throws them over his good shoulder. He loads his gun. And starts walking toward Dark. The boy sees him, turns, and heads off, also walking, slowly. Sheriff Wister imagines the scene as viewed from above, two men crawling in a void, and thinks: we are two condemned men. They walk for two hours. Then Dark abandons the trail and turns east. Sheriff Wister stops. He’s mad, he thinks. He’s going into the desert. He’s mad. He takes his gun and shoots into the air. Dark stops, turns. Wister lets his saddlebags fall to the ground. Then he throws down his rifle. He opens his arms wide. Dark remains motionless. Wister walks toward him, slowly. Dark doesn’t move. Wister keeps walking, then little by little he lowers his arms and moves his hands to the butts of his guns. He is fifty yards from the Indian. He stops. He’s crazy with the pain in his shoulder. He feels his heart beating so hard it hurts. End it, kid, he shouts. Dark doesn’t move. That’s the desert over there, you want to die like a fool? he cries. Dark takes a few steps toward him. Then stops. They stand there, facing each other, two black squiggles in the emptiness. The silence is so terrible that Sheriff Wister hears Benjamin screaming inside him.

15. L’urlo
He tries to focus on Dark. But the cry will not leave him in peace. You have to do your job, he says to himself. Forget the rest. Do your job. He realizes that he is staring at the ground. He lifts his head suddenly. He gazes at Dark. He sees two absent eyes. He sees them as if they were very close, as if he could touch them. And he thinks: They are invincible eyes. Then, like a lightning bolt, fear strikes him, and his legs crumple. He drops to his knees. He falls forward, with his hands on the ground. He sees them trembling. He can’t breathe, the blood is beating in his temples. With a huge effort he looks up at Dark. He is still standing there. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

16. Mondo sparito
There are no birds in the sky, nor snakes in the dust, nor wind to riffle the grasses, no horizon, nothing. The world has disappeared. Sheriff Wister murmurs softly: go to hell, kid. Go to hell. He gets to his feet, casts a last glance at Dark. Then he turns-turns-and stumbling reaches his rifle. He grabs it. He takes a few more steps. He picks up his saddlebag and throws it over his good shoulder. Without a glance back he walks on, following the traces of his steps. He doesn’t stop until dark. He falls to the ground. He closes his eyes. He dreams.

17. Il quarto giorno
On the fourth day Sheriff Wister wakes at dawn. He gets up. He sees, minuscule on the horizon, the white houses of the pueblo. For a second he looks back. He sees Dark, a hundred yards away. Standing. Still. Wister picks up his bags and the rifle. He starts off again, heading toward the pueblo. He walks for hours. Every so often he falls to the ground, pulls his hat down over his eyes, and waits. When he feels his strength returning, he stands up and sets off again. He never turns. He manages to reach the pueblo before sunset. They give him food and drink. He says: I am Sheriff Wister. They give him a bed to sleep in. They tell him in Spanish that there is a chico, outside the pueblo. He is camped a hundred yards or so from the first houses. They ask if it is a friend of his. No, says Sheriff Wister. He’s crazy with the pain in his shoulder. He sleeps with his gun loaded, within reach of his hand.
On the fifth day Sheriff Wister gets them to give him a horse, and he heads for the mountains. He finds the wind again, and clouds of dust that blot out the trail. He rides for hours, without stopping, crosses the mountains without turning around. When he arrives in sight of Closingtown it’s evening. He looks at the trees bent by the wind. He pats his horse’s neck. He stops him. He turns. He sees Dark, a few hundred yards away. In the saddle, motionless. Kid, says Wister softly. Kid. Then he presses his heels into the belly of his horse and without looking back again arrives in Closingtown.
When he gets to the first houses, someone starts shouting that the sheriff is back. People rush out to the street. He continues slowly, without looking at anyone. In one hand he holds the reins, in the other a gun. No one dares approach, he’s like a dead man on horseback, or a madman. Sheriff Wister crosses the town, like a phantom, then he skirts the jail and takes the trail for the Clark ranch. People follow, on foot. They hardly dare speak. Wister arrives at the ranch. He gets off his horse. He throws the reins over the fence. He heads for the house, walking like a drunk. Someone goes over to help him. He points the gun at him. He says nothing, keeps walking, and comes to the house. Standing in front of it is Benjamin’s father. Eugene Clark. Face aged by the wind, hair gray. Sheriff Wister stops three paces from him. He’s still holding the gun in his right hand. He looks at Eugene Clark. Then he says: I’m sorry, he kept on crying, he wouldn’t stop. He was always a good boy with me. He had never done that, before. He was a good boy. Eugene Clark takes a step toward him. Wister aims the gun at him. Eugene Clark stops. Sheriff Wister raises the barrel of his Colt .45. He says: I didn’t bury him alive, I swear. He wasn’t breathing anymore, his eyes were rolled up in his head, and he wasn’t breathing anymore. Then he sticks the gun under his chin, and shoots.

18. Macchie di sangue
Bloodstains on the face and clothes of Eugene Clark. People are running, shouting, the children want to see, the old people shake their heads, the wind ceaselessly whips up the dust, all around. It takes a while for them to become aware of Dark. He is on his horse, not moving, beside the fence. He has no eyes anymore, they have disappeared into his Indian cheekbones. He breathes with his mouth open, between lips dry with dust and hunger. The people are silent. He presses his heels lightly into the horse’s flanks. He pulls t2he reins to the left and goes away. A boy runs after him. Dark, he calls, Dark. The sheriff shot himself, Dark. He doesn’t turn around, he goes on, slowly, toward the river. Dark, hey, Dark, where are you going?
Dark doesn’t turn around.
To sleep, he says softly.
Music.

19. Musica