Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West (Vintage International) by Cormac Mccarthy

Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West (Vintage International) by Cormac Mccarthy

Author:Cormac Mccarthy [Mccarthy, Cormac]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307762528
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-08-10T16:00:00+00:00

As they rode out through the tall wooden gates of the governor’s palace two soldiers who had been standing there counting them past stepped forward and took Toadvine’s horse by the headstall. Glanton passed him on the right and rode on. Toadvine stood in the saddle.

Glanton!

The riders clattered into the street. Glanton just beyond the gates looked back. The soldiers were speaking to Toadvine in spanish and one held an escopeta on him.

I aint got nobody’s teeth, Glanton said.

I’ll shoot these two fools where they stand.

Glanton spat. He looked down the street and he looked at Toadvine. Then he dismounted and led his horse back into the courtyard. Vamonos, he said. He looked up at Toadvine. Get off your horse.

They rode out of town under escort two days later. Upward of a hundred soldiers herding them along the road, uneasy in their varied dress and arms, wrenching their horses about and booting them through the ford where the American horses had stopped to drink. In the foothills above the aqueduct they reined to one side and the Americans filed past and wound up through the rocks and nopal and diminished among the shadows and were gone.

They rode west into the mountains. They passed through small villages doffing their hats to folk whom they would murder before the month was out. Mud pueblos that lay like plague towns with the crops rotting in the fields and what stock not driven off by the indians wandering at will and none to herd or tend it and many villages almost wholly depopulated of male inhabitants where the women and children crouched in terror in their hovels listening until the last hoofclop died in the distance.

At the town of Nacori there was a cantina and here the company dismounted and crowded through the doorway and took tables. Tobin volunteered to guard the horses. He stood watching up and down the street. No one paid him any mind. These people had seen Americans in plenty, dusty laggard trains of them months out of their own country and half crazed with the enormity of their own presence in that immense and bloodslaked waste, commandeering meal and meat or indulging a latent taste for rape among the sloe-eyed girls of that country. Now it was something near to an hour past noon and a number of workers and tradesmen were crossing the street toward the cantina. As they passed Glanton’s horse Glanton’s dog rose up bristling. They veered slightly and went on. At the same moment a deputation of dogs of the village had started across the plaza, five, six of them, their eyes on Glanton’s dog. As they did so a juggler leading a funeral rounded the corner into the street and taking a rocket from among several under his arm he held it to the cigarillo in his mouth and tossed it into the plaza where it exploded. The pack of dogs shied and scrambled back save for two who continued into the street. Among



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