The boy looked out the window. Yeah, he said.
Dont go to cryin on me now.
He never give up, the boy said. He was the one told me not to. He said let's not have a funeral till we got somethin to bury, if it aint nothin but his dogtags. They were fixin to give your clothes away.
His father smiled. They might as well of, he said. Only thing fit me was the boots.
He always thought you all would get back together.
Yeah, I know he did.
The boy stood and put on his hat. I better get on back, he said.
He used to get in fights over her. Even as a old man. Anybody said anything about her. If he heard about it. It wasnt even dignified.
I better get on.
He unpropped his feet from the windowsill. I'll walk down with you. I need to get the paper.
They stood in the tiled lobby while his father scanned the headlines.
How can Shirley Temple be getting divorced? he said.
He looked up. Early winter twilight in the streets. I might just get a haircut, he said.
He looked at the boy.
I know how you feel. I felt the same way.
The boy nodded. His father looked at the paper again and folded it.
The Good Book says that the meek shall inherit the earth and I expect that's probably the truth. I aint no freethinker, but I'll tell you what. I'm a long way from bein convinced that it's all that good a thing.
He looked at the boy. He took his key out of his coatpocket and handed it to him.
Go on back up there. There's somethin belongs to you in the closet.
The boy took the key. What is it? he said.
Just somethin I got for you. I was goin to give it to you at Christmas but I'm tired of walkin over it.
Anyway you look like you could use some cheerin up. Just leave the key at the desk when you come down.
I'll see you.
He rode back up in the elevator and walked down the hall and put the key in the door and walked in and went to the closet and opened it. Standing on the floor along with two pairs of boots and a pile of dirty shirts was a brand new Hamley Formfitter saddle. He picked it up by the horn and shut the closet door and carried it to the bed and swung it up and stood looking at it.
Hell fire and damnation, he said.
He left the key at the desk and swung out through the doors into the street with the saddle over his shoulder.
He walked down to South Concho Street and swung the saddle down and stood it in front of him. It was just dark and the streetlights had come on. The first vehicle along was a Model A Ford truck and it came skidding quarterwise to a halt on its mechanical brakes and the driver leaned across and rolled down the window part way and boomed at him in a whiskey voice: Throw that hull up in the bed, cowboy, and get in here.
Yessir, he said.
Excerpted from All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy Copyright © 1992 by Cormac McCarthy. Excerpted by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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