The Best of Edward Abbey Read Online Free

back, won’t you?”
    “Sure. When I’m nothin but a face on the post office wall I’ll come a-sneakin back. You’ll see me comin down across the mesa out there some evening when things are peaceful.”
    “Don’t talk to me like that. You know you can’t go on like this—you’re in the Twentieth Century now.”
    “I don’t tune my life to the numbers on a calendar.”
    “That’s ridiculous, Jack. You’re a social animal, whether you like it or not. You’ve got to make some concessions—or they’ll hunt you down like a … like a … What do people hunt down nowadays?”
    “Coyotes,” Burns said. “With cyanide guns.” He finished his coffee and wiped his mouth. “I better get a move on.”
    Jerry gripped her cup tightly, though it burnt her fingers. “Jack—” she said.
    He looked at her over his hand. His lean worn face, beaten and discolored, harsh, asymmetrical, homely as a hound, touched her to the heart. She wanted to reach out to him, laugh and weep for him; instead she forced a smile, saying: “Like some more to eat?”
    He stared at her for a long moment before answering. “Thanks, Jerry … I’ve had enough.”
    “I’ll fix you something to take with you.”
    “That’d be mighty nice of you, Jerry.” He pushed back his chair, put on his hat and stood up. “I gotta get goin right away, though.”
    “Won’t take me but a minute.” She got up too and started to demonstrate her words. Burns was about to interfere, changedhis mind, picked up his rifle and bedroll, and went outside. Jerry finished packing a paper sack with a half loaf of dark bread wrapped in tin foil, with cheese and salami and oranges. She hurried out after him. “Don’t run off,” she said.
    Burns had slipped the rifle into the saddle scabbard and was tying the bedroll on behind the cantle when she came out. “Here,” she said, “take this. It’s bread.”
    “Thanks a lot,” he said, taking the package and jamming it into the top of the saddlebag. He knotted the last thong, then went to the pump to fill his canteen; she followed him. The air was chill enough to vaporize their exhalations, lending their speech a vague, smoky visibility.
    “I want to give you back the money,” she said.
    Burns unscrewed the cap of the canteen, held it under the spout and began pumping. Jerry picked up a can full of water and poured the water slowly into the top of the pump. “You have to prime this damn thing,” she said. Flecks of ice glittered in the starlight.
    “I forgot.” He pumped the handle up and down and after much groaning and gasping the pump started to give water, splashing over the cowboy’s hand and over the canteen.
    “I don’t need the money, you know. Not really …” She turned to go back to the house. “I’ll get it.”
    “I could use the ammunition,” he said at last. “And I’ll take back half the money.” Jerry started toward the porch. “No more,” he said after her.
    She went inside; Burns walked to his outfit and hung the canteen on the saddlehorn. He waited; the mare snorted and twitched her ears, pawing the ground, eager for the dawn and the ride. He looked to the east: the mountains seemed darker now, the snow almost blue; above the rim the sky was fading in waves of green and yellow, a hint of the sun burning below the horizon. But far in the west the night still held, deep and brilliant with the ice-blue crackling points of light from the stars.
    Jerry hurried out of the house toward him, the bandoleer in her hands. “All right, I kept half the money. Now take it.”
    He accepted the bandoleer without a word.
    “I almost forgot,” she said. “I want to do something for your face.”
    “My face is hopeless,” he said, trying to grin. “What can you do for it?”
    “That broken tooth may give you trouble.”
    “Broken tooth?”
    “You might at least let me wash the blood off your cheek.”
    “That ain’t blood, that’s skin. I washed everything off that would come