CHAPTER3

theycamedownthelasttwohundredyards,movingcarefullyfromtreetotreeintheshadowsandnow,throughthelastpinesofthesteephillside,thebridgewasonlyfiftyyardsaway.thelateafternoonsunthatstillcameoverthebrownshoulderofthemountainshowedthebridgedarkagainstthesteepemptinessofthegorge.itwasasteelbridgeofasinglespanandtherewasasentryboxateachend.itwaswideenoughfortwomotorcarstopassanditspanned,insolid-flungmetalgrace,adeepgorgeatthebottomofwhich,farbelow,abrookleapedinwhitewaterthroughrocksandbouldersdowntothemainstreamofthepass.

thesunwasinrobertjordan’seyesandthebridgeshowedonlyinoutline.thenthesunlessenedandwasgoneandlookingupthroughthetreesatthebrown,roundedheightthatithadgonebehind,hesaw,now,thathenolongerlookedintotheglare,thatthemountainslopewasadelicatenewgreenandthattherewerepatchesofoldsnowunderthecrest.

thenhewaswatchingthebridgeagaininthesuddenshorttruenessofthelittlelightthatwouldbeleft,andstudyingitsconstruction.theproblemofitsdemolitionwasnotdifficult.ashewatchedhetookoutanotebookfromhisbreastpocketandmadeseveralquicklinesketches.ashemadethedrawingshedidnotfigurethecharges.hewoulddothatlater.nowhewasnotingthepointswheretheexplosiveshouldbeplacedinordertocutthesupportofthespananddropasectionofitintothegorge.itcouldbedoneunhurriedly,scientificallyandcorrectlywithahalfdozenchargeslaidandbracedtoexplodesimultaneously;oritcouldbedoneroughlywithtwobigones.theywouldneedtobeverybigones,onoppositesidesandshouldgoatthesametime.hesketchedquicklyandhappily;gladatlasttohavetheproblemunderhishand;gladatlastactuallytobeengageduponit.thenheshuthisnotebook,pushedthepencilintoitsleatherholderintheedgeoftheflap,putthenotebookinhispocketandbuttonedthepocket.

whilehehadsketched,anselmohadbeenwatchingtheroad,thebridgeandthesentryboxes.hethoughttheyhadcometooclosetothebridgeforsafetyandwhenthesketchingwasfinished,hewasrelieved.

asrobertjordanbuttonedtheflapofhispocketandthenlayflatbehindthepinetrunk,lookingoutfrombehindit,anselmoputhishandonhiselbowandpointedwithonefinger.

inthesentryboxthatfacedtowardthemuptheroad,thesentrywassittingholdinghisrifle,thebayonetfixed,betweenhisknees.hewassmokingacigaretteandheworeaknittedcapandblanketstylecape.atfiftyyards,youcouldnotseeanythingabouthisface.robertjordanputuphisfieldglasses,shadingthelensescarefullywithhiscuppedhandseventhoughtherewasnownosuntomakeaglint,andtherewastherailofthebridgeasclearasthoughyoucouldreachoutandtouchitandtherewasthefaceofthesentysoclearhecouldseethesunkencheeks,theashonthecigaretteandthegreasyshineofthebayonet.itwasapeasant’sface,thecheekshollowunderthehighcheekbones,thebeardstubbled,theeyesshadedbytheheavybrows,bighandsholdingtherifle,heavybootsshowingbeneaththefoldsoftheblanketcape.therewasaworn,blackenedleatherwinebottleonthewallofthesentrybox,thereweresomenewspapersandtherewasnotelephone.therecould,ofcourse,beatelephoneonthesidehecouldnotsee;buttherewerenowiresrunningfromtheboxthatwerevisible.atelephonelineranalongtheroadanditswireswerecarriedoverthebridge.therewasacharcoalbrazieroutsidethesentrybox,madefromanoldpetroltinwiththetopcutoffandholespunchedinit,whichrestedontwostones;butheheldnofire.thereweresomefire-blackenedemptytinsintheashesunderit.

robertjordanhandedtheglassestoanselmowholayflatbesidehim.theoldmangrinnedandshookhishead.hetappedhisskullbesidehiseyewithonefinger.

“yaloveo,”hesaidinspanish.“ihaveseenhim,”speakingfromthefrontofhismouthwithalmostnomovementofhislipsinthewaythatisquieterthananywhisper.helookedatthesentryasrobertjordansmiledathimand,pointingwithonefinger,drewtheotheracrosshisthroat.robertjordannoddedbuthedidnotsmile.

thesentryboxatthefarendofthebridgefacedawayfromthemanddowntheroadandtheycouldnotseeintoit.theroad,whichwasbroadandoiledandwellconstructed,madeaturntotheleftatthefarendofthebridgeandthenswungoutofsightaroundacurvetotheright.atthispointitwasenlargedfromtheoldroadtoitspresentwidthbycuttingintothesolidbastionoftherockonthefarsideofthegorge;anditsleftorwesternedge,lookingdownfromthepassandthebridge,wasmarkedandprotectedbyalineofuprightcutblocksofstonewhereitsedgefellsheerawaytothegorge.thegorgewasalmostacanyonhere,wherethebrook,thatthebridgewasflungover,mergedwiththemainstreamofthepass.

“andtheotherpost?”robertjordanaskedanselmo.

“fivehundredmetersbelowthatturn.intheroadmender’shutthatisbuiltintothesideoftherock.”“howmanymen?”robertjordanasked.

hewaswatchingthesentryagainwithhisglasses.thesentryrubbedhiscigaretteoutontheplankwallofthebox,thentookaleatheropouchfromhispocket,openedthepaperofthedeadcigaretteandemptiedtheremnantofusedointothepouch.thesentrystoodup,leanedhisrifleagainstthewalloftheboxandstretched,thenpickeduphisrifle,slungitoverhisshoulderandwalkedoutontothebridge.anselmoflattenedonthegroundandrobertjordanslippedhisglassesintohisshirtpocketandputhisheadwellbehindthepinetree.

“therearesevenmenandacorporal,”anselmosaidclosetohisear.“iinformedmyselffromthegypsy.”

“wewillgonowassoonasheisquiet,”robertjordansaid.“wearetooclose.”

“hastthouseenwhatthouneedest?”

“yes.allthatineed.”

itwasgettingcoldquicklynowwiththesundownandthelightwasfailingastheafterglowfromthelastsunlightonthemountainsbehindthemfaded.

“howdoesitlooktothee?”anselmosaidsoftlyastheywatchedthesentrywalkacrossthebridgetowardtheotherbox,hisbayonetbrightinthelastoftheafterglow,hisfigureunshapelyintheblanketcoat.

“verygood,”robertjordansaid.“very,verygood.”

“iamglad,”anselmosaid.“shouldwego?nowthereisnochancethatheseesus.”

thesentrywasstanding,hisbacktowardthem,atthefarendofthebridge.fromthegorgecamethenoiseofthestreamintheboulders.thenthroughthisnoisecameanothernoise,asteady,racketingdroneandtheysawthesentrylookingup,hisknittedcapslantedback,andturningtheirheadsandlookinguptheysaw,highintheeveningsky,threemonoplanesinvformation,showingminuteandsilveryatthatheightwheretherestillwassun,passingunbelievablyquicklyacrossthesky,theirmotorsnowthrobbingsteadily.

“ours?”anselmoasked.

“theyseemso,”robertjordansaidbutknewthatatthatheightyounevercouldbesure.theycouldbeaneveningpatrolofeitherside.butyoualwayssaidpursuitplaneswereoursbecauseitmadepeoplefeelbetter.bomberswereanothermatter.

anselmoevidentlyfeltthesame.“theyareours,”hesaid.“irecognizethem.theyaremoscas.”

“good,”saidrobertjordan.“theyseemtometobemoscas,too.”

“theyaremoscas,”anselmosaid.

robertjordancouldhaveputtheglassesonthemandbeensureinstantlybuthepreferrednotto.itmadenodifferencetohimwhotheyweretonightandifitpleasedtheoldmantohavethembeours,hedidnotwanttotakethemaway.now,astheymovedoutofsighttowardsevogia,theydidnotlooktobethegreen,redwing-tipped,lowwingrussianconversionoftheboeingp32thatthespaniardscalledmoscas.youcouldnotseethecolorsbutthecutwaswrong.no.itwasafascistpatrolcominghome.

thesentrywasstillstandingatthefarboxwithhisbackturned.

“letusgo,”robertjordansaid.hestartedupthehill,movingcarefullyandtakingadvantageofthecoveruntiltheywereoutofsight.anselmofollowedhimatahundredyardsdistance.whentheywerewelloutofsightofthebridge,hestoppedandtheoldmancameupandwentintotheleadandclimbedsteadilythroughthepass,upthesteepslopeinthedark.

“wehaveaformidableaviation,”theoldmansaidhappily.

“yes.”

“andwewillwin.”

“wehavetowin.”

“yes.andafterwehavewonyoumustcometohunt.”

“tohuntwhat?”

“theboar,thebear,thewolf,theibex—”

“youliketohunt?”

“yes,man.morethananything.weallhuntinmyvillage.youdonotliketohunt?”

“no,”saidrobertjordan.“idonotliketokillanimals.”

“withmeitistheopposite,”theoldmansaid.“idonotliketokillmen.”

“nobodydoesexceptthosewhoaredisturbedinthehead,”robertjordansaid.“butifeelnothingagainstitwhenitisnecessary.whenitisforthecause.”

“itisadifferentthing,though,”anselmosaid.“inmyhouse,whenihadahouse,andnowihavenohouse,therewerethetusksofboarihadshotinthelowerforest.therewerethehidesofwolvesihadshot.inthewinter,huntingtheminthesnow.oneverybigone,ikilledatduskintheoutskirtsofthevillageonmywayhomeonenightinnovember.therewerefourwolfhidesonthefloorofmyhouse.theywerewornbysteppingonthembuttheywerewolfhides.therewerethehornsofibexthatihadkilledinthehighsierra,andtherewasaneaglestuffedbyanembalmerofbirdsofavila,withhiswingsspread,andeyesasyellowandrealastheeyesofaneaglealive.itwasaverybeautifulthingandallofthosethingsgavemegreatpleasuretocontemplate.”

“yes,”saidrobertjordan.

“onthedoorofthechurchofmyvillagewasnailedthepawofabearthatikilledinthespring,findinghimonahillsideinthesnow,overturningalogwiththissamepaw.”

“whenwasthis?”

“sixyearsago.andeverytimeisawthatpaw,likethehandofaman,butwiththoselongclaws,driedandnailedthroughthepalmtothedoorofthechurch,ireceivedapleasure.”

“ofpride?”

“ofprideofremembranceoftheencounterwiththebearonthathillsideintheearlyspring.butofthekillingofaman,whoisamanasweare,thereisnothinggoodthatremains.”

“youcan’tnailhispawtothechurch,”robertjordansaid.

“no.suchabarbarityisunthinkable.yetthehandofamanislikethepawofabear.”