when he approached the trucks he had the rifle unslung and cradled at his waist with the safety off。 he stopped。 he studied the country and then he studied the trucks。 they were all shot up。 some of the tracks of holes that ran across the sheetmetal were spaced and linear and he knew theyd been put there with automatic weapons。 most of the glass was shot out and the tires flat。 he stood there。 listening。 in the first vehicle there was a man slumped dead over the wheel。 beyond were two more bodies lying in the gaunt yellow grass。 dried blood black on the ground。 he stopped and listened。 nothing。 the drone of flies。 he walked around the end of the truck。 there was a large dead dog there of the kind hed seen crossing the floodplain。 the dog was gutshot。 beyond that was a third body lying face down。 he looked through the window at the man in the truck。 he was shot through the head。 blood everywhere。 he walked on to the second vehicle but it was empty。 he walked out to where the third body lay。 there was a shotgun in the grass。 the shotgun had a short barrel and it was fitted with a pistol stock and a twenty round drum magazine。 he nudged the mans boot with his toe and studied the low surrounding hills。 the third vehicle was a bronco with a lifted suspension and dark smoked windows。 he reached up and opened the driver side door。 there was a man sitting in the seat looking at him。 moss stumbled back； leveling the rifle。 the mans face was bloody。 he moved his lips dryly。 agua； cuate； he said。 agua； por dios。 he had a shortbarreled h&k machinepistol with a black nylon shoulderstrap lying in his lap and moss reached and got it and stepped back。 agua； the man said。 por dios。 i aint got no water。 agua。 moss left the door open and slung the h&k over his shoulder and stepped away。 the man followed him with his eyes。 moss walked around the front of the truck and opened the door on the other side。 he lifted the latch and folded the seat forward。 the cargo space in the rear was covered with a metallic silver tarp。 he pulled it back。 a load of bricksized parcels each wrapped in plastic。 he kept one eye on the man and got out his knife and cut a slit in one of the parcels。 a loose brown powder dribbled out。 he wet his forefinger and dipped it in the powder and smelled it。 then he wiped his finger on his jeans and pulled the tarp back over the parcels and stepped back and looked over the country again。 nothing。 he walked away from the truck and stood and glassed the low hills。 the lava ridge。 the flat country to the south。 he got out his handkerchief and walked back and wiped clean everything hed touched。 the doorhandle and the seatlatch and the tarp and the plastic package。 he crossed around to the other side of the truck and wiped everything down there too。 he tried to think what else he might have touched。 he went back to the first truck and opened the door with his kerchief and looked in。 he opened the glovebox and closed it again。 he studied the dead man at the wheel。 he left the door open and walked around to the driver side。 the door was full of bulletholes。 the windshield。 small caliber。 six millimeter。 maybe number four buckshot。 the pattern of them。 he opened the door and pushed the windowbutton but the ignition was not on。 he shut the door and stood there； studying the low hills。 he squatted and unslung the rifle from off his shoulder and laid it in the grass and took the h&k and pushed back the follower with the heel of his hand。 there was a live round in the chamber but the magazine held only two more rounds。 he sniffed at the muzzle of the piece。 he ejected the clip and slung the rifle over one shoulder and the machinepistol over the other and walked back to the bronco and held the clip up for the man to see。 otra； he said。 otra。 the man nodded。 en mi bolsa。 you speak english？ he didnt answer。 he was trying to gesture with his chin。 moss could see two clips sticking out of the canvas pocket of the jacket he was wearing。 he reached into the cab and got them and stepped back。 smell of blood and fecal matter。 he put one of the full clips into the machinepistol and the other two in his pocket。 agua； cuate； the man said。 moss scanned the surrounding country。 i told you； he said。 i aint got no water。 la puerta； the man said。 moss looked at him。 la puerta。 hay lobos。 there aint no lobos。 si； si。 lobos。 leones。 moss shut the door with his elbow。 he went back to the first truck and stood looking at the open door on the passenger side。 there were no bulletholes in the door but there was blood on the seat。 the key was still in the ignition and he reached in and turned it and then pushed the windowbutton。 the glass ratcheted slowly up out of the channel。 there were two bulletholes in it and a fine spray of dried blood on the inside of the glass。 he stood there thinking about that。 he looked at the ground。 stains of blood in the clay。 blood in the grass。 he looked out down the track south across the caldera back the way the truck had e。 there had to be a last man standing。 and it wasnt the cuate in the bronco begging for water。 he walked out on the floodplain and cut a wide circle to see where the track of the tires in the thin grass would show in the sun。 he cut for sign a hundred feet to the south。 he picked up the mans trail and followed it until he came to blood in the grass。 then more blood。 you aint goin far； he said。 you may think you are。 but you aint。 he quit the track altogether and walked out to the highest ground visible holding the h&k under his arm with the safety off。 he glassed the country to the south。 nothing。 he stood fingering the boars tusk at the front of his shirt。 about now； he said； youre shaded up somewheres watchin your backtrack。 and the chances of me seein you fore you see me are about as close to nothin as you can get without fallin in。 he squatted and steadied his elbows on his knees and with the binoculars swept the rocks at the head of the valley。 he sat and crossed his legs and went over the terrain more slowly and then lowered the glasses and just sat。 do not； he said； get