Mason found himself at the most conspicuous border crossing in New Mexico, but no one was there. He was in a valley asking about hills but no hills coupled there was only one and he had to make the crest. He waited a flatbed truck out and then drove to the top of the hill. At the top he got out his binoculars and a high-powered rifle.
Scanning the desert in all its heat distortions and sunlit reverie, Mason drug the tramp Mexican through the mud in his mind. He painted pictures in the dirt for about an hour dusting off the desert every five minutes with his binoculars.
At one hour and thirty minutes and a stick broken into seven pieces a he spied a man hurting. He focused the binoculars. A sound clipping the air to pieces at every turn was showering itself behind him, a helicopter. Vehicles must be near and they were, the off-road aspect of them was in high pursuit. Mason felt a gripping sense of duty and he made the rifle an extension of himself… the song “Ghost Riders in the Sky”… Dick Dale… surf guitar… there was no time… there was no time…
In Gomez’s mind an invisible entity that marked the difference between two pieces of land on the same landmass was freedom and he was leaving the supposed beacon of freedom to be where his freedom was. Everything was nearly over and he knew the nearing loud noises were just a façade that would disappear in the courts.
He didn’t even hear the crack of the gun, he just felt something and then he felt nothing.
Something to be proud enough of to never talk about again.
Mason remembered getting in the truck and leaving, there was no way to avoid the trucks and the helicopter probably saw him putting his gun up. He had enough to time to drive ninety while they tried to figure out what had happened.
No fear, no regret.