The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [30]
But he had been right about the rifleman being the most dangerous. The Sergeant dropped the wad of money to the ground, swung his rifle up and very coolly shot. There was no mistaking the hit; Guiliano’s body dropped like a dead bird.
Guiliano heard the shot at the same time he felt his body wracked with pain, as if he had been hit with a giant club. He landed on the ground between the two trees and tried to get up, but could not. His legs were numb; he could not make them move. Pistol in hand he twisted his body and saw the Sergeant shake his rifle in the air in triumph. And then Guiliano felt his trousers filling with blood, the liquid warm and sticky.
In the fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger of his pistol, Turi Guiliano felt only astonishment. That they had shot him over a piece of cheese. That they had smashed the fabric of his family with such a cruel carelessness just because he was running away from such a small breaking of the law that everyone broke. His mother would weep to the end of her days. And now his body was awash in blood, he who had never done anyone any harm.
He pulled the trigger and saw the rifle fall, saw the Sergeant’s black cap with its white piping seem to fly in the air as the body with its mortal head wound crumpled and floated to the rock-filled earth. It was an impossible shot with a pistol at that range but it seemed to Guiliano that his own hand had traveled with the bullet and smashed it like a dagger through the Sergeant’s eye.
A machine pistol began to pop but the bullets flew upward in harmless arcs, chattering like small birds. And then it was deadly still. Even the insects had stopped their incessant whirring.
Turi Guiliano rolled into the bushes. He had seen the enemy’s face shatter into a mask of blood and that gave him hope. He was not powerless. He tried to get up again and this time his legs obeyed him. He began to run but only one leg sprang forward, the other dragged along the ground, which surprised him. His crotch was warm and sticky, his trousers soaked, his vision cloudy. When he ran through a sudden patch of light, he was afraid he had circled back into the clearing again and tried to turn back. His body started to fall—not to the ground, but into an endless red-tinted black void, and then he knew he was falling forever.
In the clearing the young guard took his hand off the trigger of his machine pistol and the chattering stopped. The smuggler rose from the ground with the huge wad of money in his hand and offered it to the other guard. The guard pointed his machine pistol at him and said, “You’re under arrest.”
The smuggler said, “You only have to split it two ways now. Let me go on.”
The guards looked down at the fallen Sergeant. There was no doubt he was dead. The bullet had smashed eye and socket to pieces, and the wound was bubbling with a yellow liquid into which a gecko was already dipping its feelers.
The smuggler said, “I’ll go into the bushes after him, he’s hurt. I’ll bring back his carcass and you two will be heroes. Just let me go.”
The other guard picked up the identity card Turi had thrown down on the ground at the Sergeant’s command. He read it aloud, “Salvatore Guiliano, the town of Montelepre.”
“No need to look for him now,” the other said. “We’ll report back to headquarters, that’s more important.”
“Cowards,” the smuggler said. He thought for a moment of unslinging his lupara but saw that they were looking at him with hatred. He had insulted them. For that insult they made him load the Sergeant’s body onto his horse and made him walk back to their barracks. Before that they relieved him