The Crossing (The Border Trilogy, #2)

by Cormac McCarthy

He held the trap up and eyed the notch in the pan while he backed off one screw and adjusted the trigger. Crouched in the broken shadow with the sun at his back and holding the trap at eyelevel against the morning sky he looked to be truing some older, some subtler instrument. Astrolabe or sextant. Like a man bent at fixing himself someway in the world. Bent on trying by arc or chord the space between his being and the world that was. If there be such space. If it be knowable.

You married? No sir. I aint but sixteen. Dont get married. Women are crazy. Yessir. You’ll think you’ve found one that aint but guess what? What? She will be too.