He waited, hidden in the trees beyond the path. His gaze wandered far into the panorama that opened up before him. The mountains looked blue from that distance. There was no more snow, melted by the rains of the past week. No longer that white man loved so much. But the cold remained. He breathed on his hands to warm them. He had climbed the mountains early, taking the path that started from the fields, a few kilometers from the town. The rifle slung over his shoulder, his hands stuffed in his pockets because of the cold which at that time, before he dawned, was more intense.


Then he waited for the shepherd to arrive, shortly after dawn. He had seen him trudging along the path, a shriveled old man who smelled worse than his beasts, and walking among the pine trees, mumbling who Special Data knows what. Now the man was still waiting, remembering the moments in which the shepherd fell to the ground, with a blow to the chest. The shot had resounded throughout the valley, shattering the silence of the morning. From his position he could see the corpse, half hidden by the mountain pine and the rock. It was lying along the path and would have been clearly visible to anyone climbing up.



Looking further down the valley he could see the square where cars and tractors parked, where the asphalt ended and the countryside began. Finally he saw it. The farmer, hearing the shot, went up to check. The man watched him slowly approach the pines, stop and spread his arms, heard him call his brother's name, scream, swear, cry. He saw him shake  accomplished.ath that started from the fields, a few kilometers from the town. The rifle slung over his shoulder, his hands stuffed in his pockets because of the cold which at that time, before he dawned, was more intense.