Llewelyn's found himself in a bit of trouble.

No, that's an understatement if there ever was one.

After a fair bit of being dumber than hell–getting himself peppered with buckshot as well–the money was his, his wife was safe, and there wasn't a damn person in this world who could stop him.

He'd also managed to get the attention of one Anton Chigurh. Of course, he didn't know that damned man's name. Not yet. That whole encounter led to him getting shot a second time. A slug right through his gut. It happened so quickly he'd not even realized it himself until a moment after. Llewelyn got him back though; he knows he did because of the blood the man left behind on his retreat.

Thanking the Lord was really all he could do at this point. Considering that for some reason there wasn't a single soul outside in the Texan town he'd traveled to. If only he'd found that damn receiver earlier, none of this would have gone so damn terribly wrong, and he'd be one bullet wound less.

So, after going over everything and exhausting all of his options–as well as throwing the briefcase off of a bridge–Llewelyn began his trek across the border. There wasn't anyone around to stop him. Not yet at least, though with it being so late at night he wasn't expecting any badasses to roll out in droves.

His stomach still hurt like hell. That bastard was a good shot, he'd give him that. He got him good; hit something relatively important he felt as well. Llewelyn wasn't dead yet, so he'd just keep moving until he dropped. Anyone who knew him knew him to be a man that didn't know when to quit.

Even if quitting would be the best choice.

It wasn't long till he saw someone coming along; headed towards him. Hopefully they wouldn't pull the hero card and try to get an ambulance out here. The last thing Llewelyn wanted to do was explain why he was shot to the good folks of Eagle Pass.

When he was close enough to make out a face, Llewelyn spoke.

"...I'll give you five-hundred bucks for that coat."