Rugged individualism denies the needs and sometimes even the humanity of others and the develops a kind of tunnel vision. Even before he takes the money, McCarthy’s cowboy, Moss, holds himself exempt from responsibility for others. Investigating the scene, he opens the doors of a shot-out Ford Bronco to find a near-dead man inside. The man speaks little English, but asks Moss for agua, and begs Moss to help him, warning that “lobos” and “leones” – wolves and lions – will be drawn to the smell of his flesh if he is left there (14, 15). Instead of helping, Moss self-interestedly searches the man’s pockets for ammunition and responds dryly: “I ain’t got no water . . . there ain’t no lobos.” He closes the door and leaves him to die. Moss, the rugged individualist, takes the man’s words at face value, dismissing them as factually incorrect: “there ain’t no lobos” in Texas. He does not even consider what the man might mean with his warning. This callous disregard for the man’s perspective is evident in his appalling lack of sympathy for his thirst. Moss sees the man in purely transactional terms. The man offered him nothing of value, so he felt no duty to help him, or even to acknowledge his suffering. He clearly considers himself morally immune from the consequences of his own disregard: he effectively condemns the man to death. After stealing the briefcase, Moss finds himself hunted by the Mexican mafia, law enforcement, and, worst of all, the serial killer Anton Chigurh. Moss spends thousands of dollars on motel rooms, taxis, weaponry, and airfare so his wife, Carla Jean, can flee the state. None of it is to any avail. Unbeknownst to him, the cash-filled briefcase contains a tracker – “The middle of the packet had been filled in with dollar bills with the centers cut out and the transponder unit nested there” – allowing Chigurh to follow Moss’s trail and wait to execute him at his own leisure (108). Throughout, Moss continues to serve his own needs at the expense of others while failing to acknowledge his own complicity. He understands that his choice to take the briefcase has resulted in his life-or-death situation, but the only negative consequences he truly considers are to himself. But as McCarthy makes clear, Moss is morally culpable for the lives of the innocents caught in the crosshairs of Chigurh's relentless pursuit. The list of collateral damage that follows on from Moss’s theft of the suitcase is extensive: the motel clerk who had the misfortune of working the night Chigurh shot up the place (136), the fifteen-year-old hitchhiker Chigurh murdered after Moss gave him a ride (248), and the random pedestrians and pharmacy patrons killed after Moss’s death when Chigurh’s getaway car explodes (163). Most tragic is the death of Carla Jean, Moss’s wife. He promises her that he will not compromise her safety, but in his inability to think beyond the immediate danger to himself, he leads Chigurh straight to her. When Moss is hurt in a shoot-out with a Mexican cartel and hospitalized in Piedra Negras, Chigurh calls and offers him a deal: “You bring me the money and I’ll let her walk. Otherwise she’s accountable. Same as you” (184). Nowhere does 100
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