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.The hostler brought the mule back and handed him the bridle.“You get in an’ tend your sister,” he said to Soobie.Soobie tossed her head and didn’t move.The gunslinger left them there, staring at each other across the dusty, droppings-strewn floor, he with his sick grin, she with dumb, inanimate defiance.Outside the heat was still like a hammer.XVIIHe walked the mule up the center of the street, his boots sending up squirts of dust.His waterbags, swollen with water, were strapped across the mule’s back.He stopped at the tonk, but Allie was not there.The place was deserted, battened down for the storm, but still dirty from the night before.It stank of sour beer.He filled his tote sack with corn meal, dried and roasted corn, and half of the raw hamburg in the cooler.He left four gold pieces stacked on the planked counter.Allie did not come down.Sheb’s piano bid him a silent, yellow-toothed toodle-oo.He stepped back out and cinched the tote sack across the mule’s back.There was a tight feeling in his throat.He might still avoid the trap, but the chances were small.He was, after all, The Interloper.He walked past the shuttered, waiting buildings, feeling the eyes that peered through cracks and chinks.The man in black had played God in Tull.He had spoken of a King’s child, a red prince.Was it only a sense of the cosmic comic, or a matter of desperation? It was a question of some importance.There was a shrill, harried scream from behind him, and doors suddenly threw themselves open.Forms lunged.The trap was sprung.Men in longhandles and men in dirty dungarees.Women in slacks and in faded dresses.Even children, tagging after their parents.And in every hand there was a chunk of wood or a knife.His reaction was automatic, instantaneous, inbred.He whirled on his heels while his hands pulled the guns from their holsters, the butts heavy and sure in his hands.It was Allie, and of course it had to be Allie, coming at him with her face distorted, the scar a hellish purple in the lowering light.He saw that she was held hostage; the distorted, grimacing face of Sheb peered over her shoulder like a witch’s familiar.She was his shield and sacrifice.He saw it all, clear and shadowless in the frozen, deathless light of the sterile calm, and heard her:“Kill me, Roland, kill me! I said the word, nineteen, I said, and he told me.I can’t bear it—”The hands were trained to give her what she wanted.He was the last of his breed and it was not only his mouth that knew the High Speech.The guns beat their heavy, atonal music into the air.Her mouth flapped and she sagged and the guns fired again.The last expression on her face might have been gratitude.Sheb’s head snapped back.They both fell into the dust.They’ve gone to the land of Nineteen, he thought.Whatever is there.Sticks flew through the air, rained on him.He staggered, fended them off.One with a nail pounded raggedly through it ripped at his arm and drew blood.A man with a beard stubble and sweat-stained armpits lunged, flying at him with a dull kitchen knife held in one paw.The gunslinger shot him dead and the man thumped into the street.His false teeth shot out as his chin struck and grinned, spit-shiny, in the dirt.“SATAN!” someone was screaming: “THE ACCURSED! BRING HIM DOWN!”“THE INTERLOPER!” another voice cried.Sticks rained on him.A knife struck his boot and bounced.“THE INTERLOPER! THE ANTICHRIST!”He blasted his way through the middle of them, running as the bodies fell, his hands picking the targets with ease and dreadful accuracy.Two men and a woman went down, and he ran through the hole they left.He led them a feverish parade across the street and toward the rickety general store/barber shop that faced Sheb’s.He mounted the boardwalk, turned again, and fired the rest of his loads into the charging crowd.Behind them, Sheb and Allie and the others lay crucified in the dust.They never hesitated or faltered, although every shot he fired found a vital spot and although they had probably never seen a gun.He retreated, moving his body like a dancer to avoid the flying missiles.He reloaded as he went, with a rapidity that had also been trained into his fingers.They shuttled busily between gunbelts and cylinders.The mob came up over the boardwalk and he stepped into the general store and rammed the door closed.The large display window to the right shattered inward and three men crowded through.Their faces were zealously blank, their eyes filled with bland fire.He shot them all, and the two that followed them.They fell in the window, hung on the jutting shards of glass, choking the opening.The door crashed and shuddered with their weight and he could hear her voice: “THE KILLER! YOUR SOULS! THE CLOVEN HOOF!”The door ripped off its hinges and fell straight in, making a flat handclap.Dust puffed up from the floor.Men, women, and children charged him.Spittle and stovewood flew.He shot his guns empty and they fell like ninepins in a game of Points.He retreated into the barber shop, shoving over a flour barrel, rolling it at them, throwing a pan of boiling water that contained two nicked straight-razors.They came on, screaming with frantic incoherency.From somewhere, Sylvia Pittston exhorted them, her voice rising and falling in blind inflections.He pushed shells into hot chambers, smelling the aromas of shave and tonsure, smelling his own flesh as the calluses at the tips of his fingers singed.He went through the back door and onto the porch.The flat scrubland was at his back now, flatly denying the town that crouched against its dirty haunch.Three men hustled around the corner, with large betrayer grins on their faces
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