sk.thegunslinger-第1章

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I
The　man　in　black　fled　across　the　desert；　and　the　gunslinger　followed。
The　desert　was　the　apotheosis　of　all　deserts；　huge；　standing　to　the　sky　for　what　might　have　been　parsecs　in　all　directions。　White；　blinding；　waterless；　without　feature　save　for　the　faint；　cloudy　haze　of　the　mountains　which　sketched　themselves　on　the　horizon　and　the　devil…grass　which　brought　sweet　dreams；　nightmares；　death。　An　occasional　tombstone　sign　pointed　the　way；　for　once　the　drifted　track　that　cut　its　way　through　the　thick　crust　of　alkali　had　been　a　highway　and　coaches　had　followed　it。　The　world　had　moved　on　since　then。　The　world　had　emptied。
The　gunslinger　walked　stolidly；　not　hurrying；　not　loafing。　A　hide　waterbag　was　slung　around　his　middle　like　a　bloated　sausage。　It　was　almost　full。　He　had　progressed　through　the　khef　over　many　years；　and　had　reached　the　fifth　level。　At　the　seventh　or　eighth；　he　would　not　have　been　thirsty；　he　could　have　watched　own　body　dehydrate　with　clinical；　detached　attention；　watering　its　crevices　and　dark　inner　hollows　only　when　his　logic　told　him　it　must　be　done。　He　was　not　seventh　or　eighth。　He　was　fifth。　So　he　was　thirsty；　although　he　had　no　particular　urge　to　drink。　In　a　vague　way；　all　this　pleased　him。　It　was　romantic。
Below　the　waterbag　were　his　guns；　finely　weighted　to　his　hand。　The　two　belts　crisscrossed　above　his　crotch。　The　holsters　were　oiled　too　deeply　for　even　this　Philistine　sun　to　crack。　The　stocks　of　the　guns　were　sandalwood；　yellow　and　finely　grained。　The　holsters　were　tied　down　with　rawhide　cord；　and　they　swung　heavily　against　his　hips。　The　brass　casings　of　the　cartridges　looped　into　the　gun　belts　twinkled　and　flashed　and　heliographed　in　the　sun。　The　leather　made　subtle　creaking　noises。　The　guns　themselves　made　no　noise。　They　had　spilled　blood。　There　was　no　need　to　make　noise　in　the　sterility　of　the　desert
His　clothes　were　the　no…color　of　rain　or　dust。　His　shirt　was　open　at　the　throat；　with　a　rawhide　thong　dangling　loosely　in　hand…punched　eyelets。　His　pants　were　seam…stretched　dungarees。
He　breasted　a　gently　rising　dune　（although　there　was　no　sand　here；　the　desert　was　hardpan；　and　even　the　harsh　winds　that　blew　when　dark　came　raised　only　an　aggravating　harsh　dust　like　scouring　powder）　and　saw　the　kicked　remains　of　a　tiny　campfire　on　the　lee　side；　the　side　which　the　sun　would　quit　earliest。　Small　signs　like　this；　once　more　affirming　the　man　in　black's　essential　humanity；　never　failed　to　please　him。　His　lips　stretched　in　the　pitted；　flaked　remains　of　his　face。　He　squatted。
He　had　burned　the　devil…grass；　of　course。　It　was　the　only　thing　out　here　that　would　burn。　It　burned　with　a　greasy；　flat　light；　and　it　burned　slow。　Border　dwellers　had　told　him　that　devils　lived　even　in　the　flames。　They　burned　it　but　would　not　look　into　the　light。　They　said　the　devils　hypnotized；　beckoned；　would　eventually　draw　the　one　who　looked　into　the　fires。　And　the　next　man　foolish　enough　to　look　into　the　fire　might　see　you。
The　burned　grass　was　crisscrossed　in　the　now…familiar　ideographic　pattern；　and　crumbled　to　gray　senselessness　before　the　gunslinger's　prodding　hand。　There　was　nothing　in　the　remains　but　a　charred　scrap　of　bacon；　which　he　ate　thoughtfully。　It　had　always　been　this　way。　The　gunslinger　had　followed　the　man　in　black　across　the　desert　for　two　months　now；　across　the　endless；　screamingly　monotonous　purgatorial　wastes；　and　had　yet　to　find　spoor　other　than　the　hygienic　sterile　ideographs　of　the　man　in　black's　campfires。　He　had　not　found　a　can；　a　bottle；　or　a　waterbag　（the　gunslinger　had　left　four　of　those　behind；　like　dead　snake…skins）。
　Perhaps　the　campfires　are　a　message；　spelled　out　letter　by　letter。　Take　a　powder。　Or；　the　end　draweth　nigh。　Or　maybe　even；　Eat　at　Joe's。　It　didn't　matter。　He　had　no　understanding　of　the　ideograms；　if　they　were　ideograms。　And　the　remains　were　as　cold　as　all　the　others。　He　knew　he　was　closer；　but　did　not　know　how　he　knew。　That　didn't　matter　either。　He　stood　up；　brushing　his　hands。
No　other　trace；　the　wind；　razor…sharp；　had　of　course　filed　away　even　what　scant　tracks　the　hardpan　held。　He　had　never　even　been　able　to　find　his　quarry's　droppings。　Nothing。　Only　these　cold　campfires　along　the　ancient　highway　and　the　relentless　range…finder　in　his　own　head。
He　sat　down　and　allowed　himself　a　short　pull　from　the　waterbag。　He　scanned　the　desert；　looked　up　at　the　sun；　which　was　now　sliding　down　the　far　quadrant　of　the　sky。　He　got　up；　removed　his　gloves　from　his　belt；　and　began　to　pull　devil…grass　for　his　own　fire；　which　he　laid　over　the　ashes　the　man　in　black　had　left。　He　found　the　irony；　like　the　romance　of　his　thirst；　bitterly　appealing。
He　did　not　use　the　flint　and　steel　until　the　remains　of　the　day　were　only　the　fugitive　heat　in　the　ground　beneath　him　and　a　sardonic　orange　line　on　the　monochrome　western　horizon。　He　watched　the　south　patiently；　toward　the　mountains；　not　hoping　or　expecting　to　see　the　thin　straight　line　of　smoke　from　a　new　campfire；　but　merely　watching　because　that　was　a　part　of　it。　There　was　nothing。　He　was　close；　but　only　relatively　so。　Not　close　enough　to　see　smoke　at　dusk。
He　struck　his　spark　to　the　dry；　shredded　grass　and　lay　down　upwind；　letting　the　dreamsmoke　blow　out　toward　the　waste。　The　wind；　except　for　occasional　gyrating　dust　devils；　was　constant。
Above；　the　stars　were　unwinking；　also　constant。　Suns　and　worlds　by　the　million。　Dizzying　constellations；　cold　fire　in　every　primary　hue。　As　he　watched；　the　sky　washed　from　violet　to　ebony。　A　meteor　etched　a　brief；　spectacular　arc　and　winked　out。　The　fire　threw　strange　shadows　as　the　devil…grass　burned　its　slow　way　down　into　new　patterns　not　ideograms　but　a　straightforward　crisscross　vaguely　frightening　in　its　own　no…nonsense　surety。　He　had　laid　his　fuel　in　a　pattern　that　was　not　artful　but　only　workable。　It　spoke　of　blacks　and　whites。　It　spoke　of　a　man　who　might　straighten　bad　pictures　in　strange　hotel　rooms。　The　fire　burned　its　steady；　slow　flame；　and　phantoms　danced　in　its　incandescent　core。　The　gunslinger　did　not　see。　He　slept。　The　two　patterns；　art　and　craft；　were　welded　together。　The　wind　moaned。　Every　now　and　then　a　perverse　downdraft　would　make　the　smoke　whirl　and　eddy　toward　him；　and　sporadic　whiffs　of　the　smoke　touched　him。　They　built　dreams　in　the　same　way　that　a　small　irritant　may　build　a　pearl。
II
He　had　e　down　off　the　last　of　the　foothills　leading　the　donkey；　whose　eyes　were　already　dead　and　bulging　with　the　heat。　He　had　passed　the　last　town　three　weeks　before；　and　since　then　there　had　only　been　the　deserted　coach　track　and　an　occasional　huddle　of　border　dwellers'　sod　dwellings。　The　huddles　had　degenerated　into　single　dwellings；　most　inhabited　by　lepers　or　madmen。　He　found　the　madmen　better　pany。　One　had　given　him　a　stainless　steel　Silva　pass　and　bade　him　give　it　to　Jesus。　The　gunslinger　took　it　gravely。　If　he　saw　Him；　he　would　turn　over　the　pass。　He　did　not　expect　to。
Five　days　had　passed　since　the　last　hut；　and　he　had　begun　to　suspect　there　would　be　no　more　when　he　topped　the　last　eroded　hill　and　saw　the　familiar　low…backed　sod　roof。
The　dweller；　a　surprisingly　young　man　with　a　wild　shock　of　strawberry　hair　that　reached　almost　to　his　waist；　was　weeding　a　scrawny　stand　of　corn　with　zealous　abandon。　The　mule　let　out　a　wheezing　grunt　and　the　dweller　looked　up；　glaring　blue　eyes　ing　target…center　on　the　gunslinger　in　a　moment　He　raised　both　hands　in　curt　salute　and　then　bent　to　the　corn　again；　humping　up　the　row　next　to　his　hut　with　back　bent；　tossing　devil…grass　and　an　occasional　stunted　corn　plant　over　his　shoulder。　His　hair　flopped　and　flew　in　the　wind　that　now　came　directly　from　the　desert；　with　nothing　to　break　it。
The　gunslinger　came　down　the　hill　slowly；　leading　the　donkey　on　which　his　waterskins　sloshed。　He　paused　by　the　edge　of　the　lifeless…looking　cornpatch；　drew　a　drink　from　one　of　his　skins　to　start　the　saliva；　and　spatinto　the　arid　soil。
〃Life　for　your　crop。〃
〃Life　for　your　own；〃　the　dweller　answered　and　stood　up。　His　back　popped　audibly。　He　surveyed　the　gunslinger　without　fear。　The　little　of　his　face　visible　between　beard　and　hair　seemed　unmarked　by　the　rot；　and　his　eyes；　while　a　bit　wild；　seemed　sane。
〃I　don't　have　anything　but　corn　and　beans；〃　he　said。　〃Corn's　free；　but　you'll　have　to　kick