sk.everythingseventual-第37章

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　　'Stop　where　you　are！'　Roland　said。　''Ware　me；　if　you'd　live　to　see　day's　end！　'Ware　me　very　well！'
　　He　spoke　mostly　to　the　one　in　the　center；　who　wore　ancient　red　suspenders　over　rags　of　shirt；　and　a　filthy　bowler　hat。　This　gent　had　only　one　good　eye；　and　it　peered　at　the　gunslinger　with　a　greed　as　horrible　as　it　was　unmistakable。　The　one　beside　Bowler　Hat　（Roland　believed　this　one　might　be　a　woman；　with　the　dangling　vestiges　of　breasts　beneath　the　vest　it　wore）　threw　the　chair　leg　it　held。　The　arc　was　true；　but　the　missile　fell　ten　yards　short。
　　Roland　thumbed　back　the　trigger　of　his　revolver　and　fired　again。　This　time　the　dirt　displaced　by　the　slug　kicked　up　on　the　tattered　remains　of　Bowler　Hat's　shoe　instead　of　on　a　lame　dog's　paw。
　　The　green　folk　didn't　run　as　the　dog　had；　but　they　stopped；　staring　at　him　with　their　dull　greed。　Had　the　missing　folk　of　Eluria　finished　up　in　these　creatures'　stomachs？　Roland　couldn't　believe　it　。　。　。　although　he　knew　perfectly　well　that　such　as　these　held　no　scruple　against　cannibalism。　（And　perhaps　it　wasn't　cannibalism；　not　really；　how　could　such　things　as　these　be　considered　human；　whatever　they　might　once　have　been？）　They　were　too　slow；　too　stupid。　If　they　had　dared　e　back　into　town　after　the　Sheriff　had　run　them　out；　they　would　have　been　burned　or　stoned　to　death。
　　Without　thinking　about　what　he　was　doing；　wanting　only　to　free　his　other　hand　to　draw　his　second　gun　if　the　apparitions　didn't　see　reason；　Roland　stuffed　the　medallion　that　he　had　taken　from　the　dead　boy　into　the　pocket　of　his　jeans；　pushing　the　broken　fine…link　chain　in　after。
　　They　stood　staring　at　him；　their　strangely　twisted　shadows　drawn　out　behind　them。　What　next？　Tell　them　to　go　back　where　they'd　e　from？　Roland　didn't　know　if　they'd　do　it；　and　in　any　case　had　decided　he　liked　them　best　where　he　could　see　them。　And　at　least　there　was　no　question　now　about　staying　to　bury　the　boy　named　James；　that　conundrum　had　been　solved。
　　'Stand　steady；'　he　said　in　the　low　speech；　beginning　to　retreat。　'First　fellow　that　moves…'
　　Before　he　could　finish；　one　of　them…a　thick…chested　troll　with　a　pouty　toad's　mouth　and　what　looked　like　gills　on　the　sides　of　his　wattled　neck…lunged　forward；　gibbering　in　a　high…pitched　and　peculiarly　flabby　voice。　It　might　have　been　a　species　of　laughter。　He　was　waving　what　looked　like　a　piano　leg。
　　Roland　fired。　Mr。　Toad's　chest　caved　in　like　a　bad　piece　of　roofing。　He　ran　backward　several　steps；　trying　to　catch　his　balance　and　clawing　at　his　chest　with　the　hand　not　holding　the　piano　leg。　His　feet；　clad　in　dirty　red　velvet　slippers　with　curled…up　toes；　tangled　in　each　other　and　he　fell　over；　making　a　queer　and　somehow　lonely　gargling　sound。　He　let　go　of　his　club；　rolled　over　on　one　side；　tried　to　rise；　and　then　fell　back　into　the　dust。　The　brutal　sun　glared　into　his　open　eyes；　and　as　Roland　watched；　white　tendrils　of　steam　began　to　rise　from　his　skin；　which　was　rapidly　losing　its　green　undertint。　There　was　also　a　hissing　sound；　like　a　gob　of　spit　on　top　of　a　hot　stove。
　　Saves　explaining；　at　least；　Roland　thought；　and　swept　his　eyes　over　the　others。　'All　right；　he　was　the　first　one　to　move。　Who　wants　to　be　the　second？'
　　None　did；　it　seemed。　They　only　stood　there；　watching　him；　not　ing　at　him　。　。　。　but　not　retreating；　either。　He　thought　（as　he　had　about　the　cross…dog）　that　he　should　kill　them　as　they　stood　there；　just　draw　his　other　gun　and　mow　them　down。　It　would　be　the　work　of　seconds　only；　and　child's　play　to　his　gifted　hands；　even　if　some　ran。　But　he　couldn't。　Not　just　cold；　like　that。　He　wasn't　that　kind　of　killer　。　。　。　at　least；　not　yet。
　　Very　slowly；　he　began　to　step　backward；　first　bending　his　course　around　the　watering　trough；　then　putting　it　between　him　and　them。　When　Bowler　Hat　took　a　step　forward；　Roland　didn't　give　the　others　in　the　line　a　chance　to　copy　him；　he　put　a　bullet　into　the　dust　of　the　High　Street　an　inch　in　advance　of　Bowler　Hat's　foot。
　　'That's　your　last　warning；'　he　said；　still　using　the　low　speech。　He　had　no　idea　if　they　understood　it；　didn't　really　care。　He　guessed　they　caught　this　tune's　music　well　enough。　'Next　bullet　I　fire　eats　up　someone's　heart。　The　way　it　works　is；　you　stay　and　I　go。　You　get　this　one　chance。　Follow　me；　and　you　all　die。　It's　too　hot　to　play　games　and　I've　lost　my…'
　　'Booh！'　cried　a　rough；　liquidy　voice　from　behind　him。　There　was　unmistakable　glee　in　it。　Roland　saw　a　shadow　grow　from　the　shadow　of　the　overturned　freight　wagon；　which　he　had　now　almost　reached；　and　had　just　time　to　understand　that　another　of　the　green　folk　had　been　hiding　beneath　it。
　　As　he　began　to　turn；　a　club　crashed　down　on　Roland's　shoulder；　numbing　his　right　arm　all　the　way　to　the　wrist。　He　held　onto　the　gun　and　fired　once；　but　the　bullet　went　into　one　of　the　wagon　wheels；　smashing　a　wooden　spoke　and　turning　the　wheel　on　its　hub　with　a　high　screeing　sound。　Behind　him；　he　heard　the　green　folk　in　the　street　uttering　hoarse；　yapping　cries　as　they　charged　forward。
　　The　thing　which　had　been　hiding　beneath　the　overturned　wagon　was　a　monster　with　two　heads　growing　out　of　his　neck；　one　with　the　vestigial；　slack　face　of　a　corpse。　The　other；　although　just　as　green；　was　more　lively。　Broad　lips　spread　in　a　cheerful　grin　as　he　raised　his　club　to　strike　again。
　　Roland　drew　with　his　left　hand…the　one　that　wasn't　numbed　and　distant。　He　had　time　to　put　one　bullet　through　the　bushwhacker's　grin；　flinging　him　backward　in　a　spray　of　blood　and　teeth；　the　bludgeon　flying　out　of　his　relaxing　fingers。　Then　the　others　were　on　him；　clubbing　and　drubbing。
　　The　gunslinger　was　able　to　slip　the　first　couple　of　blows；　and　there　was　one　moment　when　he　thought　he　might　be　able　to　spin　around　to　the　rear　of　the　overturned　wagon；　spin　and　turn　and　go　to　work　with　his　guns。　Surely　he　would　be　able　to　do　that。　Surely　his　quest　for　the　Dark　Tower　wasn't　supposed　to　end　on　the　sun…blasted　street　of　a　little　far　western　town　called　Eluria；　at　the　hands　of　half　a　dozen　green…skinned　slow　mutants。　Surely　ka　could　not　be　so　cruel。
　　But　Bowler　Hat　caught　him　with　a　vicious　sidehand　blow；　and　Roland　crashed　into　the　wagon's　slowly　spinning　rear　wheel　instead　of　skirting　around　it。　As　he　went　to　his　hands　and　knees；　still　scrambling　and　trying　to　turn；　trying　to　evade　the　blows　which　rained　down　on　him；　he　saw　there　were　now　many　more　than　half　a　dozen。　ing　up　the　street　toward　the　town　square　were　at　least　thirty　green　men　and　women。　This　wasn't　a　clan　but　a　damned　tribe　of　them。　And　in　broad；　hot　daylight！　Slow　mutants　were；　in　his　experience；　creatures　that　loved　the　dark；　almost　like　toadstools　with　brains；　and　he　had　never　seen　any　such　as　these　before。　They　…
　　The　one　in　the　red　vest　was　female。　Her　bare　breasts　swinging　beneath　the　dirty　red　vest　were　the　last　things　he　saw　clearly　as　they　gathered　around　and　above　him；　bashing　away　with　their　clubs。　The　one　with　the　nails　studded　in　it　came　down　on　his　lower　right　calf；　sinking　its　stupid　rusty　fangs　in　deep。　He　tried　again　to　raise　one　of　the　big　guns　（his　vision　was　fading；　now；　but　that　wouldn't　help　them　if　he　got　to　shooting；　he　had　always　been　the　most　hellishly　talented　of　them；　Jamie　DeCurry　had　once　proclaimed　that　Roland　could　shoot　blindfolded；　because　he　had　eyes　in　his　fingers）；　and　it　was　kicked　out　of　his　hand　and　into　the　dust。　Although　he　could　still　feel　the　smooth　sandalwood　grip　of　the　other；　he　thought　it　was　nevertheless　already　gone。
　　He　could　smell　them…the　rich；　rotted　smell　of　decaying　meat。　Or　was　that　only　his　hands；　as　he　raised　them　in　a　feeble　and　useless　effort　to　protect　his　head？　His　hands；　which　had　been　in　the　polluted　water　where　flecks　and　strips　of　the　dead　boy's　skin　floated？
　　The　clubs　slamming　down　on　him；　slamming　down　all　over　him；　as　if　the　green　folk　wanted　not　just　to　beat　him　to　death　but　to　tenderize　him　as　they　did　so。　And　as　he　went　down　into　the　darkness　of　what　he　most　certainly　believed　would　be　his　death；　he　heard　the　bugs　singing；　the　dog　he　had　spared　barking；　and　the　bells　hung　on　the　church　door　ringing。　These　sounds　merged　together　into　strangely　sweet　music。　Then　that　was　gone；　too；　the　darkness　ate　it　all。
　　
　　
　　II。　Rising。