hope that Roland would find him; it was just that this was what Roland would do—go on until someone made him stop, and then a few yards farther still if he could.
If he did it now, he could take Gasher with him, but Gasher alone wasn’t sufficient—one look was enough to make it clear that he was telling the truth when he said he was dying already. If he went on, he might have a chance to take some of the Gasherman’s friends, too— maybe even the one he called the Tick-Tock Man.
If I’m going to ride what he calls the handsome, Jake thought, I’d just as soon go with plenty of company.
Roland would have understood.
20
JAKE WAS WRONG IN his assessment of the gunslinger’s ability to follow their path through the maze; Jake’s pack was only the most obvious bit of sign they left behind them, but Roland quickly realized he did not have to pause to look for sign. He only had to follow Oy.
He paused at several intersecting passages nevertheless, wanting to make sure, and each time he did, Oy looked back and uttered his low, impatient bark that seemed to say, Hurry up! Do you want to lose them? After the signs he saw—a track, a thread from Jake’s shirt, a scrap of bright yellow cloth from Gasher’s scarf—had three times confirmed the bumbler’s choices, Roland simply followed Oy. He did not give up looking for sign, but he quit making stops to hunt for it. Then the drums started up, and it was the drums—plus Gasher’s nosiness about what Jake might be carrying—that saved Roland’s life that afternoon.
He skidded to a halt in his dusty boots, and his gun was in his hand before he realized what the sound was. When he did realize, he dropped the revolver back into its holster with an impatient grunt. He was about to go on again when his eye happened first on Jake’s pack . . . and then on a pair of faint, gleaming streaks in midair just to the left of it. Roland narrowed his eyes and made out two thin wires which crisscrossed at knee level not three feet in front of him. Oy, who was built low to the ground, had scurried neatly through the inverted V formed by the wires, but if not for the drums and spotting Jake’s castoff pack, Roland would have run right into them. As his eyes moved upward, tracing the not-quite-random piles of junk poised on either side of the passageway at this point, Roland’s mouth tightened. It had been a close call, and only ka had saved him.
Oy barked impatiently.
Roland dropped to his belly and crawled beneath the wires, moving slowly and carefully—he was bigger than either Jake or Gasher, and he realized a really big man wouldn’t be able to get under here at all without triggering the carefully prepared avalanche. The drums pumped and thumped in his ears. I wonder if they’ve all gone mad, he thought. If I had to listen to that every day, I think I would have.
He got to the far side of the wires, picked up the pack, and looked inside. Jake’s books and a few items of clothing were still in there, so were the treasures he had picked up along the way—a rock which gleamed with yellow flecks that looked like gold but weren’t; an arrowhead, probably the leaving of the old forest folk, which Jake had found in a grove of trees the day after his drawing; some coins from his own world; his father’s sunglasses; a few other things which only a boy not yet in his teens could really love and understand. Things he would want back again . . . if, that was, Roland got to him before Gasher and his friends could change him, hurt him in ways that would cause him to lose interest in the innocent pursuits and curiosities of pre-adolescent boyhood.
Gasher’s grinning face swam into Roland’s mind like the face of a demon or a djinni from a bottle: the snaggle teeth, the vacant eyes, the mandrus crawling over the cheeks and spreading beneath the stubbly lines of the jaws. If you hurt him . . . he thought, and then forced his mind away, because that line of thought was a blind alley. If Gasher hurt the boy (Jake! his mind insisted fiercely—Not just the boy but Jake! Jake!), Roland would kill him, yes. But the act would mean nothing,