Wizard and glass - By Stephen King Page 0,142

drying on his cheeks looked black.

“Three of them, there were,” he said. “Fine-born lads.”

“Lads or lords? Which is it, dad?”

The old bastard had taken the question thoughtfully. The whack on the head, the night air, and having his arm twisted seemed to have sobered him up, at least temporarily.

“Both, I do believe,” he said at last. “One was a lord for sure, whether them in there believe it or not. For I saw his father, and his father bore the guns. Not such poor things such as you wear—beggin your pardon, I know they’re the best to be had these days—but real guns, such as were seen when my own dad was a boy. The big ones with the sandalwood grips.”

Depape had stared at the old man, feeling a rise of excitement . . . and a species of reluctant awe, as well. They acted like gunslingers, Jonas had said. When Reynolds protested they were too young, Jonas had said they might be apprentices, and now it seemed the boss had likely been right.

“Sandalwood grips?” he had asked. “Sandalwood grips, old dad?”

“Yep.” The old man saw his excitement, and his belief. He expanded visibly.

“A gunslinger, you mean. This one young fellow’s father carried the big irons.”

“Yep, a gunslinger. One of the last lords. Their line is passing, now, but my dad knew him well enough. Steven Deschain, of Gilead. Steven, son of Henry.”

“And this one you saw not long ago—”

“His son, Henry the Tall’s grandson. The others looked well-born, as if they might also come from the line of lords, but the one I saw come down all the way from Arthur Eld, by one line or another. Sure as you walk on two legs. Have I earned my metal yet?”

Depape thought to say yes, then realized he didn’t know which of the three culls this old bastard was talking about.

“Three young men,” he mused. “Three high-borns. And did they have guns?”

“Not out where the drift-diggers of this town could see em,” the old bastard said, and laughed nastily. “But they had em, all right. Probably hid in their bedrolls. I’d set my watch and warrant on it.”

“Aye,” Depape said. “I suppose you would. Three young men, one the son of a lord. Of a gunslinger, you think. Steven of Gilead.” And the name was familiar to him, aye, it was.

“Steven Deschain of Gilead, that’s it.”

“And what name did he give, this young lord?”

The old bastard had screwed his face up alarmingly in an effort to remember. “Deerfield? Deerstine? I don’t quite remember—”

“That’s all right, I know it. And you’ve earned your metal.”

“Have I?” the old bastard had edged close again, his breath gagging-sweet with the weed. “Gold or silver? Which is it, my friend?”

“Lead,” Depape replied, then hauled leather and shot the old man twice in the chest. Doing him a favor, really.

Now he rode back toward Mejis—it would be a faster trip without having to stop in every dipshit little town and ask questions.

There was a flurry of wings close above his head. A pigeon—dark gray, it was, with a white ring around its neck—fluttered down on a rock just ahead of him, as if to rest. An interesting-looking bird. Not, Depape thought, a wild pigeon. Someone’s escaped pet? He couldn’t imagine anyone in this desolate quarter of the world keeping anything but a half-wild dog to bite the squash off any would-be robber (although what these folks might have worth robbing was another question he couldn’t answer), but he supposed anything was possible. In any case, roast pigeon would go down a treat when he stopped for the night.

Depape drew his gun, but before he could cock the hammer, the pigeon was off and flying east. Depape took a shot after it, anyway. Sometimes you got lucky, but apparently not this time; the pigeon dipped a little, then straightened out and disappeared in the direction Depape himself was going. He sat astride his horse for a moment, not much put out of countenance; he thought Jonas was going to be very pleased with what he had found out.

After a bit, he booted his horse in the sides and began to canter east along the Barony Sea Road, back toward Mejis, where the boys who had embarrassed him were waiting to be dealt with. Lords they might be, sons of gunslingers they might be, but in these latter days, even such as those could die. As the old bastard himself would undoubtedly have pointed out, the world had