Wizard and glass - By Stephen King Page 0,230

pry off one of the tops. She tossed the bit to Sheemie, who pried off the other. The apple-tart smell of graf filled the shed.

“Here!” She tossed Sheemie a soft cloth. “Dry it out as well as you can. Doesn’t have to be perfect, they’re wrapped, but it’s best to be safe.”

They wiped the insides of the barrels, Susan stealing nervous glances at the door every few seconds. “All right,” she said. “Good. Now . . . there’s two kinds. I’m sure they won’t be missed; there’s enough stuff back there to blow up half the world.” She hurried back into the dimness of the shed, holding the hem of her wrapper up with one hand, her boots clomping. When she came back, her arms were full of wrapped packages.

“These are the bigger ones,” she said.

He stored them in one of the casks. There were a dozen packages in all, and Sheemie could feel round things inside, each about the size of a child’s fist. Big-bangers. By the time he had finished packing and putting the top back on the barrel, she had returned with an armload of smaller packages. These he stored in the other barrel. They were the little ’uns, from the feel, the ones that not only banged but flashed colored fire.

She helped him resling the barrels on Capi’s back, still shooting those little glances at the shed door. When the barrels were secured to Caprichoso’s sides, Susan sighed with relief and brushed her sweaty forehead with the backs of her hands. “Thank the gods that part’s over,” she said. “Now ye know where ye’re to take them?”

“Aye, Susan daughter of Pat. To the Bar K. My friend Arthur Heath will put em safe.”

“And if anyone asks what ye’re doing out that way?”

“Taking sweet graf to the In-World boys, ’cause they’ve decided not to come to town for the Fair . . . why won’t they, Susan? Don’t they like Fairs?”

“Ye’ll know soon enough. Don’t mind it now, Sheemie. Go on—best be on your way.”

Yet he lingered.

“What?” she asked, trying not to be impatient. “Sheemie, what is it?”

“I’d like to take a fin de año kiss from ye, so I would.” Sheemie’s face had gone an alarming shade of red.

Susan laughed in spite of herself, then stood on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. With that, Sheemie floated out to the Bar K with his load of fire.

4

Reynolds rode out to Citgo the following day, galloping with a scarf wrapped around his face so only his eyes peered out. He would be very glad to get out of this damned place that couldn’t decide if it was ranchland or seacoast. The temperature wasn’t all that low, but after coming in over the water, the wind cut like a razor. Nor was that all—there was a brooding quality to Hambry and all of Mejis as the days wound down toward the Reap; a haunted feeling he didn’t care for a bit. Roy felt it, too. Reynolds could see it in his eyes.

No, he’d be glad to have those three baby knights so much ash in the wind and this place just a memory.

He dismounted in the crumbling refinery parking lot, tied his horse to the bumper of a rusty old hulk with the mystery-word CHEVROLET barely readable on its tailboard, then walked toward the oilpatch. The wind blew hard, chilling him even through the ranch-style sheepskin coat he wore, and twice he had to yank his hat down around his ears to keep it from blowing off. On the whole, he was glad he couldn’t see himself; he probably looked like a fucking farmer.

The place seemed fine, though . . . which was to say, deserted. The wind made a lonely soughing sound as it combed through the firs on either side of the pipe. You’d never guess that there were a dozen pairs of eyes looking out at you as you strolled.

“Hai!” he called. “Come on out here, pard, and let’s have some palaver.”

For a moment there was no response; then Hiram Quint of the Piano Ranch and Barkie Callahan of the Travellers’ Rest came ducking their way out through the trees. Holy shit, Reynolds thought, somewhere between awe and amusement.

There ain’t that much beef in a butcher shop.

There was a wretched old musketoon stuck into the waistband of Quint’s pants; Reynolds hadn’t seen one in years. He thought that if Quint was lucky, it would only misfire when he pulled the trigger. If