hare and fish,” she said.
The next time Roland saw her, she was caught inside the Wizard’s glass.
8
What Roland and his friends saw west of the Bad Grass had a harsh, lonely beauty. The wind was lifting great sheets of sand across the stony desert floor; the moonlight turned these into footracing phantoms. At moments Hanging Rock was visible some two wheels distant, and the mouth of Eyebolt Canyon two wheels farther on. Sometimes both were gone, hidden by the dust. Behind them, the tall grass made a soughing, singing sound.
“How do you boys feel?” Roland asked. “All’s well?”
They nodded.
“There’s going to be a lot of shooting, I think.”
“We’ll remember the faces of our fathers,” Cuthbert said.
“Yes,” Roland agreed, almost absently. “We’ll remember them very well.” He stretched in the saddle. “The wind’s in our favor, not theirs—that’s one good thing. We’ll hear them coming. We must judge the size of the group. All right?”
They both nodded.
“If Jonas has still got his confidence, he’ll come soon, in a small party—whatever gunnies he can put together on short notice—and he’ll have the ball. In that case, we’ll ambush them, kill them all, and take the Wizard’s Rainbow.”
Alain and Cuthbert sat quiet, listening intently. The wind gusted, and Roland clapped a hand to his hat to keep it from flying off. “If he fears more trouble from us, I think he’s apt to come later on, and with a bigger party of riders. If that happens, we’ll let them pass . . . then, if the wind is our friend and keeps up, we’ll fall in behind them.”
Cuthbert began to grin. “Oh Roland,” he said. “Your father would be proud. Only fourteen, but cozy as the devil!”
“Fifteen come next moonrise,” Roland said seriously. “If we do it this way, we may have to kill their drogue riders. Watch my signals, all right?”
“We’re going to cross to Hanging Rock as part of their party?” Alain asked. He had always been a step or two behind Cuthbert, but Roland didn’t mind; sometimes reliability was better than quickness. “Is that it?”
“If the cards fall that way, yes.”
“If they’ve got the pink ball with em, you’d better hope it doesn’t give us away,” Alain said.
Cuthbert looked surprised. Roland bit his lip, thinking that sometimes Alain was plenty quick. Certainly he had come up with this unpleasant little idea ahead of Bert . . . ahead of Roland, too.
“We’ve got a lot to hope for this morning, but we’ll play our cards as they come off the top of the pack.”
They dismounted and sat by their horses there on the edge of the grass, saying little. Roland watched the silver clouds of dust racing each other across the desert floor and thought of Susan. He imagined them married, living in a freehold somewhere south of Gilead. By then Farson would have been defeated, the world’s strange decline reversed (the childish part of him simply assumed that making an end to John Farson would somehow see to that), and his gunslinging days would be over. Less than a year it had been since he had won the right to carry the six-shooters he wore on his hips—and to carry his father’s great revolvers when Steven Deschain decided to pass them on—and already he was tired of them. Susan’s kisses had softened his heart and quickened him, somehow; had made another life possible. A better one, perhaps. One with a house, and kiddies, and—
“They’re coming,” Alain said, snapping Roland out of his reverie.
The gunslinger stood up, Rusher’s reins in one fist. Cuthbert stood tensely nearby. “Large party or small? Does thee . . . do you know?”
Alain stood facing southeast, hands held out with the palms up. Beyond his shoulder, Roland saw Old Star just about to slip below the horizon. Only an hour until dawn, then.
“I can’t tell yet,” Alain said.
“Can you at least tell if the ball—”
“No. Shut up, Roland, let me listen!”
Roland and Cuthbert stood and watched Alain anxiously, at the same time straining their ears to hear the hooves of horses, the creak of wheels, or the murmur of men on the passing wind. Time spun out. The wind, rather than dropping as Old Star disappeared and dawn approached, blew more fiercely than ever. Roland looked at Cuthbert, who had taken out his slingshot and was playing nervously with the pull. Bert raised one shoulder in a shrug.
“It’s a small party,” Alain said suddenly. “Can either of you touch them?”
They shook their heads.
“No more than ten,