SEVENTEEN
As dusk ended and night deepened, Roland sat on the edge of the bandstand and watched the Calla-folken tuck into their great dinner. Every one of them knew it might be the last meal they’d ever eat together, that tomorrow night at this time their nice little town might lie in smoking ruins all about them, but still they were cheerful. And not, Roland thought, entirely for the sake of the children. There was great relief in finally deciding to do the right thing. Even when folk knew the price was apt to be high, that relief came. A kind of giddiness. Most of these people would sleep on the Green tonight with their children and grandchildren in the tent nearby, and here they would stay, their faces turned to the northeast of town, waiting for the outcome of the battle. There would be gunshots, they reckoned (it was a sound many of them had never heard), and then the dust-cloud that marked the Wolves would either dissipate, turn back the way it had come, or roll on toward town. If the last, the folken would scatter and wait for the burning to commence. When it was over, they would be refugees in their own place. Would they rebuild, if that was how the cards fell? Roland doubted it. With no children to build for—because the Wolves would take them all this time if they won, the gunslinger did not doubt it—there would be no reason. At the end of the next cycle, this place would be a ghost town.
“Cry your pardon, sai.”
Roland looked around. There stood Wayne Overholser, with his hat in his hands. Standing thus, he looked more like a wandering saddle-tramp down on his luck than the Calla’s big farmer. His eyes were large and somehow mournful.
“No need to cry my pardon when I’m still wearing the dayrider hat you gave me,” Roland said mildly.
“Yar, but . . . ” Overholser trailed off, thought of how he wanted to go on, and then seemed to decide to fly straight at it. “Reuben Caverra was one of the fellas you meant to take to guard the children during the fight, wasn’t he?”
“Aye?”
“His gut busted this morning.” Overholser touched his own swelling belly about where his appendix might have been. “He lays home feverish and raving. He’ll likely die of the bloodmuck. Some get better, aye, but not many.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Roland said, trying to think who would be best to replace Caverra, a hulk of a man who had impressed Roland as not knowing much about fear and probably nothing at all about cowardice.
“Take me instea’, would ye?”
Roland eyed him.
“Please, gunslinger. I can’t stand aside. I thought I could—that I must—but I can’t. It’s making me sick.” And yes, Roland thought, he did look sick.
“Does your wife know, Wayne?”
“Aye.”
“And says aye?”
“She does.”
Roland nodded. “Be here half an hour before dawn.”
A look of intense, almost painful gratitude filled Overholser’s face and made him look weirdly young. “Thankee, Roland! Say thankee! Big-big!”
“Glad to have you. Now listen to me a minute.”
“Aye?”
“Things won’t be just the way I told them at the big meeting.”
“Because of Andy, y’mean.”
“Yes, partly that.”
“What else? You don’t mean to say there’s another traitor, do’ee? You don’t mean to say that?”
“All I mean to say is that if you want to come with us, you have to roll with us. Do you ken?”
“Yes, Roland, Very well.”
Overholser thanked him again for the chance to die north of town and then hurried off with his hat still in his hands. Before Roland could change his mind, perhaps.
Eddie came over. “Overholser’s coming to the dance?”
“Looks like it. How much trouble did you have with Andy?”
“It went all right,” Eddie said, not wanting to admit that he, Tian, and Rosalita had probably all come within a second of being toast. In the distance, they could still hear him bellowing. But probably not for much longer; the amplified voice was claiming shutdown was seventy-nine per cent complete.
“I think you did very well.”
A compliment from Roland always made Eddie feel like king of the world, but he tried not to show it. “As long as we do well tomorrow.”
“Susannah?”
“Seems fine.”
“No . . . ?” Roland rubbed above his left eyebrow.
“No, not that I’ve seen.”
“And no talking short and sharp?”
“No, she’s good for it. Practiced with her plates all the time you guys were digging.” Eddie tipped his chin toward Jake, who was sitting by himself on a swing with Oy at his feet. “That’s the one I’m worried about. I’ll be glad to get him out of here. This has been hard for him.”
“It’ll be harder on the other boy,” Roland said, and stood up. “I’m going back to Pere’s. Going to get some sleep.”
“Can you sleep?”
“Oh, yes,” Roland said. “With the help of Rosa’s cat-oil, I’ll sleep like a rock. You and Susannah and Jake should also try.”
“Okay.”
Roland nodded somberly. “I’ll wake you tomorrow morning. We’ll ride down here together.”
“And we’ll fight.”
“Yes,” Roland said. He looked at Eddie. His blue eyes gleamed in the glow of the torches. “We’ll fight. Until they’re dead, or we are.”
CHAPTER VII:
THE WOLVES
ONE
See this now, see it very well:
Here is a road as wide and as well-maintained as any secondary road in America, but of the smooth packed dirt the Calla-folk call oggan. Ditches for runoff border both sides; here and there neat and well-maintained wooden culverts run beneath the oggan. In the faint, unearthly light that comes before dawn, a dozen bucka waggons—they are the kind driven by the Manni, with rounded canvas tops—roll along the road. The canvas is bright clean white, to reflect the sun and keep the interiors cool on hot summer days, and they look like strange, low-floating clouds. The cumulus kind, may it do ya. Each waggon is drawn by a team of six mules or four horses. On the seat of each, driving, are either a pair of fighters or of designated child-minders. Overholser is driving the lead waggon, with Margaret Eisenhart beside him. Next in line comes Roland of Gilead, mated with Ben Slightman. Fifth is Tian and Zalia Jaffords. Seventh is Eddie and Susannah Dean. Susannah’s wheelchair is folded up in the waggon behind her. Bucky and Annabelle Javier are in charge of the tenth. On the peak-seat of the last waggon are Father Donald Callahan and Rosalita Munoz.
Inside the buckas are ninety-nine children. The left-over twin—the one that makes for an odd number—is Benny Slightman, of course. He is riding in the last waggon. (He felt uncomfortable about going with his father.) The children don’t speak. Some of the younger ones have gone back to sleep; they will have to be awakened shortly, when the waggons reach their destination. Ahead, now less than a mile, is the place where the path into the arroyo country splits off to the left. On the right, the land runs down a mild slope to the river. All the drivers keep looking to the east, toward the constant darkness that is Thunderclap. They are watching for an approaching dust-cloud. There is none. Not yet. Even the seminon winds have fallen still. Callahan’s prayers seem to have been answered, at least in that regard.
TWO
Ben Slightman, sitting next to Roland on the bucka’s peak-seat, spoke in a voice so low the gunslinger could barely hear him. “What will’ee do to me, then?”
If asked, when the waggons set out from Calla Bryn Sturgis, to give odds on Slightman’s surviving this day, Roland might have put them at five in a hundred. Surely no better. There were two crucial questions that needed to be asked and then answered correctly. The first had to come from Slightman himself. Roland hadn’t really expected the man to ask it, but here it was, out of his mouth. Roland turned his head and looked at him.
Vaughn Eisenhart’s foreman was very pale, but he took off his spectacles and met Roland’s gaze. The gunslinger ascribed no special courage to this. Surely Slightman the Elder had had time to take Roland’s measure and knew that he must look the gunslinger in the eye if he was to have any hope at all, little as he might like to do it.
“Yar, I know,” Slightman said. His voice was steady, at least so far. “Know what? That you know.”
“Have since we took your pard, I suppose,” Roland said. The word was deliberately sarcastic (sarcasm was the only form of humor Roland truly understood), and Slightman winced at it: pard. Your pard. But he nodded, eyes still steady on Roland’s.
“I had to figure that if you knew about Andy, you knew about me. Although he’d never have peached on me. Such wasn’t in his programming.” At last it was too much and he could bear the eye-contact no longer. He looked down, biting his lip. “Mostly I knew because of Jake.”
Roland wasn’t able to keep the surprise out of his face.
“He changed. He didn’t mean to, not as trig as he is—and as brave—but he did. Not toward me, toward my boy. Over the last week, week and a half. Benny was only . . . well, puzzled, I guess you’d say. He felt something but didn’t know what it was. I did. It was like your boy didn’t want to be around him anymore. I asked myself what could do that. The answer seemed pretty clear. Clear as short beer, do ya.”
Roland was falling behind Overholser’s waggon. He flicked the reins over the backs of his own team. They moved a little faster. From behind them came the quiet sound of the children, some talking now but most snoring, and the muted jingle of trace. He’d asked Jake to collect up a small box of children’s possessions, and had seen the boy doing it. He was a good boy who never put off a chore. This morning he wore a dayrider hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, and his father’s gun. He rode on the seat of the eleventh waggon, with one of the Estrada men. He guessed that Slightman had a good boy, too, which had gone far toward making this the mess that it was.
“Jake was at the Dogan one night when you and Andy were there, passing on news of your neighbors,” Roland said. On the seat beside him, Slightman winced like a man who has just been punched in the belly.
“There,” he said. “Yes, I could almost sense . . . or thought I could . . . ” A longer pause, and then: “Fuck.”
Roland looked east. A little brighter over there now, but still no dust. Which was good. Once the dust appeared, the Wolves would come in a rush. Their gray horses would be fast. Continuing on, speaking almost idly, Roland asked the other question. If Slightman answered in the negative, he wouldn’t live to see the coming of the Wolves no matter how fast their gray horses rode.
“If you’d found him, Slightman—if you’d found my boy—would you have killed him?”
Slightman put his spectacles back on as he struggled with it. Roland couldn’t tell if he understood the importance of the question or not. He waited to see if the father of Jake’s friend would live or die. He’d have to decide quickly; they were approaching the place where the waggons would stop and the children would get down.
The man at last raised his head and met Roland’s eyes again. He opened his mouth to speak and couldn’t. The fact of the matter was clear enough: he could answer the gunslinger’s question, or he could look into the gunslinger’s face, but he could not do both at the same time.
Dropping his gaze back to the splintery wood between his feet, Slightman said: “Yes, I reckon we would have killed him.” A pause. A nod. When he moved his head a tear fell from one eye and splashed on the wood of the peak-seat’s floor. “Yar, what else?” Now he looked up; now he could meet Roland’s eyes again, and when he did he saw his fate had been decided. “Make it quick,” said he, “and don’t let me boy see it happen. Beg ya please.”
Roland flapped the reins over the mules’ backs again. Then he said: “I won’t be the one to stop your miserable breath.”
Slightman’s breath did stop. Telling the gunslinger that yes, he would have killed a twelve-year-old boy to protect his secret, his face had had a kind of strained nobility. Now it wore hope instead, and hope made it ugly. Nearly grotesque. Then he let his breath out in a ragged sigh and said, “You’re fooling with me. A-teasing me. You’re going to kill me, all right. Why would you not?”
“A coward judges all he sees by what he is,” Roland remarked. “I’d not kill you unless I had to, Slightman, because I love my own boy. You must understand that much, don’t you? To love a boy?”
“Yar.” Slightman lowered his head again and began to rub the back of his sunburned neck. The neck he must have thought would end this day packed in dirt.
“But you have to understand something. For your own good and Benny’s as much as ours. If the Wolves win, you will die. That much you can be sure of. ‘Take it to the bank,’ Eddie and Susannah say.”
Slightman was looking at him again, eyes narrowed behind his specs.
“Hear me well, Slightman, and take understanding from what I say. We’re not going to be where the Wolves think we’re going to be, and neither are the kiddies. Win or lose, this time they’re going to leave some bodies behind. And win or lose, they’ll know they were misled. Who was there in Calla Bryn Sturgis to mislead them? Only two. Andy and Ben Slightman. Andy’s shut down, gone beyond the reach of their vengeance.” He gave Slightman a smile that was as cold as the earth’s north end. “But you’re not. Nor the only one you care for in your poor excuse for a heart.”
Slightman sat considering this. It was clearly a new idea to him, but once he saw the logic of it, it was undeniable.
“They’ll likely think you switched sides a-purpose,” Roland said, “but even if you could convince them it was an accident, they’d kill you just the same. And your son, as well. For vengeance.”
A red stain had seeped into the man’s cheeks as the gunslinger spoke—roses of shame, Roland supposed—but as he considered the probability of his son’s murder at the hands of the Wolves, he grew white once more. Or perhaps it was the thought of Benny being taken east that did it—being taken east and roont. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry for what I’ve done.”
“Balls to your sorry,” Roland said. “Ka works and the world moves on.”
Slightman made no reply.
“I’m disposed to send you with the kids, just as I said I would,” Roland told him. “If things go as I hope, you won’t see a single moment’s action. If things don’t go as I hope, you want to remember Sarey Adams is boss of that shooting match, and if I talk to her after, you want to hope that she says you did everything you were told to do.” When this met with only more silence from Slightman, the gunslinger spoke sharply. “Tell me you understand, gods damn you. I want to hear ‘Yes, Roland, I ken.’ ”
“Yes, Roland, I ken very well.” There was a pause. “If we do win, will the folken find out, do’ee reckon? Find out about . . . me?”
“Not from Andy, they won’t,” Roland said. “His blabber’s done. And not from me, if you do as you now promise. Not from my ka-tet, either. Not out of respect for you, but out of respect for Jake Chambers. And if the Wolves fall into the trap I’ve laid them, why would the folken ever suspect another traitor?” He measured Slightman with his cool eyes. “They’re innocent folk. Trusting. As ye know. Certainly ye used it.”
The flush came back. Slightman looked down at the floor of the peak-seat again. Roland looked up and saw the place he was looking for now less than a quarter of a mile ahead. Good. There was still no dust-cloud on the eastern horizon, but he could feel it gathering in his mind. The Wolves were coming, oh yes. Somewhere across the river they had dismounted their train and mounted their horses and were riding like hell. And from it, he had no doubt.
“I did it for my son,” Slightman said. “Andy came to me and said they would surely take him. Somewhere over there, Roland—” He pointed east, toward Thunderclap. “Somewhere over there are poor creatures called Breakers. Prisoners. Andy says they’re telepaths and psychokinetics, and although I ken neither word, I know they’re to do with the mind. The Breakers are human, and they eat what we eat to nourish their bodies, but they need other food, special food, to nourish whatever it is that makes them special.”
“Brain-food,” Roland said. He remembered that his mother had called fish brain-food. And then, for no reason he could tell, he found himself thinking of Susannah’s nocturnal prowls. Only it wasn’t Susannah who visited that midnight banquet hall; it was Mia. Daughter of none.
“Yar, I reckon,” Slightman agreed. “Anyway, it’s something only twins have, something that links them mind-to-mind. And these fellows—not the Wolves, but they who send the Wolves—take it out. When it’s gone, the kids’re idiots. Roont. It’s food, Roland, do ya kennit? That’s why they take em! To feed their goddamned Breakers! Not their bellies or their bodies, but their minds! And I don’t even know what it is they’ve been set to break!”
“The two Beams that still hold the Tower,” Roland said.
Slightman was thunderstruck. And fearful. “The Dark Tower?” He whispered the words. “Do ya say so?”
“I do,” Roland said. “Who’s Finli? Finli o’ Tego.”
“I don’t know. A voice that takes my reports, is all. A taheen, I think—do you know what that is?”
“Do you?”
Slightman shook his head.
“Then we’ll leave it. Mayhap I’ll meet him in time and he’ll answer to hand for this business.”
Slightman did not reply, but Roland sensed his doubt. That was all right. They’d almost made it now, and the gunslinger felt an invisible band which had been cinched about his middle begin to loosen. He turned fully to the foreman for the first time. “There’s always been someone like you for Andy to cozen, Slightman; I have no doubt it’s mostly what he was left here for, just as I have no doubt that your daughter, Benny’s sister, didn’t die an accidental death. They always need one left-over twin, and one weak parent.”
“You can’t—”
“Shut up. You’ve said all that’s good for you.”
Slightman sat silent beside Roland on the seat.
“I understand betrayal. I’ve done my share of it, once to Jake himself. But that doesn’t change what you are; let’s have that straight. You’re a carrion-bird. A rustie turned vulture.”
The color was back in Slightman’s cheeks, turning them the shade of claret. “I did what I did for my boy,” he said stubbornly.
Roland spat into his cupped hand, then raised the hand and caressed Slightman’s cheek with it. The cheek was currently full of blood, and hot to the touch. Then the gunslinger took hold of the spectacles Slightman wore and jiggled them slightly on the man’s nose. “Won’t wash,” he said, very quietly. “Because of these. This is how they mark you, Slightman. This is your brand. You tell yourself you did it for your boy because it gets you to sleep at night. I tell myself that what I did to Jake I did so as not to lose my chance at the Tower . . . and that gets me to sleep at night. The difference between us, the only difference, is that I never took a pair of spectacles.” He wiped his hand on his pants. “You sold out, Slightman. And you have forgotten the face of your father.”
“Let me be,” Slightman whispered. He wiped the slick of the gunslinger’s spittle from his cheek. It was replaced by his own tears. “For my boy’s sake.”
Roland nodded. “That’s all this is, for your boy’s sake. You drag him behind you like a dead chicken. Well, never mind. If all goes as I hope, you may live your life with him in the Calla, and grow old in the regard of your neighbors. You’ll be one of those who stood up to the Wolves when the gunslingers came to town along the Path of the Beam. When you can’t walk, he’ll walk with you and hold you up. I see this, but I don’t like what I see. Because a man who’ll sell his soul for a pair of spectacles will resell it for some other prink-a-dee—even cheaper—and sooner or later your boy will find out what you are, anyway. The best thing that could happen to your son today is for you to die a hero.” And then, before Slightman could reply, Roland raised his voice and shouted. “Hey, Overholser! Ho, the waggon! Overholser! Pull on over! We’re here! Say thankya!”
“Roland—” Slightman began.
“No,” Roland said, tying off the reins. “Palaver’s done. Just remember what I said, sai: if you get a chance to die a hero today, do your son a favor and take it.”