He worked his fingers into the place where the deer's hide still clung to the body by the thin layer of fat and muscle beneath, then pulled. The hide tore easily to a point halfway down the deer's midsection. "Now do your side, Susannah."
Getting her fingers underneath was the only hard part. This time they pulled together, and when they had the hide all the way down to the dangling forelegs, it vaguely resembled a shirt. Roland used his knife to cut it off, then began to dig in the ground a little way from the roaring fire but still beneath the shelter of the trees. She helped him, relishing the way the sweat rolled down her face and body. When they had a shallow bowl-shaped depression two feet across and eighteen inches deep, Roland lined it with the hide.
All that afternoon they took turns skinning the eight other deer they had killed. It was important to do it as quickly as possible, for when the underlying layer of fat and muscle dried up, the work would become slower and harder. The gunslinger kept the fire burning high and hot, every now and then leaving her to rake ashes out onto the ground. When they had cooled enough so they would not burn holes in their bowl-liner, he pushed them into the hole they'd made. Susannah's back and arms were aching fiercely by five o'clock, but she kept at it.
Roland's face, neck, and hands were comically smeared with ash.
"You look like a fella in a minstrel show," she said at one point. "Rastus Coon."
"Who's that?"
"Nobody but the white folks' fool," she said. "Do you suppose Mordred's out there, watching us work?" All day she'd kept an eye peeled for him.
"No," he said, pausing to rest. He brushed his hair back from his forehead, leaving a fresh smear and now making her think of penitents on Ash Wednesday. "I think he's gone off to make his own kill."
"Mordred's a-hungry," she said. And then: 'You can touch him a little, can't you? At least enough to know if he's here or if he's gone."
Roland considered this, then said simply: "I'm his father."
EIGHT
By dark, they had a large heap of deerskins and a pile of skinned, headless carcasses that surely would have been black with flies in warmer weather. They ate another huge meal of sizzling venison steaks, utterly delicious, and Susannah spared another thought for Mordred, somewhere out in the dark, probably eating his own supper raw. He might have matches, but he wasn't stupid; if they saw another fire in all this darkness, they would rush down upon it. And him. Then, bang-bang-bang, goodbye Spider-Boy. She felt a surprising amount of sympathy for him and told herself to beware of it. Certainly he would have felt none for either her or Roland, had the shoe been on the other foot.
When they were done eating, Roland wiped his greasy fingers on his shirt and said, "That tasted fine."
"You got that right."
"Now let's get the brains out. Then we'll sleep."
"One at a time?" Susannah asked.
"Yes-so far as I know, brains only come one to a customer."
For a moment she was too surprised at hearing Eddie's phrase
(one to a customer)
coming from Roland's mouth to realize he'd made a joke.
Lame, yes, but a bona fide joke. Then she managed a token laugh. "Very funny, Roland. You know what I meant."
Roland nodded. "We'll sleep one at a time and stand a watch, yes. I think that would be best."
Time and repetition had done its work; she'd now seen too many tumbling guts to feel squeamish about a few brains. They cracked heads, used Roland's knife (its edge now dull) to pry open skulls, and removed the brains of their kill. These they put carefully aside, like a clutch of large gray eggs. By the time the last deer was debrained, Susannah's fingers were so sore and swollen she could hardly bend them.
"Lie over," Roland said. "Sleep. I'll take the first watch."
She didn't argue. Given her full belly and the heat of the fire, she knew sleep would come quickly. She also knew that when she woke up tomorrow, she was going to be so stiff that even sitting up would be difficult and painful. Now, though, she didn't care. A feeling of vast contentment filled her. Some of it was having eaten hot food, but by no means all. The greater part of her well-being stemmed from a day of hard work, no more or less than that. The sense that they were not just floating along but doing for themselves.
fesus, she thought, / think I'm becoming a Republican in my old age.
Something else occurred to her then: how quiet it was. No sounds but the sough of the wind, the whispering sleet (now starting to abate), and the crackle of the blessed fire.
"Roland?"
He looked at her from his place by the fire, eyebrows raised.
"You've stopped coughing."
He smiled and nodded. She took his smile down into sleep, but it was Eddie she dreamed of.
NINE