“Who are you really?” Telford asked. “Tell me, I beg.”
“Eddie Dean, of New York. I hope you’re not questioning my honesty. I hope to Christ you’re not doing that.”
Telford took a step back, suddenly wary. Eddie was grimly glad to see it. Fear wasn’t better than respect, but by God it was better than nothing. “Nay, not at all, my friend! Please! But tell me this—have you ever used the gun you carry? Tell me, I beg.”
Eddie saw that Telford, although nervous of him, didn’t really believe it. Perhaps there was still too much of the old Eddie Dean, the one who really had been of New York, in his face and manner for this rancher-sai to believe it, but Eddie didn’t think that was it. Not the bottom of it, anyway. Here was a fellow who’d made up his mind to stand by and watch creatures from Thunderclap take the children of his neighbors, and perhaps a man like that simply couldn’t believe in the simple, final answers a gun allowed. Eddie had come to know those answers, however. Even to love them. He remembered their single terrible day in Lud, racing Susannah in her wheelchair under a gray sky while the god-drums pounded. He remembered Frank and Luster and Topsy the Sailor; thought of a woman named Maud kneeling to kiss one of the lunatics Eddie had shot to death. What had she said? You shouldn’t’ve shot Winston, for ’twas his birthday. Something like that.
“I’ve used this one and the other one and the Ruger as well,” he said. “And don’t you ever speak to me that way again, my friend, as if the two of us were on the inside of some funny joke.”
“If I offended in any way, gunslinger, I cry your pardon.”
Eddie relaxed a little. Gunslinger. At least the silver-haired son of a bitch had the wit to say so even if he might not believe so.
The band produced another flourish. The leader slipped his guitar-strap over his head and called, “Come on now, you all! That’s enough food! Time to dance it off and sweat it out, so it is!”
Cheers and yipping cries. There was also a rattle of explosions that caused Eddie to drop his hand, as he had seen Roland drop his on a good many occasions.
“Easy, my friend,” Telford said. “Only little bangers. Children setting off Reap-crackers, you ken.”
“So it is,” Eddie said. “Cry your pardon.”
“No need.” Telford smiled. It was a handsome Pa Cartwright smile, and in it Eddie saw one thing clear: this man would never come over to their side. Not that was, until and unless every Wolf out of Thunderclap lay dead for the town’s inspection in this very Pavilion. And if that happened, he would claim to have been with them from the very first.
EIGHT
The dancing went on until moonrise, and that night the moon showed clear. Eddie took his turn with several ladies of the town. Twice he waltzed with Susannah in his arms, and when they danced the squares, she turned and crossed—allamand left, allamand right—in her wheelchair with pretty precision. By the ever-changing light of the torches, her face was damp and delighted. Roland also danced, gracefully but (Eddie thought) with no real enjoyment or flair for it. Certainly there was nothing in it to prepare them for what ended the evening. Jake and Benny Slightman had wandered off on their own, but once Eddie saw them kneeling beneath a tree and playing a game that looked suspiciously like mumblety-peg.
When the dancing was done, there was singing. This began with the band itself—a mournful love-ballad and then an uptempo number so deep in the Calla’s patois that Eddie couldn’t follow the lyric. He didn’t have to in order to know it was at least mildly ribald; there were shouts and laughter from the men and screams of glee from the ladies. Some of the older ones covered their ears.
After these first two tunes, several people from the Calla mounted the bandstand to sing. Eddie didn’t think any of them would have gotten very far on Star Search, but each was greeted warmly as they stepped to the front of the band and were cheered lustily (and in the case of one pretty young matron, lustfully) as they stepped down. Two girls of about nine, obviously identical twins, sang a ballad called “Streets of Campara”
in perfect, aching harmony, accompanied by just a single guitar which one of them played. Eddie was struck by the rapt silence in which the folken listened. Although most of the men were now deep in drink, not a single one of these broke the attentive quiet. No baby-bangers went off. A good many (the one named Haycox among them) listened with tears streaming down their faces. If asked earlier, Eddie would have said of course he understood the emotional weight beneath which this town was laboring. He hadn’t. He knew that now.
When the song about the kidnapped woman and the dying cowboy ended, there was a moment of utter silence—not even the nightbirds cried. It was followed by wild applause. Eddie thought, If they showed hands on what to do about the Wolves right now, not even Pa Cartwright would dare vote to stand aside.
The girls curtsied and leaped nimbly down to the grass. Eddie thought that would be it for the night, but then, to his surprise, Callahan climbed on stage.
He said, “Here’s an even sadder song my mother taught me” and then launched into a cheerful Irish ditty called “Buy Me Another Round You Booger You.” It was at least as dirty as the one the band had played earlier, but this time Eddie could understand most of the words. He and the rest of the town gleefully joined in on the last line of every verse: Before yez put me in the ground, buy me another round, you booger you!
Susannah rolled her wheelchair over to the gazebo and was helped up during the round of applause that followed the Old Fella’s song. She spoke briefly to the three guitarists and showed them something on the neck of one of the instruments. They all nodded. Eddie guessed they either knew the song or a version of it.
The crowd waited expectantly, none more so than the lady’s husband. He was delighted but not entirely surprised when she voyaged upon “Maid of Constant Sorrow,” which she had sometimes sung on the trail.
Susannah was no Joan Baez, but her voice was true, full of emotion. And why not? It was the song of a woman who has left her home for a strange place. When she finished, there was no silence, as after the little girls’ duet, but a round of honest, enthusiastic applause. There were cries of Yar! and Again! and More staves!
Susannah offered no more staves (for she’d sung all the ones she knew) but gave them a deep curtsy, instead.
Eddie clapped until his hands hurt, then stuck his fingers in the corners of his mouth and whistled.
And then—the wonders of this evening would never end, it seemed—Roland himself was climbing up as Susannah was handed carefully down.
Jake and his new pal were at Eddie’s side. Benny Slightman was carrying Oy. Until tonight Eddie would have said the bumbler would have bitten anyone not of Jake’s ka-tet who tried that.
“Can he sing?” Jake asked.
“News to me if he can, kiddo,” Eddie said. “Let’s see.” He had no idea what to expect, and was a little amused at how hard his heart was thumping.
NINE
Roland removed his holstered gun and cartridge belt. He handed them down to Susannah, who took them and strapped on the belt high at the waist. The cloth of her shirt pulled tight when she did it, and for a moment Eddie thought her breasts looked bigger. Then he dismissed it as a trick of the light
The torches were orange. Roland stood in their light, gunless and as slim-hipped as a boy. For a moment he only looked out over the silent, watching faces, and Eddie felt Jake’s hand, cold and small, creep into his own. There was no need for the boy to say what he was thinking, because Eddie was thinking it himself.
Never had he seen a man who looked so lonely, so far from the run of human life with its fellowship and warmth. To see him here, in this place of fiesta (for it was a fiesta, no matter how desperate the business that lay behind it might be), only underlined the truth of him: he was the last. There was no other. If Eddie, Susannah, Jake, and Oy were of his line, they were only a distant shoot, far from the trunk. Afterthoughts, almost. Roland, however… Roland…
Hush, Eddie thought. You don’t want to think about such things. Not tonight.