Thanks to the lobstrosi- ties, he was strictly a lefthanded gun now.
“So how is it?” he asked again.
This time she laughed up at him. “Roland, this ole gunbelt’s as com’fable as it’s ever gonna be. Now do. you want me to shoot or are we just going to sit and listen to crowmusic from
over yonder?”
He felt tension worming sharp little fingers under his skin now, and he supposed Cort had
felt much the same at times like this under his gruff, bluff exterior. I le wanted her to be
good … needed her to be good. But to show how badly he wanted and needed—that could
lead to disaster.
“Tell me your lesson again, Susannah.”
She sighed in mock exasperation . . . but as she spoke her smile faded and her dark,
beautiful face became solemn. And from her lips he heard the old catechism again, made
new in her mouth. He had never expected to hear these words from a woman. How natural
they sounded . . . yet how strange and dangerous, as well.
” ‘I do not aim with my hand; she who aims with her hand has forgotten the face of her
father.
” ‘I aim with my eye.
” ‘I do not shoot with my hand; she who shoots with her hand has forgotten the face of her
father.
” ‘I shoot with my mind.
” ‘I do not kill with my gun—’ ”
She broke off and pointed at the mica-shiny stones on the boulder.
“I’m not going to kill anything anyhow—they’re just itty bitty rocks.”
Her expression—a little haughty, a little naughty—suggested that she expected Roland to
be exasperated with her, perhaps even angry. Roland, however, had been where she was
now; he had not forgotten that apprentice gunslingers were fractious and high-spirited,
nervy and apt to bite exactly at the wrong moment . . . and he had discovered an unexpected
capacity in himself. He could teach. More, he liked to teach, and he found himself
wondering, from time to time, if that had been true of Cort, as well. He guessed that it had
been.
Now more crows began to call raucously, these from the forest behind them. Some part of
Roland’s mind registered the fact that the new cries were agitated rather than merely
quarrelsome; these birds sounded as if they had been scared up and away from whatever
they had been feeding on. He had more important things to think about than whatever it
was that had scared a bunch of crows, however, so he simply filed the information away
and refocused his concentration on Susannah. To do otherwise with a ‘prentice was to ask
for a second, less playful bite. And who would be to blame for that? Who but the teacher?
For was he not training her to bite? Training both of them to bite? Wasn’t that what a
gunslinger was, when you stripped off the few stern lines of ritual and stilled the few iron
grace-notes of catechism? Wasn’t he (or she) only a human hawk, trained to bite on
command?
“No,” he said. “They’re not rocks.”
She raised her eyebrows a little and began to smile again. Now that she saw he wasn’t
going to explode at her as he sometimes did when she was slow or fractious (or at least not
yet), her eyes again took on the mocking sun-on-steel glint he associated with Detta Walker.
“They ain’t?” The teasing in her voice was still good – nut u red, but he thought it would turn mean if he let it. She was tense, keyed up, her claws already halfway out of their
sheaths.
“No, they ain’t,” he said, returning her mockery. His own smile began to return, but it was hard and humorless. “Susannah, do you remember the honk mahfahs?”
Her smile began to fade.
“The honk mahfahs in Oxford Town?”
Her smile was gone.
“Do you remember what the honk mahfahs did to you and your friends?”
“That wasn’t me,” she said. “That was another woman.” Her eyes had taken on a dull, sullen cast. He hated that look, but he also liked it just fine. It was the right look, the one
that said the kindling was burning well and soon the bigger logs would start to catch.
“Yes. It was. Like it or not, it was Odetta Susannah Holmes, daugh- ter of Sarah Walker
Holmes. Not you as you are, but you as you were. Remember the fire-hoses, Susannah?
Remember the gold teeth, how you saw them when they used the hoses on you and your
friends in Oxford? How you saw them twinkle when they laughed?”
She had told them these things, and many others, over many long nights as the campfire
burned low. The gunslinger hadn’t understood everything, but he had listened carefully,
just the same. And remem- bered. Pain was a tool, after all. Sometimes it was the best tool.
“What’s wrong with you, Roland? Why you want to go recallin that trash in my mind?”
Now the sullen eyes glinted at him dangerously; they reminded him of Alain’s eyes when
good-natured Alain was finally roused.
“Yonder stones are those men,” Roland said softly. “The men who locked you in a cell and left you to foul yourself. The men with the clubs and the dogs. The men who called you a
nigger cunt.”
He pointed at them, moving his finger from left to right.
“There’s the one who pinched your breast and laughed. There’s the one who said he better
check and see if you had something stuffed up your ass. There’s the one who called you a
chimpanzee in a five-hundred-dollar dress. That’s the one that kept running his billyclub
over the spokes of your wheelchair until you thought the sound would send you mad.
There’s the one who called your friend Leon pinko-fag. And the one on the end, Susannah,
is Jack Mort.
“There. Those stones. Those men.”
She was breathing rapidly now, her bosom rising and falling in swift little jerks beneath
the gunslinger’s gunbelt with its heavy freight of bul- lets. Her eyes had left him; they were
looking at the mica-flecked chips of stone. Behind them and at some distance, a tree
splintered and fell over. More crows called in the sky. Deep in the game which was no
longer a game, neither of them noticed.
“Oh yeah?” she breathed. “That so?”
“It is. Now say your lesson, Susannah Dean, and be true.” – This time the words fell from her lips like small chunks of ice. Her right hand trembled lightly on the arm of her
wheelchair like an idling engine.
” ‘I do not aim with my hand; she who aims with her hand has forgotten the face of her
father.
” ‘I aim with my eye.’ ”
“Good.”
” ‘I do not shoot with my hand; she who shoots with her hand has forgotten the face of her
father.
” ‘I shoot with my mind.’ ”
“So it has ever been, Susannah Dean.”
” ‘I do not kill with my gun; she who kills with her gun has forgotten the face of her father.
” ‘I kill with my heart.’ ”
“Then KILL them, for your father’s sake!” Roland shouted. “KILL THEM ALL!”
Her right hand was a blur between the arm of the chair and the butt of Roland’s sixgun. It
was out in a second, her left hand descending, fanning at the hammer in flutters almost as
swift and delicate as the wing of a hummingbird. Six flat cracks pealed off across the valley,
and five of the six chips of stone set atop the boulder blinked out of existence.
For a moment neither of them spoke—did not even breathe, it seemed—as the echoes
rolled back and forth, dimming. Even the crows were silent, at least for the time being.
The gunslinger broke the silence with four toneless yet oddly emphatic words: “It is very
well.”
Susannah looked at the gun in her hand as if she had never seen it before. A tendril of
smoke rose from the barrel, perfectly straight in the windless silence. Then, slowly, she
returned it to the holster below her bosom.
“Good, but not perfect,” she said at last. “I missed one.”
“Did you?” He walked over to the boulder and picked up the remaining chip of stone. He glanced at it, then tossed it to her.
She caught it with her left; her right stayed near the bolstered gun, he saw with approval.
She shot better and more naturally than Eddie, but had not learned this particular lesson as
swiftly as Eddie had done.
If she had been with them during the shootout at Balazar’s nightclub, she might have. Now,
Roland saw, she was at last learning that, too. She looked at the stone and saw the notch,
barely a sixteenth of an inch deep, in its upper corner.
“You only clipped it,” Roland said, returning to her, “but in a shooting scrape, sometimes that’s all you wed. If you clip a fellow, throw his aim off …” He paused. “Why an- you looking at me that way?”