She found the worn chamber release, tried to shove it forward, got nothing, and pulled it instead. The chamber swung open.
Loaded! Fucker be loaded! You goan do this young cocka-de-walk first, and dat Really Bad Man be wakin up and you goan give him one big grin—smile honeychile so I kin see where you is—and den you goan clean his clock somethin righteous.
She swung the chamber back, started to pull the hammer . . . and then waited.
When the wind kicked up a gust, she pulled the hammer to full cock.
Detta pointed Roland’s gun at Eddie’s temple.
3
The gunslinger watched all this from one half-open eye. The fever was back, but not bad yet, not so bad that he must mistrust himself. So he waited, that one half-open eye the finger on the trigger of his body, the body which had always been his revolver when there was no revolver at hand.
She pulled the trigger.
Click.
Of course click.
When he and Eddie had come back with the waterskins from their palaver, Odetta Holmes had been deeply asleep in her wheelchair, slumped to one side. They had made her the best bed they could on the sand and carried her gently from her wheelchair to the spread blankets. Eddie had been sure she would awake, but Roland knew better.
He had killed, Eddie had built a fire, and they had eaten, saving a portion aside for Odetta in the morning.
Then they had talked, and Eddie had said something which burst upon Roland like a sudden flare of lightning. It was too bright and too brief to be total understanding, but he saw much, the way one may discern the lay of the land in a single lucky stroke of lightning.
He could have told Eddie then, but did not. He understood that he must be Eddie’s Cort, and when one of Cort’s pupils was left hurt and bleeding by some unexpected blow, Cort’s response had always been the same: A child doesn’t understand a hammer until he’s mashed his finger at a nail. Get up and stop whining, maggot! You have forgotten the face of your father!
So Eddie had fallen asleep, even though Roland had told him he must be on his guard, and when Roland was sure they both slept （he had waited longer for the Lady, who could, he thought, be sly）， he had reloaded his guns with spent casings, unstrapped them （that caused a pang）， and put them by Eddie.
Then he waited.
One hour; two; three.
Halfway through the fourth hour, as his tired and feverish body tried to drowse, he sensed rather than saw the Lady come awake and came fully awake himself.
He watched her roll over. He watched her turn her hands into claws and pull herself along the sand to where his gunbelts lay. He watched her take one of them out, come closer to Eddie, and then pause, her head cocking, her nostrils swelling and contracting, doing more than smelling the air; tasting it.
Yes. This was the woman he had brought across.
When she glanced toward the gunslinger he did more than feign sleep, because she would have sensed sham; he went to sleep. When he sensed her gaze shift away he awoke and opened that single eye again. He saw her begin to raise the gun—she did this with less effort than Eddie had shown the first time Roland saw him do the same thing—and point it toward Eddie’s head. Then she paused, her face filled with an inexpressible cunning.
In that moment she reminded him of Marten.
She fiddled with the cylinder, getting it wrong at first, then swinging it open. She looked at the heads of the shells. Roland tensed, waiting first to see if she would know the firing pins had already been struck, waiting next to see if she would turn the gun, look into the other end of the cylinder, and see there was only emptiness there instead of lead （he had thought of loading the guns with cartridges which had already misfired, but only briefly; Cort had taught them that every gun is ultimately ruled by Old Man Splitfoot, and a cartridge which misfires once may not do so a second time）。 If she did that, he would spring at once.