The deer fell dead at the edge of the pool.
Soon the Tower would fill him again, but now he only blessed what gods there were that his aim was still true, and thought of meat, and meat, and meat. He re-holstered the gun—the only one he wore now—and climbed over the log behind which he had patiently lain as late afternoon drew down to dusk, waiting for something big enough to eat to come to the pool.
I am getting well, he thought with some amazement as he drew his knife. I am really getting well.
He didn’t see the woman standing behind him, watching with assessing brown eyes.
2
They had eaten nothing but lobster-meat and had drunk nothing but brackish stream water for six days following the confrontation at the end of the beach. Roland remembered very little of that time; he had been raving, delirious. He sometimes called Eddie Alain, sometimes Cuthbert, and always he called the woman Susan.
His fever had abated little by little, and they began the laborious trek into the hills. Eddie pushed the woman in the chair some of the time, and sometimes Roland rode in it while Eddie carried her piggyback, her arms locked loosely around his neck. Most of the time the way made it impossible for either to ride, and that made the going slow. Roland knew how exhausted Eddie was. The woman knew, too, but Eddie never complained.
They had food; during the days when Roland lay between life and death, smoking with fever, reeling and railing of times long past and people long dead, Eddie and the woman killed again and again and again. Bye and bye the lobstrosities began staying away from their part of the beach, but by then they had plenty of meat, and when they at last got into an area where weeds and slutgrass grew, all three of them ate compulsively of it. They were starved for greens, any greens. And, little by little, the sores on their skins began to fade. Some of the grass was bitter, some sweet, but they ate no matter what the taste . . . except once.
The gunslinger had wakened from a tired doze and seen the woman yanking at a handful of grass he recognized all too well.
“No! Not that!” he croaked. “Never that! Mark it, and remember it! Never that!”
She looked at him for a long moment and put it aside without asking for an explanation.
The gunslinger lay back, cold with the closeness of it. Some of the other grasses might kill them, but what the woman had pulled would damn her. It had been devil-weed.
The Keflex had brought on explosions in his bowels, and he knew Eddie had been worried about that, but eating the grasses had controlled it.
Eventually they had reached real woods, and the sound of the Western Sea diminished to a dull drone they heard only when the wind was right.
And now . . . meat.
3
The gunslinger reached the deer and tried to gut it with the knife held between the third and fourth fingers of his right hand. No good. His fingers weren’t strong enough. He switched the knife to his stupid hand, and managed a clumsy cut from the deer’s groin to its chest. The knife let out the steaming blood before it could congeal in the meat and spoil it . . . but it was still a bad cut. A puking child could have done better.
You are going to learn to be smart, he told his left hand, and prepared to cut again, deeper.
Two brown hands closed over his one and took the knife.
Roland looked around.
“I’ll do it,” Susannah said.
“Have you ever?”
“No, but you’ll tell me how.”
“All right.”
“Meat,” she said, and smiled at him.
“Yes,” he said, and smiled back. “Meat.”
“What’s happening?” Eddie called. “I heard a shot.”