“How do you know?” Eddie screams at him in sudden frustration. He raises his fists as if to strike Roland, then lowers them.
I just know—so why do you waste my time and energy asking me foolish questions? he wants to reply, but before he can, the cards
shuffle
being dragged along, bounced and bumped, his head lolling helplessly from one side to the other, bound to some kind of a weird travois by his own gunbelts, and he can hear Eddie Dean singing a song which is so weirdly familiar he at first believes this must be a delirium dream:
“Heyy Jude . . . don’t make it bad . . . take a saaad song . . . and make it better . . .”
Where did you hear that? he wants to ask. Did you hear me singing it, Eddie? And where are we?
But before he can ask anything
shuffle
Cort would bash the kid’s head in if he saw that contraption, Roland thinks, looking at the travois upon which he has spent the day, and laughs. It isn’t much of a laugh. It sounds like one of those waves dropping its load of stones on the beach. He doesn’t know how far they have come, but it’s far enough for Eddie to be totally bushed. He’s sitting on a rock in the lengthening light with one of the gunslinger’s revolvers in his lap and a half-full water-skin to one side. There’s a small bulge in his shirt pocket. These are the bullets from the back of the gunbelts—the diminishing supply of “good” bullets. Eddie has tied these up in a piece of his own shirt. The main reason the supply of “good” bullets is diminishing so fast is because one of every four or five has also turned out to be a dud.
Eddie, who has been nearly dozing, now looks up. “What are you laughing about?” he asks.
The gunslinger waves a dismissive hand and shakes his head. Because he’s wrong, he realizes. Cort wouldn’t bash Eddie for the travois, even though it was an odd, lame-looking thing. Roland thinks it might even be possible that Cort might grunt some word of compliment—such a rarity that the boy to whom it happened hardly ever knew how to respond; he was left gaping like a fish just pulled from a cook’s barrel.
The main supports were two cottonwood branches of approximately the same length and thickness. A blowdown, the gunslinger presumed. He had used smaller branches as supports, attaching them to the support poles with a crazy conglomeration of stuff: gunbelts, the glue-string that had held the devil-powder to his chest, even the rawhide thong from the gunslinger’s hat and his, Eddie’s, own sneaker laces. He had laid the gunslinger’s bedroll over the supports.
Cort would not have struck him because, sick as he was, Eddie had at least done more than squat on his hunkers and bewail his fate. He had made something. Had tried.
And Cort might have offered one of his abrupt, almost grudging compliments because, crazy as the thing looked, it worked. The long tracks stretching back down the beach to a point where they seemed to come together at the rim of perspective proved that.
“You see any of them?” Eddie asks. The sun is going down, beating an orange path across the water, and so the gunslinger reckons he has been out better than six hours this time. He feels stronger. He sits up and looks down to the water. Neither the beach nor the land sweeping to the western slope of the mountains have changed much; he can see small variations of landscape and detritus （a dead seagull, for instance, lying in a little heap of blowing feathers on the sand about twenty yards to the left and thirty or so closer to the water）， but these aside, they might as well be right where they started.
“No,” the gunslinger says. Then: “Yes. There’s one.”
He points. Eddie squints, then nods. As the sun sinks lower and the orange track begins to look more and more like blood, the first of the lobstrosities come tumbling out of the waves and begin crawling up the beach.
Two of them race clumsily toward the dead gull. The winner pounces on it, rips it open, and begins to stuff the rotting remains into its maw. “Did-a-chick?” it asks.