He’d considered changing back to hisspider-form, knowing that body would feel the cold less, but his entire shortlife had been plagued by the specter of starvation, and he supposed that partof him would always fear it, no matter how much food he had at hand. The godsknew there wasn’t much now; three severed arms, four legs (two partiallyeaten), and a piece of a torso from the wicker basket, that was all. If hechanged, the spider would gobble that little bit up by daylight. And whilethere was game out here—he heard the deer moving around just as clearlyas his White Daddy did—Mordred wasn’t entirely confident of his abilityto trap it, or run it down.

So he sat and shivered and listened to thesound of their voices until the voices ceased. Maybe they slept. He might havedozed a little, himself. And the only thing that kept him from giving up andgoing back was his hatred of them. That they should have each other when he hadno one. No one at all.

Mordred’s a-hungry, he thoughtmiserably. Mordred’s a-cold. And Mordred has no one. Mordred’s alone.

He slipped his wrist into his mouth, bitdeep, and sucked the warmth that flowed out. In the blood he tasted the last ofRando Thoughtful’s life… but so little! So soon gone! And once it was, therewas nothing but the useless, recycled taste of himself.

In the dark, Mordred began to cry.

Three

Four hours after dawn, under a white skythat promised rain or sleet (perhaps both at the same time), Susannah Dean layshivering behind a fallen log, looking down into one of the little valleys. You’llhear Oy, the gunslinger had told her. And you’ll hear me, too. I’ll dowhat I can, but I’ll be driving them ahead of me and you’ll have the best shooting.Make every shot count.

What made things worse was her creepingintuition that Mordred was very close now, and he might try to bushwhack herwhile her back was turned. She kept looking around, but they had picked arelatively clear spot, and the open grass behind her was empty each time saveonce, when she had seen a large brown rabbit lolloping along with its earsdragging the ground.

At last she heard Oy’s high-pitched barkingfrom the copse of trees on her left. A moment later, Roland began to yell.“H’yah! H’yah! Get on brisk! Get on brisk, I tell thee! Never tarry! Nevertarry a single—” Then the sound of him coughing. She didn’t like thatcough. No, not at all.

Now she could see movement in the trees,and for one of the few times since Roland had forced her to admit there wasanother person hiding inside of her, she called on Detta Walker.

I need you. If you want to be warmagain, you settle my hands so I can shoot straight.

And the ceaseless shivering of her bodystopped. As the herd of deer burst out of the trees—not a small herd,either; there had to be at least eighteen of them, led by a buck with amagnificent rack—her hands also stopped their shaking. In the right oneshe held Roland’s revolver with the sandalwood grips.

Here came Oy, bursting out of the woodsbehind the final straggler. This was a mutie doe, running (and with eeriegrace) on four legs of varying sizes with a fifth waggling bonelessly from themiddle of her belly like a teat. Last of all came Roland, not really running atall, not anymore, but rather staggering onward at a grim jog. She ignored him,tracking the buck with the gun as the big fellow ran across her field of fire.

“This way,” she whispered. “Break to yourright, honey-child, let’s see you do it. Commala-come-come.”

And while there was no reason why he shouldhave, the buck leading his little fleeing herd did indeed veer slightly inSusannah’s direction. Now she was filled with the sort of coldness shewelcomed. Her vision seemed to sharpen until she could see the muscles ripplingunder the buck’s hide, the white crescent as his eye rolled, the old wound onthe nearest doe’s foreleg, where the fur had never grown back. She had a momentto wish Eddie and Jake were lying on either side of her, feeling what she wasfeeling, seeing what she was seeing, and then that was gone, too.

I do not kill with my gun; she who killswith her gun has forgotten the face of her father.

“I kill with my heart,” she murmured, andbegan shooting.

The first bullet took the lead buck in thehead and he crashed over on his left side. The others ran past him. A doeleaped over his body and Susannah’s second bullet took her at the height of herleap, so that she crashed down dead on the other side, one leg splayed andbroken, all grace gone.

She heard Roland fire three times, butdidn’t look to see how he’d done; she had her own business to attend to, andshe attended to it well. Each of the last four bullets in the cylinder tookdown a deer, and only one was still moving when he fell. It didn’t occur to herthat this was an amazing piece of shooting, especially with a pistol; she was agunslinger, after all, and shooting was her business.

Besides, the morning was windless.

Half the herd now lay dead in the grassyvalley below. All the remainder save one wheeled left and pelted away downslopetoward the stream. A moment later they were lost in a screen of willows. Thelast one, a yearling buck, ran directly toward her. Susannah didn’t bothertrying to reload from the little pile of bullets lying beside her on a squareof buckskin but took one of the ‘Riza plates instead, her hand automaticallyfinding the dull gripping-place.

“ ‘Riza!” she screamed, and flungit. It flew across the dry grass, elevating slightly as it did, giving off thatweird moaning sound. It struck the racing buck at mid-neck. Droplets of bloodflew in a garland around its head, black against the white sky. A butcher’scleaver could not have done a neater job. For a moment the buck ran on,heedless and headless, blood jetting from the stump of its neck as its racingheart gave up its last half a dozen beats. Then it crashed to its splayedforelegs less than ten yards in front of her hide, staining the dry yellowgrass a bright red.

The previous night’s long misery wasforgotten. The numbness had departed her hands and her feet. There was no griefin her now, no sense of loss, no fear. For the moment Susannah was exactly thewoman that ka had made her. The mixed smell of gunpowder and blood from thedowned buck was bitter; it was also the world’s sweetest perfume.

Standing up straight on her stumps,Susannah spread her arms, Roland’s pistol clenched in her right hand, and madea Y against the sky. Then she screamed. There were no words in it, norcould there have been. Our greatest moments of triumph are always inarticulate.

Four

Roland had insisted that they eat a hugebreakfast, and her protests that cold corned beef tasted like so much lumpymush cut zero ice with him. By two that afternoon according to hisfancy-schmancy pocket-watch—right around the time the steady cold rainfattened into an icy drizzle, in other words—she was glad. She had neverdone a harder day of physical labor, and the day wasn’t finished. Roland was byher all the while, matching her in spite of his worsening cough. She had time(during their brief but crazily delicious noon meal of seared deer-steaks) toconsider how strange he was, how remarkable. After all this time and all theseadventures, she had still not seen the bottom of him. Not even close. She had seenhim laughing and crying, killing and dancing, she’d seen him sleeping and onthe squat behind a screen of bushes with his pants down and his ass hung overwhat he called the Log of Ease. She’d never slept with him as a woman does witha man, but she thought she’d seen him in every other circumstance, and… no.Still no bottom.

“That cough’s sounding more and more likepneumonia to me,” Susannah remarked, not long after the rain had started. Theywere then in the part of the day’s activities Roland called aven-car: carryingthe kill and preparing to make it into something else.