Темная башня: Стрелок

           Thebrasscasingsofthecartridgesloopedintothegunbeltstwinkledandflashedandheliographedinthesun.Theleathermadesubtlecreakingnoises.Thegunsthemselvesmadenonoise.Theyhadspilledblood.Therewasnoneedtomakenoiseinthesterilityofthedesert

           Hisclothesweretheno-colorofrainordust.Hisshirtwasopenatthethroat,witharawhidethongdanglinglooselyinhand-punchedeyelets.Hispantswereseam-stretcheddungarees.

           Hebreastedagentlyrisingdune(althoughtherewasnosandhere;thedesertwashardpan,andeventheharshwindsthatblewwhendarkcameraisedonlyanaggravatingharshdustlikescouringpowder)andsawthekickedremainsofatinycampfireontheleeside,thesidewhichthesunwouldquitearliest.Smallsignslikethis,oncemoreaffirmingthemaninblack’sessentialhumanity,neverfailedtopleasehim.Hislipsstretchedinthepitted,flakedremainsofhisface.Hesquatted.

           Hehadburnedthedevil-grass,ofcourse.Itwastheonlythingoutherethatwouldburn.Itburnedwithagreasy,flatlight,anditburnedslow.Borderdwellershadtoldhimthatdevilslivedevenintheflames.Theyburneditbutwouldnotlookintothelight.Theysaidthedevilshypnotized,beckoned,wouldeventuallydrawtheonewholookedintothefires.Andthenextmanfoolishenoughtolookintothefiremightseeyou.

           Theburnedgrasswascrisscrossedinthenow-familiarideographicpattern,andcrumbledtograysenselessnessbeforethegunslinger’sproddinghand.