Темная башня: Стрелок

           Ascrawnytailorwithalatecustomerpausedtowatchhimby;heheldupthelampinhiswindowforabetterlook.Thegunslingernodded.Neitherthetailornorhiscustomernoddedback.Hecouldfeeltheireyesrestingheavilyagainstthelow-slungholstersthatlayagainsthiships.Ayoungboy,perhapsthirteen,andhisgirlcrossedthestreetablockup,pausingimperceptibly.Theirfootfallsraisedlittlehangingcloudsofdust.Afewofthestreetsidelampsworked,buttheirglasssideswerecloudywithcongealedoil.Mosthadbeencrashedout.Therewasalivery,probablydependingonthecoachlineforitssurvival.Threeboyswerecrouchedsilentlyaroundamarbleringdrawninthedusttoonesideofthebarn’sgapingmaw,smokingcornshuckcigarettes.Theymadelongshadowsintheyard.

           Thegunslingerledhismulepastthemandlookedintothedimdepthsofthebarn.Onelampglowedsunkenly,andashadowjumpedandflickeredasaganglingoldmaninbiboverallsforkedloosetimothyhayintothehayloftwithhuge,gruntingswipesofhisfork.

           "Hey!"thegunslingercalled.

           Theforkfalteredandthehostlerlookedaroundwaspishly."Heyyourself!"

           "Igotamulehere."

           "Goodforyou."

           Thegunslingerflickedaheavy,unevenlymilledgoldpieceintothesemidark.Itrangontheold,chaff-driftedboardsandglittered.

           Thehostlercameforward,bent,pickeditup,squintedatthegunslinger.Hiseyesdroppedtothegunbeltsandhenoddedsourly.

           "Howlongyouwanthimputup?"

           "Anight.Maybetwo.Maybelonger."

           "Iain’tgotnochangeforgold."