Темная башня: Стрелок

           Hewalkedpast,mountedtheboardwalkandstarteddowntowardSheb’s,hearingtheclear,contemptuousvoiceofoneoftheothers,hardlymorethanachildishtreble:

           "Weed-eater!Howlongyoubeenscrewin’yoursister,Charlie?Weed-eater!"

           TherewerethreeflaringkerosenelampsinfrontofSheb’s,onetoeachsideandonenailedabovethedrunk-hungbatwingdoors.ThechorusofHeyJudehadpeteredout,andthepianowasplinkingsomeotheroldballad.Voicesmurmuredlikebrokenthreads.Thegunslingerpausedoutsideforamoment,lookingin.Sawdustfloor,spittoonsbythetipsy-leggedtables.Aplankbaronsaw-horses.Agummymirrorbehindit,reflectingthepianoplayer,whoworeaninevitablepiano-stoolslouch.Thefrontofthepianohadbeenremovedsoyoucouldwatchthewoodenkeyswhonkupanddownasthecontraptionwasplayed.Thebartenderwasastraw-hairedwomanwearingadirtybluedress.Onestrapwasheldwithasafetypin.Therewereperhapssixtowniesinthebackoftheroom,juicingandplayingWatchMeapathetically.Anotherhalf-dozenweregroupedlooselyaboutthepiano.Fourorfiveatthebar.Andanoldmanwithwildgrayhaircollapsedatatablebythedoors.Thegunslingerwentin.

           Headsswiveledtolookathimandhisguns.Therewasamomentofnearsilence,exceptfortheobliviouspianoplayer,whocontinuedtotinkle.Thenthewomanmoppedatthebar,andthingsshiftedback.

           "Watchme,"oneoftheplayersinthecornersaidandmatchedthreeheartswithfourspades,emptyinghishand.