Темная башня: Стрелок

           Therewasnothingintheremainsbutacharredscrapofbacon,whichheatethoughtfully.Ithadalwaysbeenthisway.Thegunslingerhadfollowedthemaninblackacrossthedesertfortwomonthsnow,acrosstheendless,screaminglymonotonouspurgatorialwastes,andhadyettofindspoorotherthanthehygienicsterileideographsofthemaninblack’scampfires.Hehadnotfoundacan,abottle,orawaterbag(thegunslingerhadleftfourofthosebehind,likedeadsnake-skins).

           -Perhapsthecampfiresareamessage,spelledoutletterbyletter.Takeapowder.Or,theenddrawethnigh.Ormaybeeven,EatatJoe’s.Itdidn’tmatter.Hehadnounderstandingoftheideograms,iftheywereideograms.Andtheremainswereascoldasalltheothers.Heknewhewascloser,butdidnotknowhowheknew.Thatdidn’tmattereither.Hestoodup,brushinghishands.

           Noothertrace;thewind,razor-sharp,hadofcoursefiledawayevenwhatscanttracksthehardpanheld.Hehadneverevenbeenabletofindhisquarry’sdroppings.Nothing.Onlythesecoldcampfiresalongtheancienthighwayandtherelentlessrange-finderinhisownhead.

           Hesatdownandallowedhimselfashortpullfromthewaterbag.Hescannedthedesert,lookedupatthesun,whichwasnowslidingdownthefarquadrantofthesky.Hegotup,removedhisglovesfromhisbelt,andbegantopulldevil-grassforhisownfire,whichhelaidovertheashesthemaninblackhadleft.Hefoundtheirony,liketheromanceofhisthirst,bitterlyappealing.