Темная башня: Стрелок

           Theycameon,screamingwithfranticincoherency.Fromsomewhere,SylviaPittstonexhortedthem,hervoicerisingandfallingonblindinflections.Hepushedshellsintohotchambers,smellingthesmellsofshaveandtonsure,smellinghisownfleshasthecallusesatthetipsofhisfingerssinged.

           Hewentthroughthebackdoorandontotheporch.Theflatscrublandwasathisbacknow,flatlydenyingthetownthatcrouchedagainstitshugehaunch.Threemenhustledaroundthecorner,withlargebetrayergrinsontheirfaces.Theysawhim,sawhimseeingthem,andthegrinscurdledinthesecondbeforehemowedthemdown.Awomanhadfollowedthem,howling.ShewaslargeandfatandknowntothepatronsofSheb’sasAuntMill.Thegunslingerblewherbackwardsandshelandedinawhorishsprawl,herskirtkinkedupbetweenherthighs.

           Hewentdownthestepsandwalkedbackwardsintothedesert,tenpaces,twenty.ThebackdoorofthebarbershopflewopenandtheyboiledoutHecaughtaglimpseofSylviaPittston.Heopenedup.Theyfellinsquats,theyfellbackwards,theytumbledovertherailingintothedust.Theycastnoshadowsinthedeathlesspurplelightoftheday.Herealizedhewasscreaming.Hehadbeenscream-ingallalong.Hiseyesfeltlikecrackedballbearings.Hisballshaddrawnupagainsthisbelly.Hislegswerewood.Hisearswereiron.

           Thegunswereemptyandtheyboiledathim,transmogrifiedintoanEyeandaHand,andhestood,scream-ingandreloading,hismindfarawayandabsent,lettinghishandsdotheirreloadingtrick.