Темная башня: Стрелок

           Neatcircleswerebrandedintothetipsofeachone.

           Therewerelessofthem,now;hehadrunthroughthemlikeamower’sscythe.Hethoughttheywouldbreakwiththewomandead,butsomeonethrewaknife.Thehiltstruckhimsquarelybetweentheeyesandknockedhimover.Theyranathiminareaching,viciousclot.Hefiredhisgunsemptyagain,lyinginhisownspentshells.Hisheadhurtandhesawlargebrowncirclesinfrontofhis’eyes.Hemissedoneshot,downedeleven.

           Buttheywereonhim,theonesthatwereleftHefiredthefourshellshehadreloaded,andthentheywerebeatinghim,stabbinghim.Hethrewapairofthemoffhisleftarmandrolledaway.Hishandsbegandoingtheirinfallibletrick.Hewasstabbedintheshoulder.Hewasstabbedintheback.Hewashitacrosstheribs.Hewasstabbedintheass.Asmallboysquirmedathimandmadetheonlydeepcut,acrossthebulgeofhiscalf.Thegunslingerblewhisheadoff.

           Theywerescatteringandheletthemhaveitagain.Theonesleftbegantoretreattowardthesand-colored,pittedbuildings,andstillthehandsdidtheirtrick,likeover-eagerdogsthatwanttodotheirrolling-overtrickforyounotonceortwicebutallnight,andthehandswerecuttingthemdownastheyran.Thelastonemadeitasfarasthestepsofthebarbershop’sbackporch,andthenthegunslinger’sbullettookhiminthebackofthehead.

           Silencecamebackin,fillingjaggedspaces.

           Thegunslingerwasbleedingfromperhapstwentydifferentwounds,allofthemshallowexceptforthecutacrosshiscalf.