at last saw movement.
On the far side of the square was a long watering trough, made of
iron-wood from the look (what some called 'seequoiah' out here),
apparently fed in happier times from a rusty steel pipe which now
jutted waterless above the trough's south end. Lolling over one side
of this municipal oasis, about halfway down its length, was a leg
clad in faded grey pants and terminating in a well-chewed cowboy
boot.
The chewer was a large dog, perhaps two shades greyer than the
corduroy pants. Under other circumstances, Roland supposed the
mutt would have had the boot off long since, but perhaps the foot
and lower calf inside it had swelled. In any case, the dog was well
on its way to simply chewing the obstacle away. It would seize the
boot and shake it back and forth. Every now and then the boot's
heel would collide with the wooden side of the trough, producing
another hollow knock. The gunslinger hadn't been so wrong to
think of coffin tops after all, it seemed.
Why doesn't it just back off a few steps, jump into the trough, and
have at him? Roland wondered. No water coming out of the pipe,
so it can't be afraid of drowning.
Topsy uttered another of his hollow, tired sneezes, and when the
dog lurched around in response, Roland understood why it was
doing things the hard way. One of its front legs had been badly
broken and crookedly mended. Walking would be a chore for it,
jumping out of the question. On its chest was a patch of dirty white
fur. Growing out of this patch was black fur in a roughly cruciform
shape. A Jesus-dog, mayhap, hoping for a spot of afternoon
communion.
There was nothing very religious about the snarl which began to
wind out of its chest, however, or the roll of its rheumy eyes. It
lifted its upper lip in a trembling sneer, revealing a goodish set of
teeth.
'Light out,' Roland said. 'While you can.'
The dog backed up until its hindquarters were pressed against the
chewed boot. It regarded the oncoming man fearfully, but clearly
meant to stand its ground. The revolver in Roland's hand held no
significance for it. The gunslinger wasn't surprised - he guessed the
dog had never seen one, had no idea it was anything other than a
club of some kind, which could only be thrown once.
'Hie on with you, now,' Roland said, but still the dog wouldn't
move.
He should have shot it - it was no good to itself, and a dog that had
acquired a taste for human flesh could be no good to anyone else -
but he somehow didn't like to. Killing the only thing still living in
this town (other than the singing bugs, that was) seemed like an
invitation to bad luck.
He fired into the dust near the dog's good forepaw, the sound
crashing into the hot day and temporarily silencing the insects. The
dog could run, it seemed, although at a lurching trot that hurt
