dead boy into the pocket of his jeans, pushing the broken fine-link
chain in after.
They stood staring at him, their strangely twisted shadows drawn
out behind them. What next? Tell them to go back where they'd
come from? Roland didn't know if they'd do it, and in any case had
decided he liked them best where he could see them. And at least
there was no question now about staying to bury the boy named
James; that conundrum had been solved.
'Stand steady,' he said in the low speech, beginning to retreat. 'First
fellow that moves -'
Before he could finish, one of them - a thick-chested troll with a
pouty toad's mouth and what looked like gills on the sides of his
wattled neck - lunged forward, gibbering in a high-pitched and
peculiarly flabby voice.
It might have been a species of laughter. He was waving what
looked like a piano-leg.
Roland fired. Mr Toad's chest caved in like a bad piece of roofing.
He ran backwards several steps, trying to catch his balance and
clawing at his chest with the hand not holding the piano-leg. His
feet, clad in dirty red velvet slippers with curled-up toes, tangled in
each other and he fell over, making a queer and somehow lonely
gargling sound. He let go of his club, rolled over on one side, tried
to rise, and then fell back into the dust. The brutal sun glared into
his open eyes, and as Roland watched, white tendrils of steam
began to rise from his skin, which was rapidly losing its green
undertint. There was also a hissing sound, like a gob of spit on top
of a hot stove.
Saves explaining, at least, Roland thought, and swept his eyes over
the others. 'All right; he was the first one to move. Who wants to
be the second?'
None did, it seemed. They only stood there, watching him, not
coming at him ... but not retreating, either. He thought (as he had
about the crucifix-dog) that he should kill them as they stood there,
just draw his other gun and mow them down. It would be the work
of seconds only, and child's play to his gifted hands, even if some
ran. But he couldn't.
Not just cold, like that. He wasn't that kind of killer ... at least, not
yet.
Very slowly, he began to step backwards, first bending his course
around the watering trough, then putting it between him and them.
When Bowler Hat took a step forward, Roland didn't give the
others in the line a chance to copy him; he put a bullet into the dust
of High Street an inch in advance of Bowler Hat's foot.
'That's your last warning,' he said, still using the low speech. He
had no idea if they understood it, didn't really care. He guessed
they caught this tune's music well enough. 'Next bullet I fire eats
up someone's heart. The way it works is, you stay and I go. You
get this one chance. Follow me, and you all die. It's too hot to play
games and I've lost my -'
'Booh!' cried a rough, liquidy voice from behind him. There was
