Wolves of the Calla

Javier, however, was a smallhold farmer, and as such, saw the world in a very different way.

You need us , Eddie thought toward the little cluster of men standing on the porch—the farmers in their dirty white pants, Adams in his chaps and manure-splattered shor'boots. Boy, do you ever .

Susannah wheeled to the front of the porch and folded her stumps beneath her so she appeared almost to be standing in her chair. Eddie knew how much this posture hurt her, but no discomfort showed on her face. Roland, meanwhile, was looking down into the pouches she wore. There were four dishes in each, plain things with no pattern on them. Practice-dishes.

Zalia walked across to the barn. Although Roland and Eddie had noted the blanket tacked up there as soon as they arrived, the others noticed it for the first time when Zalia pulled it down. Drawn in chalk on the barnboards was the outline of a man—or a manlike being—with a frozen grin on his face and the suggestion of a cloak fluttering out behind him. This wasn't work of the quality produced by the Tavery twins, nowhere near, but those on the porch recognized a Wolf when they saw one. The older children oohed softly. The Estradas and the Javiers applauded, but looked apprehensive even as they did so, like people who fear they may be whistling up the devil. Andy complimented the artist ('whoever she may be,' he added archly), and Gran-pere told him again to shut his trap. Then he called out that the Wolves he'd seen were quite a spot bigger. His voice was shrill with excitement.

'Well, I drew it to man-size,' Zalia said (she had actually drawn it to husband-size) . 'If the real thing turns out to make a bigger target, all to the good. Hear me, I beg.' This last came out uncertainly, almost as a question.

Roland nodded. 'We say thankya.'

Zalia shot him a grateful look, then stepped away from the outline on the wall. Then she looked at Susannah. 'When you will, lady.'

For a moment Susannah only remained where she was, about sixty yards from the barn. Her hands lay between her breasts, the right covering the left. Her head was lowered. Her ka-mates knew exactly what was going on in that head: I aim with my eye, shoot with my hand, kill with my heart . Their own hearts went out to her, perhaps carried by Jake's touch or Eddie's love, encouraging her, wishing her well, sharing their excitement. Roland watched fiercely. Would one more dab hand with the dish turn things in their favor? Perhaps not. But he was what he was, and so was she, and he wished her true aim with every last bit of his will.

She raised her head. Looked at the shape chalked on the barn wall. Still her hands lay between her breasts. Then she cried out shrilly, as Margaret Eisenhart had cried out in the yard of the Rocking B, and Roland felt his hard-beating heart rise. In that moment he had a clear and beautiful memory of David, his hawk, folding his wings in a blue summer sky and dropping at his prey like a stone with eyes.

'Riza!'

Her hands dropped and became a blur. Only Roland, Eddie, and Jake were able to mark how they crossed at the waist, the right hand seizing a dish from the left pouch, the left hand seizing one from the right. Sai Eisenhart had thrown from the shoulder, sacrificing time in order to gain force and accuracy.

Susannah's arms crossed below her ribcage and just above the arms of her wheelchair, the dishes finishing their cocking arc at about the height of her shoulderblades. Then they flew, crisscrossing in midair a moment before thudding into the side of the barn.

Susannah's arms finished straight out before her; for a moment she looked like an impresario who has just introduced the featured act. Then they dropped and crossed, seizing two more dishes. She flung them, dipped again, and flung the third set. The first two were still quivering when the last two bit into the side of the barn, one high and one low.

For a moment there was utter silence in the Jaffordses' yard. Not even a bird called. The eight plates ran in a perfectly straight line from the throat of the chalked figure to what would have been its upper midsection. They were all two and a half to three inches apart, descending like buttons on a shirt. And she had thrown all eight in no more than three seconds.

'Do'ee mean to use the dish against the Wolves?' Bucky Javier asked in a queerly breathless voice. 'Is that it?'

'Nothing's been decided,' Roland said stolidly.

In a barely audible voice that held both shock and wonder, Deelie Estrada said: 'But if that'd been a man, hear me, he'd be cutlets.'

It was Gran-pere who had the final word, as perhaps gran-peres should: 'Yer- bugger!'

SIX

On their way back out to the main road (Andy walked at a distance ahead of them, carrying the folded wheelchair and playing something bagpipey through his sound system), Susannah said musingly: 'I may give up the gun altogether, Roland, and just concentrate on the dish. There's an elemental satisfaction to giving that scream and then throwing.'

'You reminded me of my hawk,' Roland admitted.

Susannah's teeth flashed white in a grin. 'Ifelt like a hawk. Riza! O- Riza ! Just saying the word puts me in a throwing mood.'

To Jake's mind this brought some obscure memory of Gasher ('Yer old pal, Gasher,' as the gentleman himself had been wont to say), and he shivered.

'Would you really give up the gun?' Roland asked. He didn't know if he was amused or aghast.

'Would you roll your own smokes if you could get tailor-mades?' she asked, and then, before he could answer: 'No, not really. Yet the dish is a lovely weapon. When they come, I hope to throw two dozen. And bag my limit.'

'Will there be a shortage of plates?' Eddie asked.

'Nope,' she said. 'There aren't very many fancy ones— like the one sai Eisenhart threw for you, Roland—but they've hundreds of practice-plates. Rosalita and Sarey Adams are sorting through them, culling out any that might fly crooked.' She hesitated, lowered her voice. 'They've all been out here, Roland, and although Sarey's brave as a lion and would stand fast against a tornado…'

'Hasn't got it, huh?' Eddie asked sympathetically.

'Not quite,' Susannah agreed. 'She's good, but not like the others. Nor does she have quite the same ferocity.'

'I may have something else for her,' Roland said.

'What would that be, sugar?'

'Escort duty, mayhap. We'll see how they shoot, day after tomorrow. A little competition always livens things up. Five o' the clock, Susannah, do they know?'

'Yes. Most of the Calla would turn up, if you allowed them.'

This was discouraging… but he should have expected it. I've been too long out of the world of people , he thought. So I have .

'No one but the ladies and ourselves,' Roland said firmly.

'If the Calla-folken saw the women throw well, it could swing a lot of people who are on the fence.'

Roland shook his head. He didn't want them to know how well the women threw, that was very nearly the whole point. But that the town knew they were throwing… that might not be such a bad thing. 'How good are they, Susannah? Tell me.'

She thought about it, then smiled. 'Killer aim,' she said. 'Every one.'

'Can you teach them that crosshand throw?'

Susannah considered the question. You could teach anyone just about anything, given world enough and