In that moment she reminded him of Marten.

She fiddled with the cylinder, getting it wrong at first, then swinging it open. She looked at the heads of the shells. Roland tensed, waiting first to see if she would know the firing pins had already been struck, waiting next to see if she would turn the gun, look into the other end of the cylinder, and see there was only emptiness there instead of lead (he had thought of loading the guns with cartridges which had already misfired, but only briefly; Cort had taught them that every gun is ultimately ruled by Old Man Splitfoot, and a cartridge which misfires once may not do so a second time). If she did that, he would spring at once.

But she swung the cylinder back in, began to cock the hammer . . . and then paused again. Paused for the wind to mask the single low click.

He thought: Here is another. God, she’s evil, this one, and she’s legless, but she’s a gunslinger as surely as Eddie is one.

He waited with her.

The wind gusted.

She pulled the hammer to full cock and placed it half an inch from Eddie’s temple. With a grin that was a ghoul’s grimace, she pulled the trigger.

Click.

He waited.

She pulled it again. And again. And again.

Click-Click-Click.

“MahFAH!” she screamed, and reversed the gun with liquid grace.

Roland coiled but did not leap. A child doesn’t understand a hammer until he’s mashed his finger at a nail.

If she kills him, she kills you.

Doesn’t matter, the voice of Cort answered inexorably.

Eddie stirred. And his reflexes were not bad; he moved fast enough to avoid being driven unconscious or killed. Instead of coming down on the vulnerable temple, the heavy gun-butt cracked the side of his jaw. “What . . . Jesus!”

“MAHFAH! HONKY MAHFAH!” Detta screamed, and Roland saw her raise the gun a second time. And even though she was legless and Eddie was rolling away, it was as much as he dared. If Eddie hadn’t learned the lesson now, he never would. The next time the gunslinger told Eddie to be on his guard, Eddie would be, and besides—the bitch was quick. It would not be wise to depend further than this on either Eddie’s quickness or the Lady’s infirmity.

He uncoiled, flying over Eddie and knocking her backward, ending up on top of her.

“You want it, mahfah?” she screamed at him, simultaneously rolling her crotch against his groin and raising the arm which still held the gun above his head. “You want it? I goan give you what you want, sho!”

“Eddie!” he shouted again, not just yelling now but commanding. For a moment Eddie just went on squatting there, eyes wide, blood dripping from his jaw (it had already begun to swell), staring, eyes wide. Move, can’t you move? he thought, or is it that you don’t want to? His strength was fading now, and the next time she brought that heavy gun-butt down she was going to break his arm with it . . . that was if he got his arm up in time. If he didn’t, she was going to break his head with it.