He reached into Jack Mort’s wallet (except it was much too small to be a real wallet; a real wallet was almost as big as a purse and could carry all of a man’s things, if he wasn’t travelling too heavy) and gave the driver a bill with the number 20 on it. The cabbie drove away fast. It was easily the biggest tip he’d make that day, but the guy was so freaky he felt he had earned every cent of it.

The gunslinger looked at the sign over the shop.

CLEMENTS GUNS AND SPORTING GOODS, it said. AMMO, FISHING TACKLE, OFFICIAL FACSIMILES.

He didn’t understand all of the words, but one look in the window was all it took for him to see Mort had brought him to the right place. There were wristbands on display, badges of rank . . . and guns. Rifles, mostly, but pistols as well. They were chained, but that didn’t matter.

He would know what he needed when—if—he saw it.

Roland consulted Jack Mort’s mind—a mind exactly sly enough to suit his purposes—for more than a minute.

5

One of the cops in the blue-and-white elbowed the other. “Now that,” he said, “is a serious comparison shopper.”

His partner laughed. “Oh God,” he said in an effeminate voice as the man in the business suit and gold-rimmed glasses finished his study of the merchandise on display and went inside. “I think he jutht dethided on the lavender handcuffths.”

The first cop choked on a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and sprayed it back into the styrofoam cup in a gust of laughter.

6

A clerk came over almost at once and asked if he could be of help.

“I wonder,” the man in the conservative blue suit replied, “if you have a paper . . .” He paused, appeared to think deeply, and then looked up. “A chart, I mean, which shows pictures of revolver ammunition.”

“You mean a caliber chart?” the clerk asked.

The customer paused, then said, “Yes. My brother has a revolver. I have fired it, but it’s been a good many years. I think I will know the bullets if I see them.”

“Well, you may think so,” the clerk replied, “but it can be hard to tell. Was it a .22? A .38? Or maybe—”

“If you have a chart, I’ll know,” Roland said.

“Just a sec.” The clerk looked at the man in the blue suit doubtfully for a moment, then shrugged. Fuck, the customer was always right, even when he was wrong . . . if he had the dough to pay, that was. Money talked, bullshit walked. “I got a Shooter’s Bible. Maybe that’s what you ought to look at.”

“Yes.” He smiled. Shooter’s Bible. It was a noble name for a book.

The man rummaged under the counter and brought out a well-thumbed volume as thick as any book the gunslinger had ever seen in his life—and yet this man seemed to handle it as if it were no more valuable than a handful of stones.