Thanks to the mirror, which had obviously been placed where it was to detect thieves, Roland was quicker dealing with the other one.

He had seen the alchemist’s eyes flick up and over his shoulder for a moment, and the gunslinger’s own eyes had immediately gone to the mirror. In it he saw a man in a leather jacket moving up the center aisle behind him. There was a long knife in his hand and, no doubt, visions of glory in his head.

The gunslinger turned and fired a single shot, dropping the gun to his hip, aware that he might miss with the first shot because of his unfamiliarity with this weapon, but unwilling to injure any of the customers standing frozen behind the would-be hero. Better to have to shoot twice from the hip, firing slugs that would do the job while travelling on an upward angle that would protect the bystanders than to perhaps kill some lady whose only crime had been picking the wrong day to shop for perfume.

The gun had been well cared for. Its aim was true. Remembering the podgy, underexercised looks of the gunslingers he had taken these weapons from, it seemed that they cared better for the weapons they wore than for the weapons they were. It seemed a strange way to behave, but of course this was a strange world and Roland could not judge; had no time to judge, come to that.

The shot was a good one, chopping through the man’s knife at the base of the blade, leaving him holding nothing but the hilt.

Roland stared evenly at the man in the leather coat, and something in his gaze must have made the would-be hero remember a pressing appointment elsewhere, for he whirled, dropped the remains of the knife, and joined the general exodus.

Roland turned back and gave the alchemist his orders. Any more fucking around and blood would flow. When the alchemist turned away, Roland tapped his bony shoulderblade with the barrel of the pistol. The man made a strangled “Yeeek!” sound and turned back at once.

“Not you. You stay here. Let your ’prentice do it.”

“W-Who?”

“Him.” The gunslinger gestured impatiently at the aide.

“What should I do, Mr. Katz?” The remains of the aide’s teenage acne stood out brilliantly on his white face.

“Do what he says, you putz! Fill the order! Keflex!”

The aide went to one of the shelves behind the counter and picked up a bottle. “Turn it so I may see the words writ upon it,” the gunslinger said.

The aide did. Roland couldn’t read it; too many letters were not of his alphabet. He consulted the Mortcypedia. Keflex, it confirmed, and Roland realized even checking had been a stupid waste of time. He knew he couldn’t read everything in this world, but these men didn’t.

“How many pills in that bottle?”

“Well, they’re capsules, actually,” the aide said nervously. “If it’s a cillin drug in pill form you’re interested in—”