8

Cuthbert patted Roland’s face with no result. Alain pushed him aside, knelt, and took the gunslinger’s hands. He had never used the touch this way, but had been told it was possible—that one could reach another’s mind, in at least some cases.

Roland! Roland, wake up! Please! We need you!

At first there was nothing. Then Roland stirred, muttered, and pulled his hands out of Alain’s. In the moment before his eyes opened, both of the other two boys were struck by the same fear of what they might see: no eyes at all, only raving pink light.

But they were Roland’s eyes, all right—those cool blue shooter’s eyes.

He struggled to gain his feet, and failed the first time. He held out his hands. Cuthbert took one, Alain the other. As they pulled him up, Bert saw a strange and frightening thing: there were threads of white in Roland’s hair. There had been none that morning; he would have sworn to it. The morning had been a long time ago, however.

“How long was I out?” Roland touched the bruise in the center of his forehead with the tips of his fingers and winced.

“Not long,” Alain said. “Five minutes, maybe. Roland, I’m sorry I hit you, but I had to. It was... I thought it was killing you.”

“Mayhap ’twas. Is it safe?”

Alain pointed wordlessly to the drawstring bag.

“Good. It’s best one of you carry it for now. I might be...” He searched for the right word, and when he found it, a small, wintry smile touched the corners of his mouth—“tempted,” he finished. “Let’s ride for Hanging Rock. We’ve got work yet to finish.”

“Roland...” Cuthbert began.

Roland turned, one hand on the horn of his horse’s saddle.

Cuthbert licked his lips, and for a moment Alain didn’t think he would be able to ask. If you don’t, I will, Alain thought... but Bert managed, bringing the words out in a rush.

“What did you see?”

“Much,” Roland said. “I saw much, but most of it is already fading out of my mind, the way dreams do when you wake up. What I do remember I’ll tell you as we ride. You must know, because it changes everything. We’re going back to Gilead, but not for long.”

“Where after that?” Alain asked, mounting.

“West. In search of the Dark Tower. If we survive today, that is. Come on. Let’s take those tankers.”

9

The two vaqs were rolling smokes when there was a loud bang from upstairs. They both jumped and looked at each other, the tobacco from their works-in-progress sifting down to the floor in small brown flurries. A woman shrieked. The doors burst open. It was the Mayor’s widow again, this time accompanied by a maid. The vaqs knew her well—Maria Tomas, the daughter of an old compadre from the Piano Ranch.

“The thieving bastards have set the place on fire!” Maria cried, speaking to them in crunk. “Come and help!”