“What do we do about them?” Jake asked.

“For now, nothing,” the gunslinger said.

Jake clearly didn’t like this. “What if they’re like Tick-Tock’s ka-tet? Gasher and Hoots and those guys?”

“They’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they would have set on us already and they’d be fly-food.”

There seemed no good reply to that, and they took to the road again. It wound through deep shadows, finding its way among trees that were centuries old. Before they had been walking twenty minutes, Eddie heard the sound of their pursuers (or shadowers): snapping twigs, rustling underbrush, once even a low voice. Slewfeet, in Roland’s terminology. Eddie was disgusted with himself for remaining unaware of them for so long. He also wondered what yon cullies did for a living. If it was tracking and trapping, they weren’t very good at it.

Eddie Dean had become a part of Mid-World in many ways, some so subtle he wasn’t consciously aware of them, but he still thought of distances in miles instead of wheels. He guessed they’d come about fifteen from the spot where Jake rejoined them with his muffin-balls and his news when Roland called it a day. They stopped in the middle of the road, as they always did since entering the forest; that way the embers of their campfire stood little chance of setting the woods on fire.

Four

Eddie and Susannah gathered a nice selection of fallen branches while Roland and Jake made a little camp and set about cutting up Jake’s trove of muffin-balls. Susannah rolled her wheelchair effortlessly over the duff under the ancient trees, piling her selections in her lap. Eddie walked nearby, humming under his breath.

“Lookit over to your left, sugar,” Susannah said.

He did, and saw a distant orange blink. A fire.

“Not very good, are they?” he asked.

“No. Truth is, I feel a little sorry for em.”

“Any idea what they’re up to?”

“Unh-unh, but I think Roland’s right—they’ll tell us when they’re ready. Either that or decide we’re not what they want and just sort of fade away. Come on, let’s go back.”

“Just a second.” He picked up one more branch, hesitated, then took yet another. Then it was right. “Okay,” he said.

As they headed back, he counted the sticks he’d picked up, then the ones in Susannah’s lap. The total came to nineteen in each case.

“Suze,” he said, and when she glanced over at him: “Time’s started up again.”

She didn’t ask him what he meant, only nodded.

Four