Slightman sat silent beside Roland on the seat.

“I understand betrayal. I’ve done my share of it, once to Jake himself. But that doesn’t change what you are; let’s have that straight. You’re a carrion-bird. A rustie turned vulture.”

The color was back in Slightman’s cheeks, turning them the shade of claret. “I did what I did for my boy,” he said stubbornly.

Roland spat into his cupped hand, then raised the hand and caressed Slightman’s cheek with it. The cheek was currently full of blood, and hot to the touch. Then the gunslinger took hold of the spectacles Slightman wore and jiggled them slightly on the man’s nose. “Won’t wash,” he said, very quietly. “Because of these. This is how they mark you, Slightman. This is your brand. You tell yourself you did it for your boy because it gets you to sleep at night. I tell myself that what I did to Jake I did so as not to lose my chance at the Tower…and that gets me to sleep at night. The difference between us, the only difference, is that I never took a pair of spectacles.” He wiped his hand on his pants. “You sold out, Slightman. And you have forgotten the face of your father.”

“Let me be,” Slightman whispered. He wiped the slick of the gunslinger’s spittle from his cheek. It was replaced by his own tears. “For my boy’s sake.”

Roland nodded. “That’s all this is, for your boy’s sake. You drag him behind you like a dead chicken. Well, never mind. If all goes as I hope, you may live your life with him in the Calla, and grow old in the regard of your neighbors. You’ll be one of those who stood up to the Wolves when the gunslingers came to town along the Path of the Beam. When you can’t walk, he’ll walk with you and hold you up. I see this, but I don’t like what I see. Because a man who’ll sell his soul for a pair of spectacles will resell it for some other prink-a-dee—even cheaper—and sooner or later your boy will find out what you are, anyway. The best thing that could happen to your son today is for you to die a hero.” And then, before Slightman could reply, Roland raised his voice and shouted. “Hey, Overholser! Ho, the waggon! Overholser! Pull on over! We’re here! Say thankya!”

“Roland—” Slightman began.

“No,” Roland said, tying off the reins. “Palaver’s done. Just remember what I said, sai: if you get a chance to die a hero today, do your son a favor and take it.”

Three