Slightman was almost fifteen years younger than the rancher, and arrived at the site of the battle well before the other. For a moment he only stood on the far edge of the hide, considering the shattered body lying in the road. There was not so much blood, now—the oggan had drunk it greedily—but the severed arm still lay where it had been, and the severed arm told all. Roland would no more have moved it before Slightman got here than he would have opened his flies and pissed on the boy’s corpse. Slightman the Younger had reached the clearing at the end of his path. His father, as next of kin, had a right to see where and how it had happened.

The man stood quiet for perhaps five seconds, then pulled in a deep breath and let it out in a shriek. It chilled Eddie’s blood. He looked around for Susannah and saw she was no longer there. He didn’t blame her for ducking out. This was a bad scene. The worst.

Slightman looked left, looked right, then looked straight ahead and saw Roland, standing beside the overturned waggon with his arms crossed. Beside him, Jake still sat on the wheel, smoking his first cigarette.

“YOU!”Slightman screamed. He was carrying his bah; now he unslung it. “YOU DID THIS! YOU!”

Eddie plucked the weapon deftly from Slightman’s hands. “No, you don’t, partner,” he murmured. “You don’t need this right now, why don’t you let me keep it for you.”

Slightman seemed not to notice. Incredibly, his right hand still made circular motions in the air, as if winding the bah for a shot.

“YOU KILLED MY SON! TO PAY ME BACK! YOU BASTARD! MURDERING BAS—”

Moving with the eerie, spooky speed that Eddie could still not completely believe, Roland seized Slightman around the neck in the crook of one arm, then yanked him forward. The move simultaneously cut off the flow of the man’s accusations and drew him close.

“Listen to me,” Roland said, “and listen well. I care nothing for your life or honor, one’s been misspent and the other’s long gone, but your son is dead and about his honor I care very much. If you don’t shut up this second, you worm of creation, I’ll shut you up myself. So what would you? It’s nothing to me, either way. I’ll tell em you ran mad at the sight of him, stole my gun out of its holster, and put a bullet in your own head to join him. What would you have? Decide.”

Eisenhart was badly blown but still lurching and weaving his way up through the corn, hoarsely calling his wife’s name: “Margaret! Margaret! Answer me, dear! Gi’ me a word, I beg ya, do!”