sk.thegunslinger-第10部分

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rick　for　you　not　once　or　twice　but　all　night；　and　the　hands　were　cutting　them　down　as　they　ran。　The　last　one　made　it　as　far　as　the　steps　of　the　barber　shop's　back　porch；　and　then　the　gunslinger's　bullet　took　him　in　the　back　of　the　head。
Silence　came　back　in；　filling　jagged　spaces。
The　gunslinger　was　bleeding　from　perhaps　twenty　different　wounds；　all　of　them　shallow　except　for　the　cut　across　his　calf。　He　bound　it　with　a　strip　of　shirt　and　then　straightened　and　examined　his　kill。
They　trailed　in　a　twisted；　zigzagging　path　from　the　back　door　of　the　barber　shop　to　where　he　stood。　They　lay　in　all　positions。　None　of　them　seemed　to　be　sleeping。
He　followed　them　back；　counting　as　he　went。　In　the　general　store　one　man　lay　with　his　arms　wrapped　lovingly　around　the　cracked　candy　jar　he　had　dragged　down　with　him。
He　ended　up　where　he　had　started；　in　the　middle　of　the　deserted　main　street　He　had　shot　and　killed　thirtynine　men；　fourteen　women；　and　five　children。　He　had　shot　and　killed　everyone　in　Tull。
A　sickishsweet　odor　came　to　him　on　the　first　of　the　dry；　stirring　wind。　He　followed　it；　then　looked　up　and　nodded。　The　decaying　body　of　Nort　was　spread…eagled　atop　the　plank　roof　of　Sheb's；　crucified　with　wooden　pegs。　Mouth　and　eyes　were　open。　A　large　and　purple　cloven　hoof　had　been　pressed　into　the　skin　of　his　grimy　forehead。
He　walked　out　of　town。　His　mule　was　standing　in　a　clump　of　weed　about　forty　yards　out　along　the　remnant　of　the　coach　road。　The　gunslinger　led　it　back　to　Kennerly's　。　stable。　Outside；　the　wind　was　playing　a　ragtime　tune。　He　put　the　mule　up　and　went　back　to　Sheb's。　He　found　a　ladder　in　the　back　shed；　went　up　to　the　roof；　and　cut　Nort　down。　The　body　was　lighter　than　a　bag　of　sticks。　He　tumbled　it　down　to　join　the　mon　people。　Then　he　went　back　inside；　ate　hamburgers　and　drank　three　beers　while　the　light　failed　and　the　sand　began　to　fly。　That　night　he　slept　in　the　bed　where　he　and　Allie　had　lain。　He　had　no　dreams。　The　next　morning　the　wind　was　gone　and　the　sun　was　its　usual　bright　and　forgetful　self。　The　bodies　had　gone　south　like　tumble…weeds　with　the　wind。　At　midmorning；　after　he　had　bound　all　his　cuts；　he　moved　on　as　well。
　
　
XVIII
　
　
He　thought　Brown　had　fallen　asleep。　The　fire　was　down　to　a　spark　and　the　bird；　Zoltan；　had　put　his　head　under　his　wing。
Just　as　he　was　about　to　get　up　and　spread　a　pallet　in　the　corner；　Brown　said；　〃There。　You've　told　it。　Do　you　feel　better？〃
The　gunslinger　started。　〃Why　would　I　feel　bad？〃
〃You're　human；　you　said。　No　demon。　Or　did　you　lie？〃
〃I　didn't　lie。〃　He　felt　the　grudging　admittance　in　him：　he　liked　Brown。　Honestly　did。　And　he　hadn't　lied　to　the　dweller　in　any　way。　〃Who　are　you；　Brown？　Really；　I　mean。　〃
〃Just　me；〃　he　said；　unperturbed。　〃Why　do　you　have　to　think　you're　such　a　mystery？〃
The　gunslinger　lit　a　smoke　without　replying。
〃I　think　you're　very　close　to　your　man　in　black；〃　Brown　said。　〃Is　he　desperate？〃
〃I　don't　know。　〃
〃Are　you？〃
〃Not　yet；〃　the　gunslinger　said。　He　looked　at　Brown　with　a　shade　of　defiance。　〃I　do　what　I　have　to　do。〃
〃That's　good　then；〃　Brown　said　and　turned　over　and　went　to　sleep。
　
　
XIX
　
　
In　the　morning　Brown　fed　him　and　sent　him　on　his　way。　In　the　daylight　he　was　an　amazing　figure　with　his　scrawny；　burnt　chest；　pencil…like　collarbones　and　ring…leted　shock　of　red　hair。　The　bird　perched　on　his　shoulder。
〃The　mule？〃　The　gunslinger　asked。
〃I'll　eat　it；〃　Brown　said。
〃Okay。〃
Brown　offered　his　hand　and　the　gunslinger　shook　it。　The　dweller　nodded　to　the　south。　〃Walk　easy。　〃
〃You　know　it。〃
They　nodded　at　each　other　and　then　the　gunslinger　walked　away；　his　body　festooned　with　guns　and　water。　He　looked　back　once。　Brown　was　rooting　furiously　at　his　little　bed。　The　crow　was　perched　on　the　low　roof　of　his　dwelling　like　a　gargoyle。
　
　
XX
　
　
The　fire　was　down；　and　the　stars　had　begun　to　pale　off。　The　wind　walked　restlessly。　The　gunslinger　twitched　in　his　sleep　and　was　still　again。　He　dreamed　a　thirsty　dream。　In　the　darkness　the　shape　of　the　mountains　was　invisible。　The　thoughts　of　guilt　had　faded。　The　desert　had　baked　them　out。　He　found　himself　thinking　more　and　more　about　Cort；　who　had　taught　him　to　shoot；　instead。　Cort　had　known　black　from　white。
He　stirred　again　and　awoke。　He　blinked　at　the　dead　fire　with　its　own　shape　superimposed　over　the　other；　more　geometrical　one。　He　was　a　romantic；　he　knew　it；　and　he　guarded　the　knowledge　jealously。
That；　of　course；　made　him　think　of　Cort　again。　He　didn't　know　where　Cort　was。　The　world　had　moved　on。
The　gunslinger　shouldered　his　tote　sack　and　moved　on　with　it。
　
　
THE　WAY　STATION
I
A　nursery　rhyme　had　been　playing　itself　through　his　mind　all　day；　the　maddening　kind　of　thing　that　will　not　let　go；　that　stands　mockingly　outside　the　apse　of　the　conscious　mind　and　makes　faces　at　the　rational　being　inside。　The　rhyme　was：
The　rain　in　Spain　falls　mainly　on　the　plain。
There　is　joy　and　also　pain
but　the　rain　in　Spain　falls　mainly　on　the　plain。
Pretty…plain；　loony…sane
The　ways　of　the　world　all　will　change　and　all　the　ways　remain　the　same
but　if　you're　mad　or　only　sane
the　rain　in　Spain　falls　mainly　on　the　plain。
We　walk　in　love　but　fly　in　chains
And　the　planes　in　Spain　fall　mainly　in　the　rain。
He　knew　why　the　rhyme　had　occurred　to　him。　There　had　been　the　recurring　dream　of　his　room　in　the　castle　and　of　his　father；　who　had　sung　it　to　him　as　he　lay　solemnly　in　the　tiny　bed　by　the　window　of　many　colors。　She　did　not　sing　it　at　bedtimes　because　all　small　boys　born　to　the　High　Speech　must　face　the　dark　alone；　but　she　sang　to　him　at　nap…times　and　he　could　remember　the　heavy　gray　rain　light　that　shivered　into　colors　on　the　counterpane；　he　could　feel　the　coolness　of　the　room　and　the　heavy　warmth　of　blankets；　love　for　his　mother　and　her　red　lips；　the　haunting　melody　of　the　little　nonsense　lyric；　and　her　voice。
Now　it　came　back　maddeningly；　like　prickly　heat；　chasing　its　own　tail　in　his　mind　as　he　walked。　All　his　water　was　gone；　and　he　knew　he　was　very　likely　a　dead　man。　He　had　never　expected　it　to　e　to　this；　and　he　was　sorry。　Since　noon　he　had　been　watching　his　feet　rather　than　watching　the　way　ahead。　Out　here　even　the　devil…grass　had　grown　stunted　and　yellow。　The　hardpan　had　disintegrated　in　places　to　mere　rubble。　The　mountains　were　not　noticeably　clearer；　although　sixteen　days　had　passed　since　he　had　left　the　hut　of　the　last　homesteader；　a　loony…sane　young　man　on　the　edge　of　the　desert　He　had　had　a　raven；　the　gunslinger　remembered；　but　he　couldn't　remember　the　raven's　name。
He　watched　his　feet　move　up　and　down；　listened　to　the　nonsense　rhyme　sing　itself　into　a　pitiful　garble　in　his　mind；　and　wondered　when　he　would　fall　down　for　the　first　time。　He　didn't　want　to　fall；　even　though　there　was　no　one　to　see　him。　It　was　a　matter　of　pride。　A　gunslinger　knows　pride　that　invisible　bone　that　keeps　the　neck　stiff。
He　stopped　and　looked　up　suddenly。　It　made　his　head　buzz　and　for　a　moment　his　whole　body　seemed　to　float　The　mountains　dreamed　against　the　far　horizon。　But　there　was　something　else　up　ahead；　something　much　closer。　Perhaps　only　five　miles　away。　He　squinted　at　it；　but　his　eyes　were　sandblasted　and　going　glare　blind。　He　shook　his　head　and　began　to　walk　again。　The　rhyme　circled　and　buzzed。　About　an　hour　later　he　fell　down　and　skinned　his　hands。　He　looked　at　the　tiny　beads　of　blood　on　his　flaked　skin　with　unbelief。　The　blood　looked　no　thinner；　it　looked　mutely　viable。　It　seemed　almost　as　smug　as　the　desert　He　dashed　the　drops　away；　haling　them　blindly。　Smug？　Why　not？　The　blood　was　not　thirsty。　The　blood　was　being　served。　The　blood　was　being　made　sacrifice　unto。　Blood　sacrifice。　All　the　blood　needed　to　do　was　run。。。　and　run。。；　and　run。
He　looked　at　the　splotches　that　had　landed　on　the　hard…pan　and　watched　as　they　were　sucked　up　with　uncanny　suddenness。　How　do　you　like　that；　blood？　How　does　that　grab　you？
O　Jesus；　you're　far　gone。
He　got　up；　holding　his　hands　to　his　chest　and　the　thing　he　had　seen　earlier　was　almost　in　front　of　him；　startling　a　cry　out　of　him　　a　dust…choked　crow…croak。　It　was　a　building。　No；　two　buildings；　surrounded　by　a　fallen　rail　fence。　The　wood　seemed　old；　fragile　to　the　point　of　elvishness；　it　was　wood　being　transmogrified　into　sand。　One　of　the　buildings　had　been　a　stable　　the　shape　was　clear　and　unmistakable。　The　other　was　a　house；　or　an　inn。　A　way　station　for　the　coach　line。　The　tottering　sand…house　（the　wind　had　crusted　the　wood　with　grit　until　it　looked　like　a　sand　castle　that　the　sun　had　beat　upon　at　low　tide　and　hardened　to　a　temporary　abode）　cast　a　thin　line　of　shadow；　and　someone　sat　in　the　shadow；　leaning　against　the　building。　And　the　building　seemed　to　lean　with　the　burden　of　his　weight
Him；　then。　At　last　The　man　in　black。
The　gunslinger　stood　with　his　hands　to　his　chest；　unaware　of　his　declamatory　posture；　and　gawped。　And　instead　of　the　tremendous　winging　excitement　he　had　expected　（or　perhaps　fear；　or　awe）；　there　was　nothing　but　the　dim；　atavistic　guilt　for　the　sudden；　raging　hate　of　his　own　blood　moments　earlier　and　the　endless　ring…a…rosy　of　the　childhood　song：
。。。　the　rain　in　Spain。。。
He　moved　forward；　drawing　one　gun。
。。。　falls　mainly　on　the　plain。
He　came　the　last　quarter　mile　at　the　run；　not　trying　to　hide　himself；　there　was　nothing　to　hide　behind。　His　shor