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Dark Tower: The Shooter
The
man
in
black
fled
across
the
desert
,
and
the
gunslinger
followed
.
The
desert
was
the
apotheosis
of
all
deserts
,
huge
,
standing
to
the
sky
for
what
might
have
been
parsecs
in
all
directions
.
White
;
blinding
;
waterless
;
without
feature
save
for
the
faint
,
cloudy
haze
of
the
mountains
which
sketched
themselves
on
the
horizon
and
the
devil
-
grass
which
brought
sweet
dreams
,
nightmares
,
death
.
An
occasional
tombstone
sign
pointed
the
way
,
for
once
the
drifted
track
that
cut
its
way
through
the
thick
crust
of
alkali
had
been
a
highway
and
coaches
had
followed
it
.
The
world
had
moved
on
since
then
.
The
world
had
emptied
.
The
gunslinger
walked
stolidly
,
not
hurrying
,
not
loafing
.
A
hide
waterbag
was
slung
around
his
middle
like
a
bloated
sausage
.
It
was
almost
full
.
He
had
progressed
through
the
khef
over
many
years
,
and
had
reached
the
fifth
level
.
At
the
seventh
or
eighth
,
he
would
not
have
been
thirsty
;
he
could
have
watched
own
body
dehydrate
with
clinical
,
detached
attention
,
watering
its
crevices
and
dark
inner
hollows
only
when
his
logic
told
him
it
must
be
done
.
He
was
not
seventh
or
eighth
.
He
was
fifth
.
So
he
was
thirsty
,
although
he
had
no
particular
urge
to
drink
.
In
a
vague
way
,
all
this
pleased
him
.
It
was
romantic
.
Below
the
waterbag
were
his
guns
,
finely
weighted
to
his
hand
.
The
two
belts
crisscrossed
above
his
crotch
.
The
holsters
were
oiled
too
deeply
for
even
this
Philistine
sun
to
crack
.
The
stocks
of
the
guns
were
sandalwood
,
yellow
and
finely
grained
.
The
holsters
were
tied
down
with
raw
hide
cord
,
and
they
swung
heavily
against
his
hips
.
The
brass
casings
of
the
cartridges
looped
into
the
gun
belts
twinkled
and
flashed
and
heliographed
in
the
sun
.
The
leather
made
subtle
creaking
noises
.
The
guns
themselves
made
no
noise
.
They
had
spilled
blood
.
There
was
no
need
to
make
noise
in
the
sterility
of
the
desert
His
clothes
were
the
no
-
color
of
rain
or
dust
.
His
shirt
was
open
at
the
throat
,
with
a
rawhide
thong
dangling
loosely
in
hand
-
punched
eyelets
.
His
pants
were
seam
-
stretched
dungarees
.
He
breasted
a
gently
rising
dune
(
although
there
was
no
sand
here
;
the
desert
was
hardpan
,
and
even
the
harsh
winds
that
blew
when
dark
came
raised
only
an
aggravating
harsh
dust
like
scouring
powder
)
and
saw
the
kicked
remains
of
a
tiny
campfire
on
the
lee
side
,
the
side
which
the
sun
would
quit
earliest
.
Small
signs
like
this
,
once
more
affirming
the
man
in
black
’
s
essential
humanity
,
never
failed
to
please
him
.
His
lips
stretched
in
the
pitted
,
flaked
remains
of
his
face
.
He
squatted
.
He
had
burned
the
devil
-
grass
,
of
course
.
It
was
the
only
thing
out
here
that
would
burn
.
It
burned
with
a
greasy
,
flat
light
,
and
it
burned
slow
.
Border
dwellers
had
told
him
that
devils
lived
even
in
the
flames
.
They
burned
it
but
would
not
look
into
the
light
.
They
said
the
devils
hypnotized
,
beckoned
,
would
eventually
draw
the
one
who
looked
into
the
fires
.
And
the
next
man
foolish
enough
to
look
into
the
fire
might
see
you
.
The
burned
grass
was
crisscrossed
in
the
now
-
familiar
ideographic
pattern
,
and
crumbled
to
gray
senselessness
before
the
gunslinger
’
s
prodding
hand
.
There
was
nothing
in
the
remains
but
a
charred
scrap
of
bacon
,
which
he
ate
thoughtfully
.
It
had
always
been
this
way
.
The
gunslinger
had
followed
the
man
in
black
across
the
desert
for
two
months
now
,
across
the
endless
,
screamingly
monotonous
purgatorial
wastes
,
and
had
yet
to
find
spoor
other
than
the
hygienic
sterile
ideographs
of
the
man
in
black
’
s
camp
fires
.
He
had
not
found
a
can
,
a
bottle
,
or
a
waterbag
(
the
gunslinger
had
left
four
of
those
behind
,
like
dead
snake
-
skins
)
.
