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The
gunslinger
came
down
the
hill
slowly
,
leading
the
donkey
on
which
his
waterskins
sloshed
.
He
paused
by
the
edge
of
the
lifeless
-
looking
cornpatch
,
drew
a
drink
from
one
of
his
skins
to
start
the
saliva
,
and
spatinto
the
arid
soil
.
"
Life
for
your
crop
.
"
"
Life
for
your
own
,
"
the
dweller
answered
and
stood
up
.
His
back
popped
audibly
.
He
surveyed
the
gunslinger
without
fear
.
The
little
of
his
face
visible
between
beard
and
hair
seemed
unmarked
by
the
rot
,
and
his
eyes
,
while
a
bit
wild
,
seemed
sane
.
"
I
don
’
t
have
anything
but
corn
and
beans
,
"
he
said
.
"
Corn
’
s
free
,
but
you
’
ll
have
to
kick
something
in
for
the
beans
.
A
man
brings
them
out
once
in
a
while
.
He
don
’
t
stay
long
.
"
The
dweller
laughed
shortly
.
"
Afraid
of
spirits
.
"
"
I
expect
he
thinks
you
’
re
one
.
"
"
I
expect
he
does
.
"
They
looked
at
each
other
in
silence
for
a
moment
.
The
dweller
put
out
his
hand
.
"
Brown
is
my
name
.
"
The
gunslinger
shook
his
hand
.
As
he
did
so
,
a
scrawny
raven
croaked
from
the
low
peak
of
the
sod
roof
.
The
dwell
er
gestured
at
it
briefly
:
"
That
’
s
Zoltan
.
"
At
the
sound
of
its
name
the
raven
croaked
again
and
flew
across
to
Brown
.
It
landed
on
the
dweller
’
s
head
and
roosted
,
talons
firmly
twined
in
the
wild
thatch
of
hair
.
"
Screw
you
,
"
Zoltan
croaked
brightly
.
"
Screw
you
and
the
horse
you
rode
in
on
.
"
