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"
No
,
"
he
said
.
"
You
can
’
t
do
that
.
"
The
next
night
the
bar
was
closed
.
It
was
whatever
passed
for
the
Sabbath
in
Tull
.
The
gunslinger
went
to
the
tiny
,
leaning
church
by
the
graveyard
while
Allie
washed
tables
with
strong
disinfectant
and
rinsed
kerosene
lamp
chimnies
in
soapy
water
.
An
odd
purple
dusk
had
fallen
,
and
the
church
,
lit
from
the
inside
,
looked
almost
like
a
blast
furnace
from
the
road
.
"
I
don
’
t
go
,
"
Allie
had
said
shortly
.
"
The
woman
who
preaches
has
poison
religion
.
Let
the
respectable
ones
go
.
He
stood
in
the
vestibule
,
hidden
in
a
shadow
,
looking
in
.
The
pews
were
gone
and
the
congregation
stood
(
he
saw
Kennerly
and
his
brood
;
Castner
,
owner
of
the
town
’
s
scrawny
dry
-
goods
emporium
and
his
slat
-
sided
wife
;
a
few
barflies
;
a
few
"
town
"
women
he
had
never
seen
before
;
and
,
surprisingly
,
Sheb
)
.
They
were
singing
a
hymn
raggedly
,
a
cappella
.
He
looked
curiously
at
the
mountainous
woman
at
the
pulpit
.
Allie
had
said
:
"
She
lives
alone
,
hardly
ever
sees
anybody
.
Only
comes
out
on
Sunday
to
serve
up
the
hellfire
.
Her
name
is
Sylvia
Pittston
.
She
’
s
crazy
,
but
she
’
s
got
the
hoodoo
on
them
.
They
like
it
that
way
.
It
suits
them
.
"
No
description
could
take
the
measure
of
the
woman
.
Breasts
like
earthworks
.
A
huge
pillar
of
a
neck
overtopped
by
a
pasty
white
moon
of
a
face
,
in
which
blinked
eyes
so
large
and
so
dark
that
they
seemed
to
be
bottomless
tarns
.
Her
hair
was
a
beautiful
rich
brown
and
it
was
piled
atop
her
head
in
a
haphazard
,
lunatic
sprawl
,
held
by
a
hairpin
big
enough
to
be
a
meat
skewer
.
She
wore
a
dress
that
seemed
to
be
made
of
burlap
.
The
arms
that
held
the
hymnal
were
slabs
.
Her
skin
was
creamy
,
unmarked
,
lovely
.
He
thought
that
she
must
top
three
hundred
pounds
.
He
felt
a
sudden
red
lust
for
her
that
made
him
feel
shaky
,
and
he
turned
his
head
and
looked
away
.
"
Shall
we
gather
at
the
river
,
The
beautiful
,
the
beautiful
,
