Wizard and glass - Stephen King [126]
Avery recoiled a little bit, as if expecting Jonas to go for his gun and Dearborn for the knife in his belt, the one he’d been holding against Jonas’s back when Avery came puffing up to the saloon.
There was no gun or knife drawn, however. Jonas turned toward Roland and held out his hand.
“He’s right, lad,” Jonas said in his reedy, quavering voice.
“Yes.”
“Will you shake with an old man, and vow to start over?”
“Yes.” Roland held out his hand.
Jonas took it. “I cry your pardon.”
“I cry your own, Mr. Jonas.” Roland tapped left-hand at his throat, as was proper when addressing an elder in such fashion.
As the two of them sat down, Alain and Reynolds rose, as neatly as men in a prerehearsed ceremony. Last of all, Cuthbert and Depape rose. Roland was all but positive that Cuthbert’s foolishness would pop out like Jack from his box—the idiot would simply not be able to help himself, although he must surely realize that Depape was no man to make sport of tonight.
“Cry your pardon,” Bert said, with an admirable lack of laughter in his voice.
“Cryerown,” Depape mumbled, and held out his blood-streaked hand. Roland had a nightmare vision of Bert squeezing down on it as hard as he could, making the redhead yowl like an owl on a hot stove, but Bert’s grip was as restrained as his voice.
Avery sat on the edge of the stage with his pudgy legs hanging down, watching it all with avuncular good cheer. Even Deputy Dave was smiling.
“Now I propose to shake hands with yer all myself, ’n then send yer on yer ways, for the hour’s late, so it is, and such as me needs my beauty rest.” He chuckled, and again looked uncomfortable when no one joined in. But he slipped off the stage and began to shake hands, doing so with the enthusiasm of a minister who has finally succeeded in marrying a headstrong couple after a long and stormy courtship.
9
When they stepped outside, the moon was down and the first lightening in the sky had begun to show at the far edge of the Clean Sea.
“Mayhap we’ll meet again, sai,” Jonas said.
“Mayhap we will,” Roland said, and swung up into his saddle.
10
The Big Coffin Hunters were staying in the watchman’s house about a mile south of Seafront—five miles out of town, this was.
Halfway there, Jonas stopped at a turnout beside the road. From here the land made a steep, rocky descent to the brightening sea.
“Get down, mister,” he said. It was Depape he was looking at.
“Jonas . . . Jonas, I . . .”
“Get down.”
Biting his lip nervously, Depape got down.
“Take off your spectacles.”
“Jonas, what’s this about? I don’t—”
“Or if you want em broke, leave em on. It’s all the same to me.”
Biting his lip harder now, Depape took off his gold-rimmed spectacles. They were barely in his hand before Jonas had fetched him a terrific clip on the side of the head. Depape cried out and reeled toward the drop. Jonas drove forward, moving as fast as he had struck, and seized him by the shirt just before he went tumbling over the edge. Jonas twisted his hand into the shirt material and yanked Depape toward him. He breathed deep, inhaling the scent of pine-tar and Depape’s sweat.
“I ought to toss you right over the edge,” he breathed. “Do you know how much harm you’ve done?”
“I . . . Jonas, I never meant . . . just a little fun is all I . . . how was we supposed to know they . . .”
Slowly, Jonas’s hand relaxed. That last bit of babble had gone home. How was they supposed to know, that was ungrammatical but right. And if not for tonight, they might not have known. If you looked at it that way, Depape had actually done them a favor. The devil you knew was always preferable to the devil you didn’t. Still, word would get around, and people would laugh. Maybe even that was all right, though. The laughter would stop in due time.
“Jonas, I cry your pardon.”
“Shut up,” Jonas said. In the east, the sun would shortly heave itself over the horizon, casting its first gleams on a new day in