Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [163]
“What the hell did he do to you, Tian?”
“ ’Twasn’t what he did to me but what he did to my Da’. That’s a long story and nothing to do with this business. Leave it.”
“No, you leave it,” Eddie said, coming to a stop.
Tian looked at him, startled. Eddie nodded, unsmiling: you heard me. He was twenty-five, already a year older than Cuthbert Allgood on his last day at Jericho Hill, but in this day’s failing light he could have passed for a man of fifty. One of harsh certainty.
“If he’s seen a dead Wolf, we need to debrief him.”
“I don’t kennit, Eddie.”
“Yeah, but I think you ken my point just fine. Whatever you’ve got against him, put it aside. If we settle up with the Wolves, you have my permission to bump him into the fireplace or push him off the goddam roof. But for now, keep your sore ass to yourself. Okay?”
Tian nodded. He stood looking out across his troublesome north field, the one he called Son of a Bitch, with his hands in his pockets. When he studied it so, his expression was one of troubled greed.
“Do you think his story about killing a Wolf is so much hot air? If you really do, I won’t waste my time.”
Grudgingly, Tian said: “I’m more apt to believe that ’un than most of the others.”
“Why?”
“Well, he were tellin it ever since I were old enough to listen, and that ’un never changes much. Also…” Tian’s next words squeezed down, as if he were speaking them through gritted teeth. “My Gran-pere never had no shortage of thorn and bark. If anyone would have had guts enough to go out on the East Road and stand against the Wolves—not to mention enough trum to get others to go with him—I’d bet my money on Jamie Jaffords.”
“Trum?”
Tian thought about how to explain it. “If’ee was to stick your head in a rock-cat’s mouth, that’d take courage, wouldn’t it?”
It would take idiocy was what Eddie thought, but he nodded.
“If ’ee was the sort of man could convince someone else to stick his head in a rock-cat’s mouth, that’d make you trum. Your dinh’s trum, ain’t he?”
Eddie remembered some of the stuff Roland had gotten him to do, and nodded. Roland was trum, all right. He was trum as hell. Eddie was sure the gunslinger’s old mates would have said the same.
“Aye,” Tian said, turning his gaze back to his field. “In any case, if ye’d get something halfway sensible out of the old man, I’d wait until after supper. He brightens a bit once he’s had his rations and half a pint of graf. And make sure my wife’s sitting right beside you, where he can get an eyeful. I ’magine he’d try to have a good deal more than his eye on her, were he a younger man.” His face had darkened again.
Eddie clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, he’s not younger. You are. So lighten up, all right?”
“Aye.” Tian made a visible effort to do just that. “What do’ee think of my field, gunslinger? I’m going to plant it with madrigal next year. The yellow stuff ye saw out front.”
What Eddie thought was that the field looked like a heartbreak waiting to happen. He suspected that down deep Tian thought about the same; you didn’t call your only unplanted field Son of a Bitch because you expected good things to happen there. But he knew the look on Tian’s face. It was the one Henry used to get when the two of them were setting off to score. It was always going to be the best stuff this time, the best stuff ever. China White and never mind that Mexican Brown that made your head ache and your bowels run. They’d get high for a week, the best high ever, mellow, and then quit the junk for good. That was Henry’s scripture, and it could have been Henry here beside him, telling Eddie what a fine cash crop madrigal was, and how the people who’d told him you couldn’t grow it this far north would be laughing on the other side of their faces come next reap. And then he’d buy Hugh Anselm’s field over on the far side of yon ridge…hire a couple of extra men come reap, for the land’d