Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [232]
To Jake’s mind this brought some obscure memory of Gasher (“Yer old pal, Gasher,” as the gentleman himself had been wont to say), and he shivered.
“Would you really give up the gun?” Roland asked. He didn’t know if he was amused or aghast.
“Would you roll your own smokes if you could get tailor-mades?” she asked, and then, before he could answer: “No, not really. Yet the dish is a lovely weapon. When they come, I hope to throw two dozen. And bag my limit.”
“Will there be a shortage of plates?” Eddie asked.
“Nope,” she said. “There aren’t very many fancy ones—like the one sai Eisenhart threw for you, Roland—but they’ve hundreds of practice-plates. Rosalita and Sarey Adams are sorting through them, culling out any that might fly crooked.” She hesitated, lowered her voice. “They’ve all been out here, Roland, and although Sarey’s brave as a lion and would stand fast against a tornado…”
“Hasn’t got it, huh?” Eddie asked sympathetically.
“Not quite,” Susannah agreed. “She’s good, but not like the others. Nor does she have quite the same ferocity.”
“I may have something else for her,” Roland said.
“What would that be, sugar?”
“Escort duty, mayhap. We’ll see how they shoot, day after tomorrow. A little competition always livens things up. Five o’ the clock, Susannah, do they know?”
“Yes. Most of the Calla would turn up, if you allowed them.”
This was discouraging…but he should have expected it. I’ve been too long out of the world of people, he thought. So I have.
“No one but the ladies and ourselves,” Roland said firmly.
“If the Calla-folken saw the women throw well, it could swing a lot of people who are on the fence.”
Roland shook his head. He didn’t want them to know how well the women threw, that was very nearly the whole point. But that the town knew they were throwing…that might not be such a bad thing. “How good are they, Susannah? Tell me.”
She thought about it, then smiled. “Killer aim,” she said. “Every one.”
“Can you teach them that crosshand throw?”
Susannah considered the question. You could teach anyone just about anything, given world enough and time, but they had neither. Only thirteen days left now, and by the day the Sisters of Oriza (including their newest member, Susannah of New York) met for the exhibition in Pere Callahan’s back yard, there would be only a week and a half. The crosshand throw had come naturally to her, as everything about shooting had. But the others…
“Rosalita will learn it,” she said at last. “Margaret Eisenhart could learn it, but she might get flustered at the wrong time. Zalia? No. Best she throw one plate at a time, always with her right hand. She’s a little slower, but I guarantee every plate she throws will drink something’s blood.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Until a sneetch homes in on her and blows her out of her corset, that is.”
Susannah ignored this. “We can hurt them, Roland. Thou knows we can.”
Roland nodded. What he’d seen had encouraged him mightily, especially in light of what Eddie had told him. Susannah and Jake also knew Gran-pere’s ancient secret now. And, speaking of Jake…
“You’re very quiet today,” Roland said to the boy. “Is everything all right?”
“I do fine, thankya,” Jake said. He had been watching Andy. Thinking of how Andy had rocked the baby. Thinking that if Tian and Zalia and the other kids all died and Andy was left to raise Aaron, baby Aaron would probably die within six months. Die, or turn into the weirdest kid in the universe. Andy would diaper him, Andy would feed him all the correct stuff, Andy would change him when he needed changing and burp him if he needed burping, and there would be all sorts of cradle-songs. Each would be sung perfectly and none would be propelled by a mother’s love. Or a father’s. Andy was just Andy, Messenger Robot, Many Other Functions. Baby Aaron would be better off being raised by…well, by wolves.
This thought led him back to the night he and Benny had tented out (they hadn’t done so since; the