Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [62]
“Yar,” he said, hawked, and spat off to the left. “Not that I’ve seen or heard it myself, you understand. I never wander far; too much to do on the farm. Those of the Calla aren’t woodsy people as a rule, anyway, do ya kennit.”
Oh yes, I think I kennit, Susannah thought, spying another blaze roughly the size of a dinner plate. The unfortunate tree so marked would be lucky to survive the coming winter.
“Andy’s told of the thinny many and many-a. Makes a sound, he says, but can’t tell what it is.”
“Who’s Andy?”
“Ye’ll meet him for y’self soon enough, sai. Are’ee from this Calla York, like yer friends?”
“Yes,” she said, again on her guard. He swung her wheelchair around a hoary old ironwood. The trees were sparser now, and the smell of cooking much stronger. Meat…and coffee. Her stomach rumbled.
“And they be not gunslingers,” Overholser said, nodding at Jake and Eddie. “You’ll not tell me so, surely.”
“You must decide that for yourself when the time comes,” Susannah said.
He made no reply for a few moments. The wheelchair rumbled over a rock outcropping. Ahead of them, Oy padded along between Jake and Benny Slightman, who had made friends with boyhood’s eerie speed. She wondered if it was a good idea. For the two boys were different. Time might show them how much, and to their sorrow.
“He scared me,” Overholser said. He spoke in a voice almost too low to hear. As if to himself. “ ’Twere his eyes, I think. Mostly his eyes.”
“Would you go on as you have, then?” Susannah asked. The question was far from as idle as she hoped it sounded, but she was still startled by the fury of his response.
“Are’ee mad, woman? Course not—not if I saw a way out of the box we’re in. Hear me well! That boy”—he pointed at Tian Jaffords, walking ahead of them with his wife—“that boy as much as accused me of running yella. Had to make sure they all knew I didn’t have any children of the age the Wolves fancy, aye. Not like he has, kennit. But do’ee think I’m a fool that can’t count the cost?”
“Not me,” Susannah said, calmly.
“But do he? I halfway think so.” Overholser spoke as a man does when pride and fear are fighting it out in his head. “Do I want to give the babbies to the Wolves? Babbies that’re sent back roont to be a drag on the town ever after? No! But neither do I want some hardcase to lead us all to blunder wi’ no way back!”
She looked over her shoulder at him and saw a fascinating thing. He now wanted to say yes. To find a reason to say yes. Roland had brought him that far, and with hardly a word. Had only…well, had only looked at him.
There was movement in the corner of her eye. “Holy Christ!” Eddie cried. Susannah’s hand darted for a gun that wasn’t there. She turned forward in the chair again. Coming down the slope toward them, moving with a prissy care that she couldn’t help find amusing even in her startlement, was a metal man at least seven feet high.
Jake’s hand had gone to the docker’s clutch and the butt of the gun that hung there.
“Easy, Jake!” Roland said.
The metal man, eyes flashing blue, stopped in front of them. It stood perfectly still for perhaps ten seconds, plenty of time for Susannah to read what was stamped on its chest. North Central Positronics, she thought, back for another curtain call. Not to mention LaMerk Industries.
Then the robot raised one silver arm, placing a silver hand against its stainless-steel forehead. “Hile, gunslinger, come from afar,” it said. “Long days and pleasant nights.”
Roland raised his fingers to his own forehead. “May you have twice the number, Andy-sai.”
“Thankee.” Clickings from its deep and incomprehensible guts. Then it leaned forward toward Roland, blue eyes flashing brighter. Susannah saw Eddie’s hand creep to the sandalwood grip of the ancient revolver he wore. Roland, however, never flinched.
“I’ve made a goodish meal, gunslinger. Many good things from the fullness of the earth, aye.”
“Say thankee,