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The whole huge mountain of flesh suddenly strained forward and upward； yet he was careful not to let her secret flesh touch him。
Then she seemed to wilt and grow smaller； and she wept with her hands in her lap。
〃So；〃 he said； getting up。 〃The demon is served； eh？〃
〃Get out。 You've killed the child。 Get out Get out。〃
He stopped at the door and looked back。 〃No child；〃 he said briefly。 〃No angel； no demon。〃
〃Leave me alone。〃
He did。
XVI
By the time he arrived at Kennerly's； a queer obscurity had e over the northern horizon and he knew it was dust。 Over Tull the air was still dead quiet。
Kennerly was waiting for him on the chaffstrewn stage that was the floor of his barn。 〃Leaving？〃 He grinned abjectly at the gunslinger。
〃Yes。〃
〃Not before the storm？〃
〃Ahead of it〃
〃The wind goes faster than a man on a mule。 In the open it can kill you。〃
〃I'll want the mule now；〃 the gunslinger said simply。
〃Sure。〃 But Kennerly did not turn away； merely stood as if searching for something further to say； grinning his groveling； hatefilled grin； and his eyes flicked up and over the gunslinger's shoulder。
The gunslinger sidestepped and turned at the same time； and the heavy stick of stovewood that the girl Soobie held swished through the air； grazing his elbow only。 She lost hold of it with the force of her swing and it clattered over the floor。 In the explosive height of the loft； barn swallows took shadowed wing。
The girl looked at him bovinely。 Her breasts thrust with overripe grandeur at the washfaded shirt she wore。 One thumb sought the haven of her mouth with dreamlike slowness。
The gunslinger turned back to Kennerly。 Kennerly's grin was huge。 His skin was waxy yellow。 His eyes rolled in their sockets。 〃I 〃 he began in a phlegmfilled whisper and could not continue。
〃The mule；〃 the gunslinger prodded gently。
〃Sure； sure； sure；〃 Kennerly whispered； the grin now touched with incredulity。 He shuffled after it。
He moved to where he could watch Kennerly； The hostler brought the mule back and handed him the bridle。
〃You get in an tend your sister；〃 he said to Soobie。
Soobie tossed her head and didn't move。
The gunslinger left them there； staring at each other across the dusty； droppingsstrewn floor； he with his sick grin； she with dumb； inanimate defiance。 Outside the heat was still like a hammer。
XVII
He walked the mule up the center of the street； his boots sending up squirts of dust His waterbags were strapped across the mule's back。
He stopped at Sheb's； and Allie was not there。 The place was deserted； battened for the storm； but still dirty from the night before。 She had not begun her cleaning and the place was as fetid as a wet dog。
He filled his tote sack with corn meal； dried and roasted corn； and half of the raw hamburg in the cooler。 He left four gold pieces stacked on the planked counter。 Allie did not e down。 Sheb's piano bid him a silent； yellowtoothed goodby。 He stepped back out and cinched the tote sack across the mule's back。 There was a tight feeling in his throat。 He might still avoid the trap； but the chances were small。 He was； after all； the interloper。
He walked past the shuttered； waiting buildings； feeling the eyes that peered through cracks and chinks。 The man in black had played God in Tull。 Was it only a sense of the cosmic ic； or a matter of desperation？ It was a question of some importance。
There was a shrill； harried scream from behind him； and doors suddenly threw themselves open。 Forms lunged。 The trap was sprung； then。 Men in long handles and men in dirty dungarees。 Women in slacks and in faded dresses。
Even children； tagging after their parents。 And in every hand there was a chunk of wood or a knife。
His reaction was automatic； instantaneous； inbred。 He whirled on his heels while his hands pulled the guns from their holsters； the hafts heavy and sure in his hands。 It was Allie； and of course it had to be Allie； ing at him with her face distorted； the scar a hellish purple in the lowering light He saw that she was held hostage； the distorted； grimacing face of Sheb peered over her shoulder like a witch's familiar。 She was his shield and sacrifice。 He saw it all； clear and shadowless in the frozen deathless light of the sterile calm； and heard her：
〃He's got me O Jesus don't shoot don't don't don't 〃
But the hands were trained。 He was the last of his breed and it was not only his mouth that knew the High Speech。 The guns beat their heavy； atonal music into the air。 Her mouth flapped and she sagged and the guns fired again。 Sheb's head snapped back。 They both fell into the dust。
Sticks flew through the air； rained on him。 He staggered； fended them off。 One with a nail pounded raggedly through it ripped at his arm and drew blood。 A man with a beard stubble and sweatstained armpits lunged flying at him with a dull kitchen knife held in one paw。 The gunslinger shot him dead and the man thumped into the street。 His teeth clicked audibly as his chin struck。
〃SATAN！〃 Some was screaming： 〃THE ACCURSED！ BRING HIM DOWN！〃
〃THE INTERLOPER！〃 Another voice cried。 Sticks rained on him。 A knife struck his boot and bounced。 〃THE
INTERLOPER！ THE ANTICHRIST！〃
He blasted his way through the middle of them； running as the bodies fell； his hands picking the targets with dreadful accuracy。 Two men and a woman went down； and he ran through the hole they left。
He led them a feverish parade across the street and toward the rickety general store/barber shop that faced Sheb's。 He mounted the boardwalk； turned again； and fired the rest of his loads into the charging crowd。 Behind them； Sheb and Allie and the others lay crucified in the dust。
They never hesitated or faltered； although every shot he fired found a vital spot and although they had probably never seen a gun except for pictures in old magazines。
He retreated； moving his body like a dancer to avoid the flying missiles。 He reloaded as he went； with a rapidity that had also been trained into his fingers。 They shuttled busily between gunbelts and cylinders。 The mob came up over the boardwalk and he stepped into the general store and rammed the door closed。 The large display window to the right shattered inward and three men crowded through。 Their faces were zealously blank； their eyes filled with bland fire。 He shot them all； and the two that followed them。 They fell in the window； hung on the jutting shards of glass； choking the opening。
The door crashed and shuddered with their weight and he could hear her voice： 〃THE KILLER！ YOUR SOULS！ THE CLOVEN HOOF！〃
The door ripped off its hinges and fell straight in； making a flat handclap。 Dust puffed up from the floor。 Men； women； and children charged him。 Spittle and stove wood flew。 He shot his guns empty and they fell like ninepins。 He retreated； shoving over a flour barrel； rolling it at them； into the barbershop； throwing a pan of boiling water that contained two nicked straightrazors。 They came on； screaming with frantic incoherency。 From somewhere； Sylvia Pittston exhorted them； her voice rising and falling on blind inflections。 He pushed shells into hot chambers； smelling the smells of shave and tonsure； smelling his own flesh as the calluses at the tips of his fingers sin