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Read The Gunslinger Online Free Chapter One VideoTHE DARK TOWER: THE GUNSLINGER (Original Version) - Stephen King (Audiobook)
That right? Zoltan launched himself from Brown's head and landed, flittering, on the gunslinger's shoulder. Brown shrugged. Time's funny out here.
More than two weeks. Less than two months. The bean man's been twice since he passed. I'd guess six weeks. That's probably wrong. The gunslinger stood up and the bird flew back to the roof, squawking.
He felt an odd, trembling eagerness. Brown cocked an eyebrow at him. Did it ever rain and when did I come here and had I buried my wife.
I did most of the talking, which ain't usual. They looked at each other, a sudden depth of feeling between them, the dweller upon his dust-puff-dry ground, the gunslinger on the hardpan that shelved down to the desert.
He reached for his flint. The gunslinger pushed the tip of his smoke into the flame and drew. I'll start dinner. The gunslinger stepped gingerly over the rows of corn and went around back.
The spring was at the bottom of a hand-dug well, lined with stones to keep the powdery earth from caving. As he descended the rickety ladder, the gunslinger reflected that the stones must represent two years' work easily - hauling, dragging, laying.
The water was clear but slow-moving, and filling the skins was a long chore. He looked up, startled. The shaft was about fifteen feet deep: easy enough for Brown to drop a rock on him, break his head, and steal everything on him.
A crazy or a rotter wouldn't do it; Brown was neither. Yet he liked Brown, and so he pushed the thought out of his mind and got the rest of his water.
What came, came. When he came through the hut's door and walked down the steps the hovel proper was set below ground level, de signed to catch and hold the coolness of the nights , Brown was poking ears of corn into the embers of a tiny fire with a hardwood spatula.
Two ragged plates had been set at op posite ends of a dun blanket. Water for the beans was just beginning to bubble in a pot hung over the fire.
Brown did not look up. Pappa Doc brings the beans. The gunslinger grunted a laugh and sat down with his back against one rude wall, folded his arms and closed his eyes.
He is a haunting, solitary figure at first, on a mysterious quest through a desolate world that eerily mirrors our own.
Pursuing the man in black, an evil being who can bring the dead back to life, Roland is a good man who seems to leave nothing but death in his wake.
The Gunslinger The Dark Tower 1 In The Gunslinger originally published in , King introduces his most enigmatic hero, Roland Deschain of Gilead, the Last Gunslinger.
He is a haunting, solitary figure at first, on a mysterious quest through a desolate world that eerily mirrors our own. The gunslinger had followed the man in black across the desert for two months now, across the endless, screamingly monotonous purgatorial wastes, and had yet to find spoor other than the hygienic sterile ideographs of the man in black's camp fires.
He had not found a can, a bottle, or a waterbag the gunslinger had left four of those behind, like dead snake-skins. Take a powder.
Or, the end draweth nigh. Or maybe even, Eat at Joe's. It didn't matter. He had no understanding of the ideograms, if they were ideograms.
And the remains were as cold as all the others. He knew he was closer, but did not know how he knew. That didn't matter either.
He stood up, brushing his hands. No other trace; the wind, razor-sharp, had of course filed away even what scant tracks the hardpan held. He had never even been able to find his quarry's droppings.
Only these cold campfires along the ancient highway and the relentless range-finder in his own head. He sat down and allowed himself a short pull from the waterbag.
He scanned the desert, looked up at the sun, which was now sliding down the far quadrant of the sky. He got up, removed his gloves from his belt, and began to pull devil-grass for his own fire, which he laid over the ashes the man in black had left.
He found the irony, like the romance of his thirst, bitterly appealing. He did not use the flint and steel until the remains of the day were only the fugitive heat in the ground beneath him and a sardonic orange line on the monochrome western horizon.
He watched the south patiently, toward the mountains, not hoping or expecting to see the thin straight line of smoke from a new campfire, but merely watching because that was a part of it.
There was nothing. He was close, but only relatively so. Not close enough to see smoke at dusk. He struck his spark to the dry, shredded grass and lay down upwind, letting the dreamsmoke blow out toward the waste.
The wind, except for occasional gyrating dust devils, was constant. Above, the stars were unwinking, also constant.
Suns and worlds by the million. Dizzying constellations, cold fire in every primary hue. As he watched, the sky washed from violet to ebony. A meteor etched a brief, spectacular arc and winked out.
He had laid his fuel in a pattern that was not artful but only workable. It spoke of blacks and whites. HOT NOVEL.
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