Alain pushed him aside, knelt, and took the gunslinger’s hands. He knew none of the words, but when the drums kicked in, he knew the song perfectly well: “Velero Fly” by Z. He sat astride a deep-chested bay, wearing a green felt drover’s hat and an old gray duster. “Roland, no!” Cuthbert cried.
He grasped Jake’s shoulder with his diminished right hand. Wings of iron-gray hair floated away from either side of his head, gossamer as cobwebs. They looked at each other, said nothing (except with their eyes, which said plenty), and went on. The old woman parted her toes, looking between each pair.
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