sk.everythingseventual-第35部分

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uch　where　you　went　out　（not　so　grand）。　None　had　been　built　to　exclude　visitors；　certainly　not　this　one。　It　stood　between　two　walls　of　pink　adobe　that　ran　into　the　scree　for　a　distance　of　about　twenty　feet　on　either　side　of　the　road　and　then　simply　stopped。　Close　the　gate；　lock　it　with　many　locks；　and　all　that　meant　was　a　short　walk　around　one　bit　of　adobe　wall　or　the　other。
　　Beyond　the　gate；　Roland　could　see　what　looked　in　most　respects　like　a　perfectly　ordinary　High　Street…an　inn；　two　saloons　（one　of　which　was　called　The　Bustling　Pig；　the　sign　over　the　other　was　too　faded　to　read）；　a　mercantile；　a　smithy；　a　Gathering　Hall。　There　was　also　a　small　but　rather　lovely　wooden　building　with　a　modest　bell　tower　on　top；　a　sturdy　fieldstone　foundation　on　the　bottom；　and　a　gold…painted　cross　on　its　double　doors。　The　cross；　like　the　one　over　the　gate；　marked　this　as　a　worshipping　place　for　those　who　held　to　the　Jesus　Man。　This　wasn't　a　mon　religion　in　Mid…World；　but　far　from　unknown；　that　same　thing　could　have　been　said　about　most　forms　of　worship　in　those　days；　including　the　worship　of　Baal；　Asmodeus；　and　a　hundred　others。　Faith；　like　everything　else　in　the　world　these　days；　had　moved　on。　As　far　as　Roland　was　concerned；　God　o'　the　Cross　was　just　another　religion　which　taught　that　love　and　murder　were　inextricably　bound　together…that　in　the　end；　God　always　drank　blood。
　　Meanwhile；　there　was　the　singing　hum　of　insects　that　sounded　almost　like　crickets。　The　dreamlike　tinkle　of　the　bells。　And　that　queer　wooden　thumping；　like　a　fist　on　a　door。　Or　on　a　coffintop。
　　Something　here's　a　long　way　from　right；　the　gunslinger　thought。　'Ware；　Roland；　this　place　has　a　reddish　odor。
　　He　led　Topsy　through　the　gate　with　its　adornments　of　dead　flowers　and　down　the　High　Street。　On　the　porch　of　the　mercantile；　where　the　old　men　should　have　congregated　to　discuss　crops；　politics；　and　the　follies　of　the　younger　generation；　there　stood　only　a　line　of　empty　rockers。　Lying　beneath　one；　as　if　dropped　from　a　careless　（and　long…departed）　hand；　was　a　charred　corncob　pipe。　The　hitching　rack　in　front　of　The　Bustling　Pig　stood　empty；　the　windows　of　the　saloon　itself　were　dark。　One　of　the　batwing　doors　had　been　yanked　off　and　stood　propped　against　the　side　of　the　building；　the　other　hung　ajar；　its　faded　green　slats　spattered　with　maroon　stuff　that　might　have　been　paint　but　probably　wasn't。
　　The　shopfront　of　the　livery　stable　stood　intact；　like　the　face　of　a　ruined　woman　who　has　access　to　good　cosmetics；　but　the　double　barn　behind　it　was　a　charred　skeleton。　That　fire　must　have　happened　on　a　rainy　day；　the　gunslinger　thought；　or　the　whole　damned　town　would　have　gone　up　in　flames；　a　jolly　spin　and　raree…show　for　anyone　around　to　see　it。
　　To　his　right　now；　halfway　up　to　where　the　street　opened　into　the　town　square；　was　the　church。　There　were　grassy　borders　on　both　sides；　one　separating　the　church　from　the　town's　Gathering　Hall；　the　other　from　the　little　house　set　aside　for　the　preacher　and　his　family　（if　this　was　one　of　the　Jesus…sects　which　allowed　its　shamans　to　have　wives　and　families；　that　was；　some　of　them；　clearly　administered　by　lunatics；　demanded　at　least　the　appearance　of　celibacy）。　There　were　flowers　in　these　grassy　strips；　and　while　they　looked　parched；　most　were　still　alive。　So　whatever　had　happened　here　to　empty　the　place　out　had　not　happened　long　ago。　A　week；　perhaps。　Two　at　the　outside；　given　the　heat。
　　Topsy　sneezed　again…K'chow！…and　lowered　his　head　wearily。
　　The　gunslinger　saw　the　source　of　the　tinkling。　Above　the　cross　on　the　church　doors；　a　cord　had　been　strung　in　a　long；　shallow　arc。　Hung　from　it　were　perhaps　two　dozen　tiny　silver　bells。　There　was　hardly　any　breeze　today；　but　enough　so　these　smalls　were　never　quite　still　。　。　。　and　if　a　real　wind　should　rise；　Roland　thought；　the　sound　made　by　the　tintinnabulation　of　the　bells　would　probably　be　a　good　deal　less　pleasant；　more　like　the　strident　parlay　of　gossips'　tongues。
　　'Hello！'　Roland　called；　looking　across　the　street　at　what　a　large　false…fronted　sign　proclaimed　to　be　the　Good　Beds　Hotel。　'Hello；　the　town！'
　　No　answer　but　the　bells；　the　tunesome　insects；　and　that　odd　wooden　clunking。　No　answer；　no　movement　。　。　。　but　there　were　folk　here。　Folk　or　something。　He　was　being　watched。　The　tiny　hairs　on　the　nape　of　his　neck　had　stiffened。
　　Roland　stepped　onward；　leading　Topsy　toward　the　center　of　town；　puffing　up　the　unlaid　High　Street　dust　with　each　step。　Forty　paces　farther　along；　he　stopped　in　front　of　a　low　building　marked　with　a　single　curt　word：　LAW。　The　Sheriff's　office　（if　they　had　such　this　far　from　the　Inners）　looked　remarkably　similar　to　the　church…wooden　boards　stained　a　rather　forbidding　shade　of　dark　brown　above　a　stone　foundation。
　　The　bells　behind　him　rustled　and　whispered。
　　He　left　the　roan　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　street　and　mounted　the　steps　to　the　LAW　office。　He　was　very　aware　of　the　bells；　of　the　sun　beating　against　his　neck；　and　of　the　sweat　trickling　down　his　sides。　The　door　was　shut　but　unlocked。　He　opened　it；　then　winced　back；　half…raising　a　hand　as　the　heat　trapped　inside　rushed　out　in　a　soundless　gasp。　If　all　the　closed　buildings　were　this　hot　inside；　he　mused；　the　livery　barns　would　soon　not　be　the　only　burnt…out　hulks。　And　with　no　rain　to　stop　the　flames　（and　certainly　no　volunteer　fire　department；　not　anymore）；　the　town　would　not　be　long　for　the　face　of　the　earth。
　　He　stepped　inside；　trying　to　sip　at　the　stifling　air　rather　than　taking　deep　breaths。　He　immediately　heard　the　low　drone　of　flies。
　　There　was　a　single　cell；　modious　and　empty；　its　barred　door　standing　open。　Filthy　skin…shoes；　one　of　the　pair　ing　unsewn；　lay　beneath　a　bunk　sodden　with　the　same　dried　maroon　stuff　that　had　marked　The　Bustling　Pig。　Here　was　where　the　flies　were；　crawling　over　the　stain；　feeding　from　it。
　　On　the　desk　was　a　ledger。　Roland　turned　it　toward　him　and　read　what　was　embossed　upon　its　red　cover：
　　
　　REGISTRY　OF　MISDEEDS　&　REDRESS
　　IN　THE　YEARS　OF　OUR　LORD
　　ELURIA
　　
　　So　now　he　knew　the　name　of　the　town；　at　least…Eluria。　Pretty；　yet　somehow　ominous；　as　well。　But　any　name　would　have　seemed　ominous；　Roland　supposed；　given　these　circumstances。　He　turned　to　leave；　and　saw　a　closed　door　secured　by　a　wooden　bolt。
　　He　went　to　it；　stood　before　it　for　a　moment；　then　drew　one　of　the　big　revolvers　he　carried　low　on　his　hips。　He　stood　a　moment　longer；　head　down；　thinking　（Cuthbert；　his　old　friend；　liked　to　say　that　the　wheels　inside　Roland's　head　ground　slow　but　exceedingly　fine）；　and　then　retracted　the　bolt。　He　opened　the　door　and　immediately　stood　back；　leveling　his　gun；　expecting　a　body　（Eluria's　Sheriff；　mayhap）　to　e　tumbling　into　the　room　with　his　throat　cut　and　his　eyes　gouged　out；　victim　of　a　MISDEED　in　need　of　REDRESS　…
　　Nothing。
　　Well；　half　a　dozen　stained　jumpers　which　longer…term　prisoners　were　probably　required　to　wear；　two　bows；　a　quiver　of　arrows；　an　old；　dusty　motor；　a　rifle　that　had　probably　last　been　fired　a　hundred　years　ago；　and　a　mop　。　。　。　but　in　the　gunslinger's　mind；　all　that　came　down　to　nothing。　Just　a　storage　closet。
　　He　went　back　to　the　desk；　opened　the　register；　and　leafed　through　it。　Even　the　pages　were　warm；　as　if　the　book　had　been　baked。　In　a　way；　he　supposed　it　had　been。　If　the　High　Street　layout　had　been　different；　he　might　have　expected　a　large　number　of　religious　offenses　to　be　recorded；　but　he　wasn't　surprised　to　find　none　here…if　the　Jesus…Man　church　had　coexisted　with　a　couple　of　saloons；　the　churchfolk　must　have　been　fairly　reasonable。
　　What　Roland　found　was　the　usual　petty　offenses；　and　a　few　not　so　petty…a　murder；　a　horse…thieving；　the　Distressal　of　a　Lady　（which　probably　meant　rape）。　The　murderer　had　been　removed　to　a　place　called　Lexingworth　to　be　hanged。　Roland　had　never　heard　of　it。　One　note　toward　the　end　read　Green　folk　sent　hence。　It　meant　nothing　to　Roland。　The　most　recent　entry　was　this：
　　
　　12/Fe/99。　Chas。　Freeborn；　cattle…theef　to　be　tryed。
　　
　　Roland　wasn't　familiar　with　the　notation　12/Fe/99；　but　as　this　was　a　long　stretch　from　February；　he　supposed　Fe　might　stand　for　Full　Earth。　In　any　case；　the　ink　looked　about　as　fresh　as　the　blood　on　the　bun