The gunslinger shook his head.
“Well... he don’t bite and he don’t bide, so fuck him. Is thee alive or dead?”
“Alive,” the gunslinger said. “You speak as the Manni do.”
“I was with ’em awhile, but that was no life for me; too chummy, they are, and always looking for holes in the world.”
This was true, the gunslinger reflected. The Manni-folk were great travelers.
The two of them looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then the dweller put out his hand. “Brown is my name.”
The gunslinger shook and gave his own name. As he did so, a scrawny raven croaked from the low peak of the sod roof. The dweller gestured at it briefly: “That’s Zoltan.”
At the sound of its name the raven croaked again and flew across to Brown. It landed on the dweller’s head and roosted, talons firmly twined in the wild thatch of hair.
“Screw you,” Zoltan croaked brightly. “Screw you and the horse you rode in on.”
The gunslinger nodded amiably.
“Beans, beans, the musical fruit,” the raven recited, inspired. “The more you eat, the more you toot.”
“You teach him that?”
“That’s all he wants to learn, I guess,” Brown said. “Tried to teach him The Lord’s Prayer once.” His eyes traveled out beyond the hut for a moment, toward the gritty, featureless hardpan. “Guess this ain’t Lord’s Prayer country. You’re a gunslinger. That right?”
“Yes.” He hunkered down and brought out his makings. Zoltan launched himself from Brown’s head and landed, flittering, on the gunslinger’s shoulder.
“Thought your kind was gone.”
“Then you see different, don’t you?”
“Did’ee come from In-World?”
“Long ago,” the gunslinger agreed.
“Anything left there?”
To this the gunslinger made no reply, but his face suggested this was a topic better not pursued.
“After the other one, I guess.”
“Yes.” The inevitable question followed: “How long since he passed by?”
Brown shrugged. “I don’t know. Time’s funny out here. Distance and direction, too. 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 more you eat, the more you toot,” Zoltan said.
“Did he lay by?” the gunslinger asked.
Brown nodded. “He stayed supper, same as you will, I guess. We passed the time.”
The gunslinger stood up and the bird flew back to the roof, squawking. He felt an odd, trembling eagerness. “What did he talk about?”
Brown cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not much. Did it ever rain and when did I come here and had I buried my wife. He asked was she of the Manni-folk and I said yar, because it seemed like he already knew. I did most of the talking, which ain’t usual.” He paused, and the only sound was the stark wind. “He’s a sorcerer, ain’t he?”
“Among other things.”
Brown nodded slowly. “I knew. He dropped a rabbit out of his sleeve, all gutted and ready for the pot. Are you?”
