XVIII
He thought Brown had fallen asleep. The fire was down to a spark and the bird, Zoltan, had put his head under his wing.
Just as he was about to get up and spread a pallet in the corner, Brown said, “There. You’ve told it. Do you feel better?”
The gunslinger started. “Why would I feel bad?”
“You’re human, you said. No demon. Or did you lie?”
“I didn’t lie.” He felt the grudging admittance in him:
he liked Brown. Honestly did. And he hadn’t lied to the dweller in any way. “Who are you, Brown? Really, I mean. “
“Just me,” he said, unperturbed. “Why do you have to think you’re such a mystery?”
The gunslinger lit a smoke without replying.
“I think you’re very close to your man in black,” Brown said. “Is he desperate?”
“I don’t know. “
“Are you?”
“Not yet,” the gunslinger said. He looked at Brown with a shade of defiance. “I do what I have to do.”
“That’s good then,” Brown said and turned over and went to sleep.
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