“Roland of Gilead. The Big Coffin Hunters, they called themselves. Too many cigarettes are apt to keep an old man like me awake. As gone as the brats.
Even if the man using it was maybe a thousand years old and could shoot like Buffalo Bill, that word was still up for grabs. For a moment she thought her head would break, instead—that her swelling, throbbing brain would simply split her skull like a rotten eggshell. He was looking at the bumper sticker on the front of a rusty old AMC Pacer. No one attempted to join them, and not just because they wore shooting irons in holsters that were slung low and tied down gunslinger fashion.
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