The Gunslinger pushed these thoughts from his mind, however this took considerable will and concentration more in fact than Roland was used too. Perhaps the time spent in this lonely empty dead place was beginning to take a toll at least this was what Roland told himself.
As darkness began to stretch its arms across the desert Roland came across yet another of the man in blacks camp fires close to small outcropping of devil grass, he pulled two fists full of the grass and set about building a fire on the bones of the old one, he laid his gunna on the hard desert floor careful to position himself down wind of the fire as the smoke from the burning devil grass if inhaled could produce terrible nightmares.
The light of the fire seemed to slide and slither its way around the hardpan, a greasy somehow dirty light, the old folks would say if you looked into a devil grass fire you would see the things dance and writhe in the flames and if you looked long enough you would soon join them, Roland was not a believer in such things and yet he never looked directly at the fire. His back on the hard floor head resting on his pack he held the horn of the Eld and for a fleeting moment the light from the burning devil grass appeared to retreat from its presence the fire dimmed as if it would go out completely and then slowly began to raise, brighter, warmer than before.
A clean white light now escaped the fire, as if the horn chased away whatever resided in the flames before, the things the old folks would see. Roland stared at the ancient horn in the new light of the fire and in this brilliant glow he could almost swear on his father's name that the smith who fashion it had only finished moments earlier, it shone, the brass was high polished and Roland knew if he was to press that beautiful instrument to his lips and blow it would let out a deep, vibrating and war cry like it did in the days of Arthur Eld himself.