Pages 111 and 112 are MISSING! HELP!!!

[jennigurl69]

I just checked out The Gunslinger form my local library and somehow pages 111 and 112 have been torn out. It is the paperback version, right before the cook swings from the gallows. BAD PLACE TO BE MISSING A PAGE! If anyone has this book could you please tell me what is missing on those pages? I would REALLY appreciate it!

[Mr. Rabbit Trick]

Roland is shot in the leg and has to have his leg amputated.




Only kidding! The cook get his comeuppance.

[John Blaze]

maybe some kind soul on this website who has the ebook can post you screenshots of those two pages?

If you wait until tonight when I wake up (coming off of graveyards, and I'm damn tired) i'll scan them for you and send them to you. Send me a pm if no one gets them to you by tonight, k?

[Brice]

I would, but I have no scanner.

[dobosininja]

I just checked out The Gunslinger form my local library and somehow pages 111 and 112 have been torn out. It is the paperback version, right before the cook swings from the gallows. BAD PLACE TO BE MISSING A PAGE! If anyone has this book could you please tell me what is missing on those pages? I would REALLY appreciate it!

This should cover that period of pages...only have the pdf from my iphone.

The two boys had been let out of Morning Exercises —Cort had read the notes from their fathers laboriously, lips moving, nodding here and there. When he finished with them both, he had looked up at the blue violet dawn sky and had nodded again. “Wait here,” he said, and went toward the leaning stone hut that was his living quarters. He came back with a slice of rough, unleavened bread, broke it in two, and gave half to each. “When it’s over, each of you will put this beneath his shoes. Mind you do exactly as I say, or I’ll clout you into next week.” They had not understood until they arrived, riding double on Cuthbert’s gelding. They were the first, fully two hours ahead of anyone else and four hours before the hanging, and Gallows Hill stood deserted — except for the rooks and ravens. The birds were everywhere, and of course they were all black. They roosted noisily on the hard, jutting bar that overhung the trap — the armature of death. They sat in a row along the edge of the platform, they jostled for position on the stairs. “They leave them,” Cuthbert muttered. “For the birds.” “Let’s go up,” Roland said. Cuthbert looked at him with something like horror. “Do you think — “ Roland cut him off with a gesture of his hands. “We’re years early. No one will come.” “All right.” They walked slowly toward the gibbet, and the birds took indignant wing, cawing and circling like a mob of angry dispossessed peasants. Their bodies were flat and black against the pure dawn light of the sky. For the first time Roland felt the enormity of his responsibility in the matter; this wood was not noble, not part of the awesome machine of Civilization, but merely warped pine covered with splattered white bird droppings. It was splashed everywhere — stairs, railing, platform — and it stank. The boy turned to Cuthbert with startled, terrified eyes and saw Cuthbert looking back at him with the same expression. “I can’t,” Cuthbert whispered. “I can’t watch it.” Roland shook his head slowly. There was a lesson here, he realized, not a shining thing but something that was old and rusty and misshapen. It was why their fathers had let them come. And with his usual stubborn and inarticulate doggedness, Roland laid mental hands on whatever it was.

“You can, Bert.” “I won’t sleep tonight” “Then you won’t,” Roland said, not seeing what that had to do with it Cuthbert suddenly seized Roland’s hand and looked at him with such mute agony that Roland’s own doubt came back, and he wished sickly that they had never gone to the west kitchen that night His father had been right Better every man, woman, and child in Farson than this. But whatever the lesson was, rusty, half buried thing, he would not let it go or give up his grip on it “Let’s not go up,” Cuthbert said. “We’ve seen everything.” And Roland nodded reluctantly, feeling his grip on that thing — whatever it was — weaken. Cort, he knew, would have knocked them both sprawling and then forced them up to the platform step by cursing step . . . and sniffing fresh blood back up their noses as they went Cort would probably have looped new hemp over the yardarm itself and put the noose around each of their necks in turn, would have made them stand on the trap to feel it; and Cort would have been ready to strike them again if either wept or lost control of his bladder. And Cort, of course, would have been right For the first time in his life, Roland found himself hating his own childhood. He wished for the size and calluses and sureness of age. He deliberately pried a splinter from the railing and placed it in his breast pocket before turning away. “Why did you do that?” Cuthbert asked. He wished to answer something swaggering: Oh, the luck of the gallows . . . but he only looked at Cuthbert and shook his head. “Just so I’ll have it,” he said. “Always have it” They walked away from the gallows, sat down, and waited. In an hour or so the first of them began to gather, mostly families who had come in broken down wagons and shays, carrying their breakfasts with them — hampers of cold pancakes folded over fillings of wild strawberry jam. Roland felt his stomach growl hungrily and wondered again, with despair, where the honor and the nobility of it was. It seemed to him that Hax in his dirty whites, walking around and around his steaming, subterranean kitchen, had more honor than this. He fingered the splinter from the gallows tree with sick bewilderment Cuthbert lay beside him with his face made impassive. In the end it was not so much, and Roland was glad. Hax was carried in an open cart, but only his huge girth gave him away; he had been blindfolded with a wide black cloth that hung down over his face. A few threw stones, but most merely continued with their breakfasts. A gunslinger whom the boy did not know (he was glad his father had not drawn the lot) led the fat cook carefully up the steps. Two Guards of the Watch had gone ahead and stood on either side of the trap. When Hax and the gunslinger reached the top, the gunslinger threw the noosed rope over the crosstree and then put it over the cook’s head, dropping the knot until it lay just below the left ear. The birds had all flown, but Roland knew they were waiting. “Do you wish to make confession?” the gunslinger asked. “I have nothing to confess,” Hax said. His words carried well, and his voice was oddly dignified in spite of the muffle of cloth which hung over his lips. The cloth ruffled slightly in the faint, pleasant breeze that had blown up. “I have not forgotten my father’s face; it has been with me through all.” Roland glanced sharply at the crowd and was disturbed by what he saw there — a sense of sympathy? Perhaps admiration? He would ask his father. When traitors are called heroes (or heroes traitors, he supposed in his frowning way), dark times must have fallen. He wished he understood better. His mind flashed to Cort and the bread Cort had given them. He felt contempt; the day was coming when Cort would serve him. Perhaps not Cuthbert; perhaps Cuthbert would buckle under Cort’s steady fire and remain a page or a horse boy (or infinitely worse, a perfumed diplomat, dallying in receiving chambers or looking into bogus crystal balls with doddering kings and princes), but he would not. He knew it.

“Roland?” “I’m here.” He took Cuthbert’s hand, and their fingers locked together like iron. The trap dropped. Hax plummeted through. And in the sudden stillness, there was a sound: that sound an exploding pine knot makes on the hearth during a cold winter night. But it was not so much. The cook’s legs kicked out once in a wide Y; the crowd made a satisfied whistling noise; the Guards of the Watch dropped their military pose and began to gather things up negligently. The gunslinger walked back down the steps slowly, mounted his horse, and rode off, cutting roughly through one gaggle of picnickers, making them scurry. The crowd dispersed rapidly after that, and in forty minutes the two boys were left alone on the small hill they had chosen. The birds were returning to examine their new prize. One lit on Hax’s shoulder and sat there chummily, darting its beak at the bright and shiny hoop Hax had always worn in his right ear. “It doesn’t look like him at all,” Cuthbert said. “Oh, yes, it does,” Roland said confidently as they walked toward the gallows, the bread in their hands. Cuthbert looked abashed. They paused beneath the cross tree, looking up at the dangling, twisting body. Cuthbert reached up and touched one hairy ankle, defiantly. The body started on a new, twisting arc. Then, rapidly, they broke the bread and spread the crumbs beneath the dangling feet. Roland looked back just once as they rode away. Now there were thousands of birds. The bread — he grasped this only dimly — was symbolic, then. “It was good,” Cuthbert said suddenly. “It . . . I . . . I liked it. I did.” Roland was not shocked by this, although he had not particularly cared for the scene. But he thought he could perhaps understand it. “I don’t know about that,” he said, “but it was something. It surely was.” The land did not fall to the good man for another ten years, and by that time he was a gunslinger, his father was dead, he himself had become a matricide — and the world had moved on.

III “Look, “ Jake said, pointing upward. The gunslinger looked up and felt an obscure joint in his back pop. They had been in the foothills two days now, and although the waterskins were almost empty again, it didn’t matter now. There would soon be all the water they could drink. He followed the vector of Jake’s finger upward, past the rise of the green plain to the naked and flashing cliffs and gorges above it . . . and on up toward the snowcap itself. Faint and far, nothing but a tiny dot (it might have been one of those motes that dance perpetually in front of the eyes, except for its constancy), the gunslinger beheld the man in black, moving up the slopes with deadly progress, a minuscule fly on a huge granite wall. “Is that him?” Jake asked. The gunslinger looked at the depersonalized mote doing its faraway acrobatics, feeling nothing but a premonition of sorrow. “That’s him, Jake.” “Do you think we’ll catch him?” “Not on this side. On the other. And not if we stand here talking about it.” “They’re so high,” Jake said. “What’s on the other side?” “I don’t know,” the gunslinger said. “I don’t think anybody does. Maybe they did once. Come on, boy.” They began to move upward again, sending small runnels of pebbles and sand down toward the desert that washed away behind them in a flat bakesheet that seemed to never end. Above them, far above, the man in black moved up and up and up. It was impossible to see if he looked back. He seemed to leap across impossible gulfs, to scale sheer faces. Once or twice he disappeared, but always they saw him again, until the violet curtain of dusk shut him out of their view. When they made their camp for the evening, the boy spoke little, and the gunslinger wondered if the boy knew what he had already intuited. He thought of Cuthbert’s face, hot, dismayed, excited. He thought of the crumbs. He thought of the birds. It ends this way, he thought. Again and again it ends this way. There are quests and roads that lead ever onward, and all of them end in the same place — upon the killing ground. Except, perhaps, the road to the Tower. The boy, the sacrifice, his face innocent and very young in the light of their tiny fire, had fallen asleep over his beans. The gunslinger covered him with the horse blanket and then curled up to sleep himself.

[jennigurl69]

Thank you very much dobosininja, I truly appreciate it! Now I can move on in the story that has truly captivated me already! I can't wait to start the other books as well! You rock!

[Woofer]

Welcome, jennigurl69! Glad someone could help you quickly.

dobosininja FTW!

[John Blaze]

dobosinninja, you're awesome. Thanks.

And you have an ereader on your phone? KICKASS!