The Gunslinger clambered over the rocks. He knew the Man in Black was close. He could pick up his scent. The Man in Black smelled like charred meat.
Evil charred meat. The river to his left was the apotheosis of all rivers, it was watery and wet.
The Gunslinger pictured himself lying in the river, being carried backwards in an unending current; lulled by the sweet relentless drifting towards death itself. In a fuzzy formless way, the gunslinger approved.