"Dalmas,.John.-.Lion.Of.Farside.2.-.Bavarian.Gate.v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dalmas John)

not at the pail but at Dutch, then limped over and stood empty handed, left
shoulder hunched.
"Ain't you got no can?" Dutch asked. The shaggy head shook a negative. "Anybody
got a can for this guy?" No one answered.
"Where's that bean can we had? That'll work."
His canteen cup in one hand, Macurdy went to where the can lay, and brought it
to the crazy man. Its inner rim was jagged with teeth of tinned steel, formed by
opening it with a jack knife.
The man held it out to Dutch.
"No hurry" Dutch said. "Hammer down the edges first, or you'll cut yourself."
The can remained unmovingly extended, and shrugging, Dutch filled it; the others
had paused in their eating to watch. The silent man drank off most of the
liquid, then unflinchingly reached into the can, plucked out pieces and put them
into his mouth, licking and sucking stew and blood from his fingers, heedless of
ragged steel edges and staring men. When he was done, he retreated out of the
firelight and squatted again, sucking his cuts. None of the watchers said a
word; after a moment they continued eating.
When they were done, the men withdrew a little distance to sleep, Macurdy and
the Indian lying down a few feet from each other. They'd been together since a
jungle outside St. Cloud, Minnesota, where a confused and exasperated Macurdy
had asked how to find Oregon. "From here," the Indian had answered, "take the
Northern Pacific. Don't take the Union Pacific! Oregon's where I'm going, too. I
live there. If you want, we can travel together." They hadn't talked a lot in
the twenty-odd hours since then; Macurdy didn't even know the man's name. When
he'd said his own, the Indian had answered "White people call me Chief," saying
it without irony. They felt a mutual affinity, but the Indian seemed reticent by
nature, and Macurdy left it at that.
Macurdy's only bedding was a horse blanket he'd gotten from Max, to make a
bindle and for appearances. He could keep as warm as he liked by drawing on the
Web of the World, with or without a blanket. Just now he wasn't sleepy-not a bit
but it seemed better to lie there and rest than wander around.
Briefly he thought of offering his blanket to the crazy man, who had nothing but
the ragged filthy clothes he wore, then decided against it. God knew what bugs
the man might harbor.
Somewhere not far off he heard angry voices, and wondered if there'd be a fight.
His hand felt for the heavy skinning knife he'd bought in Dickinson, North
Dakota earlier that day, sheathed now inside his pant leg against his left calf.
In Indiana there'd been no need to go armed, but on the bum like this it seemed
a good idea.
The noise was coming nearer, two men arguing drunkenly till they stood by
Dutch's fire. Macurdy had raised himself on an elbow to watch. Some of the
others had gotten up, wary of potential violence. Suddenly one of the
two-seemingly the drunkest-drew a knife and slashed at the other, who staggered
backward screaming. The first, off balance, fell on the fire. Then both were
screaming, and Macurdy was there, jerking the one from the bed of coals,
throwing him down, slapping the flames out with his bare hands. That done, he
crouched over the other, who had dropped to his knees, holding his belly and
keening.
"Shut up and lay down!" Macurdy ordered, and slapped him sharply. The man
obeyed, and Macurdy examined the wound with eyes and hands. The belly had been