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

slashed, the blade slicing fat and muscle, leaving a ten-inch gash that welled
blood but had not cut through the abdominal wall. "Lay still!" he ordered
calmly. "You're not going to die. I'm going to stop the blood now." The words,
though not loud, were an imperative, beyond argument. Macurdy's fingers explored
lines of energy, weaving some of them into a web of occlusion to halt the
bleeding, and as an energy template for healing, the latter procedure learned
not from Arbel, but from Omara, a healing Sister. Within half a minute Macurdy
stood up. "Lay still now," he repeated. "You'll be all right if you lay still."
Then he turned to the burned man, who writhed and whimpered on the ground. After
stilling him with a command, Macurdy turned him onto his belly and pulled up the
charred sweater, the scorched shirt. The bum was less severe than he'd expected,
the skin red but not charred, blisters rising. He'd never had great confidence
with burns, but now, without Arbel to lean on, it seemed he'd learned his
lessons better than he'd realized.
When he'd finished, he looked around. "Who'll help me with these guys?" he
asked. The others stared, awed and a little fearful of him.
"I will," said the Indian. "What do we do?"
"We'll help them to the yard and ask the bulls to call an ambulance. These burns
can get infected, and that cut's deep enough, it might tear through. If it does,
he'll likely die." They helped both men to their feet, and through the jungle to
the railyard. One of the bulls had heard the screaming and called the sheriff's
office; a sheriffs car had arrived before Macurdy and the Indian. The car had a
short-wave radio, something new in police equipment. The deputy used it to call
for an ambulance, then questioned Macurdy and the others while they waited.
When he'd finished, he stared hard at Macurdy. "I should book you for vagrancy,
but I won't. Just get out of here and don't let us see you again."
Macurdy nodded-Chief was being as inconspicuous as anyone can who stands six
feet and weighs 230-and the two of them headed back to the jungle. "How are your
hands?" Chief asked.
"My hands?"
"You used them to beat out the flames in that guy's clothes." Macurdy peered at
them. It was too dark to see whether they were burned or not. "Okay, I guess.
They don't hurt." He contemplated the question as they walked. Maybe healing the
others had healed his hands, or maybe somehow they'd never been burned. He was
pretty sure he'd felt no pain.
Dutch had watched their goods while they were gone, and after asking a few
questions, retired to his bedroll. Chief laid dry sticks on the coals and blew
them into flame, then the two large men sat without talking, Macurdy examining
his hands by the firelight. It was Chief who broke the silence. "I'm going to
tell you my name," he murmured. "I don't tell it to a white man very often. Only
when I have to, like to get a job. It's Roy. Roy Klaplanahoo."
Macurdy repeated it quietly. "Roy Klaplanahoo. Mine is Curtis Macurdy. You
already knew the Curtis part."
Roy nodded. "I saw how you lit the fire. The others thought you used a match,
but you didn't. Then when you stopped that guy's bleeding, I knew what you are:
You're a shaman. I never heard of a white shaman before."
"Yeah. I apprenticed to a white shaman named Arbel. That was in another country.
But then I got away from it."
"What are you going to do in Oregon?"
"I thought maybe I could get a job logging there."