"De Camp, L Sprague - The Reluctant Shaman UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Camp L Sprague)

Nothing happened. Calvin Hathaway put in his head.
"Did you call me, Pop?"
"No. Yes, I did. Ask your maw when dinner's gonna be ready."
It had been a mistake; what would he tell Catfish?
After dinner, Hathaway left his wife in charge of the shop while he went for a walk, to think. In front of Tate's hardware store he found a noisy group consisting of old man Tate, Wallace Downey, and a state trooper. Tate's window was broken, and he was accusing Downey of breaking it and stealing a fishing rod. Downey accused Tate of throwing the rod at him through the window. Each produced witnesses.
"I was buying some film for my camera in the store when bingo! away goes the winda," a witness said. "Mr. Tate and me, we look around, and we see Wally making off with the rod."
"Did you see Downey inside the window?" asked the trooper.
"No, but it stands to reason-"
"What's your story?" the trooper interrupted him, as he turned inquiringly at Downey.
"1 was sitting on the steps of the bank havin' a chaw, when Wally comes along carrying that reel, and zowie! out comes the rod through the winda, with busted glass all over the place. If old man Tate didn't throw it at him somebody musta."
Puzzled, the trooper scratched his head. Finally, since Tate had his rod back and the window was insured, he persuaded the two angry men to drop the matter.
"Hello, Virgil," said Downey. "Why does everything screwy have to happen in this town? Say, do you know anything about those BB shot? You yelled something, and they quit."
"I don't know nahthing," said Hathaway innocently. "Some kid with an air rifle, I suppose. What was all this run-in with Tate?"
"I went down to the river to fish," explained Downey. "I had a new tackle, and I no sooner dropped it off the bridge than I got a strike that busted the rodright off short. Musta been the biggest bass in the river. Well, I saved the reel, and I was bringin' it back home when old man Tate shies a new rod at me, right through his window."
Hathaway could see how the Gahunga were responsible for these events; they were being "helpful." He left Downey and sauntered down Main Street, passing the Adirondack Association office. Barbara Scott made a face at him through the glass. Hathaway thought she needed to be spanked, either on account of the seances, or her infatuation with Harvey Pringle, or both.
Returning to his shop, the middle-aged Indian noted that the Gahato Garage seemed to have an unusually brisk trade in the repair of tires. The cars included the trooper's Ford with all four tires flat. Bill Bugby and his mechanics were working on tires like maniacs.
The trooper who had handled the Tate-Downey incident was walking about the street, now and then stooping to pick up something. Presently he came back.
"Hey, Bill!" he shouted, and conferred in low tones with Bugby, who presently raised his voice. "You're crazy, Mark!" he cried. "I ain't never done a thing like that in all the years I been here!"
"Maybe so," said the trooper. "But you got to admit that somebody scattered bright new nails all over this street. And if you didn't, who did?"
Hathaway prudently withdrew. He knew who had scattered the nails.

Newcomb, the game warden, lounged into Chief Soaring Turtle's shop and spread his elbows along a counter. Hathaway asked him what he was looking so sad about.
The warden explained.
"I was walking by the bank this afternoon, when a big car drives up and a young man gets out and goes in the bank," he said. "There was a canvas bundle on the back of the car. I didn't think anything of it, only just as I get past it the canvas comes tearing off the bundle, like somebody is pulling it, and there on the bumper is tied a fresh-killed fawn."
"You don't say so?"
"Three months out of season, and no more horns than a pussycat. 'Well, you know and I know there's some of that all the time. I run
'em in when I catch 'em, and if it makes me unpopular that's part of my job. But when this young man comes out and I ask him about it, he admits it-and then it turns out he's Judge Dusenberry's son. Half the village is looking on, so I got to run young Dusenberry in."
"Will that get you into trouble?"
"Don't know; depends on who wins the election next fall. Now, Virgil, I'm not superstitious myself. But some of these people are, especially the Canucks. There's talk of your putting a hoodoo on the town. Some have had rocks thrown at 'em, or something, and Wallace Downey is saying you stopped them. If you can stop it, why can't you start it?"
"I don't know a thing about it," said Hathaway.
"Of course, you don't-I realize that's all nonsense. But I thought you ought to know what folks are saying." And Newcomb slouched out, leaving behind him a much worried Indian.
The next day, Hathaway left his wife in charge of the shop and drove towards Utica. As he was turning on to the state highway, Barbara Scott walked past and called good morning. He leaned out.
"Hi, Barbara! Be you still going to have your spook hunt?"
"You bet, Chief Wart-on-the-Nose."
"What'll you do if old man Pringle gets up and denounces you as a fake?"
"I don't tell my victims I'm not a fake. I say they can watch and judge for themselves. You don't believe in spirits, do you?"
"Never did. Until a little while ago, that is."
"What the devil do you mean by that crack, Virgil?"
"Oh, just some funny things that happened."
Barbara tactfully refrained from pressing for details.
"I never did either, but lately I've had a feeling I was being followed," she said. "And this morning I found this on my dresser." She held out a slip of paper on which was scrawled:
"Don't you worry none about Daniel Pringle that old sower-puss. We will help you against him-G."
"I got an idea who sent this, but it won't do no good to explain now," Hathaway mused. "Only I'd like to see you before your sщance. G'by."
Three hours later, Hathaway gave up his search through the stacks of the Utica Public Library, having gone through every volume on anthropology, folklore, and allied subjects. He had learned that the stone throwers belonged to the genus of sprite known to the Iroquois
as Dzhungeun. They all lived in the southwest part of the state and comprised the stone-throwing Gahunga, the fertijity-producing Gendayah, and the hunting and burrowing Ohdowa. But, although it was intimated in several places that the Iroquois shamans had known how to control these spirits, nowhere did it tell how.
Hathaway thought a while. Then he left the library and walked along Genesee Street to a pay telephone. He grunted with pain when he learned the cost of a call to the vicinity of Buffalo, but it couldn't be helped. He resolved, if he ever caught up with Charlie Catfish, to take the money either out of the Seneca's pocket or out of his hide.
"Give me the Tonawanda Reservation," he said.
When he got the reservation, he asked for Charlie Catfish. After a long wait, during which he had to feed the coin box, he was told that Catfish would not be back for weeks.
"Then give me Chief Cornplanter."
Another pause. Then: "He's gone to Buffalo for the day."