"David Drake - Old Nathan (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

Old Nathan followed the bull at a rate just enough short of a trot to save his dignity. Ransden was up on
his feet, thrusting his arms out before him as he stumbled in the direction of his cabin.

"Ellie?" he called, his voice rising in fear on the second syllable. He would regain his sight within minutes,
perhaps less, but all he could know for the moment was that his eyes felt as if they had been plucked out
and their sockets filled with sand.
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Ransden's black-haired woman was gripping the doorjamb with one hand to help pull herself upright,
while the other hand clamped against her side where the hickory post had struck. Under other
circumstances, Old Nathan might have helped herтАФbut under other circumstances, King wouldn't have
bolted, and the cunning man had no wish to be present when Bully Ransden found he could see again.

For that matter, there were men not so touchy as the Bully who would sooner see their woman die than
watch another man lay hands on her. The couple would do well enough without the cunning man's
ministrations, and Old Nathan himself would do far better by getting out of the way.

The road curved, skirting the base of the hill which Ransden had been plowing, so by the time Old
Nathan caught up with his bull they were out of sight of the cabin. A creek, nameless and at present
shallow, notched the road and Spanish King stood there fetlock-deep in the water, drinking. He ignored
the cunning man's approach.

There was no ford proper, since the stream could be stepped across at any point save when it was in
spateтАФand then it became uncrossable for its full length. The steep banks were a barrier to most beasts
and all vehicles, so here, where the road crossed, they had been trampled down by use with little
intention toward the road's long-term improvement.

Rather than squelch through the mud into which the main path had been churned, Old Nathan gripped
the stem of one of the mimosas which grew as thick as a man's arm. He lowered himself cautiously down
the bank to the smooth-washed stones of the streambed. Only then did King look up at him and grunt,
"Well?" from lips that still slobbered the water he had been drinking.

There was neither anger nor skittishness in the bull's tone. He had forgotten the whip-cut or filed it at the
almost instinctual level which warned that horseflies bit like coals from the floor of Hell.

Bully Ransden would likely be less forgetful about the incident, but not even hindsight offered the cunning
man a view of a more desirable resolution. Ransden could be a bad enemy, if he chose; but so could Old
Nathan, the Devil's Master. Perhaps the boy would let bygones be bygones.

"Come on, thin, big feller," said the cunning man, embracing the bull's humped shoulders before
readjusting the slung panniers holding a day's food for both of them. "Savin' ye'd rather go back home
thin go on with all this?"

"Humph!" Spanish King snorted. He gathered himself and sprang lightfootedly out of the stream, his
forehooves planted solidly on the bank top and his hind legs crossing them neatly in the same motion, like
the feet of a horse at a gallop. "I'llfight that one. Sure as the sun rises."