"Tom Easton - Mood Wendigo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

The fellow I wanted to talk to was Howie Wyman. Grizzled, always over-alled and booted, he had been
doing odd jobs as long as anyone cared to recall. He knew all the stories, too, though he didn't talk
much. He seemed to prefer the woods and streams to human company, even his wife, but he was in town
at the time, painting a house over on Water Street. I sent a secretary to ask him to come by a little after
three.

I was still alone when he showed up, a motley collection of paint spatters, whiskers, and faded cloth
completely alien to any civilized conception of a government office. My secretary showed him in, though,
as if he were clad in a three-piece suit and fresh from the barber, which tells you something about our
town. It's informal. Partly because it's small and partly because its people waste little energy on
nonessential appearances. They dress up mostly for church and they try to keep their drinking private.

I said, "Thank you, Bonny," and waved Howie to a seat. He took it, looked for my wastebasket, and got
rid of his wad of chewing tobacco. "You wanted me, Mayor."

"Ayuh." I said. "Lydia Seltzer dragged me in on a project of hers. I thought you might be able to tell us
something helpful."

"Like what?" He looked doubtful. He knew Lydia was the science teacher, and he knew nothing about
science. I doubted he'd ever gotten past the sixth grade. I was starting to tell him about the problem when
Lydia walked in, Bonny holding the door until I waved at her. Her wool was pink today. and her face
was flushed with eagerness. The combination wasn't attractive, but I didn't imagine it was anything but
temporary. I hoped she wouldn't be disappointed.

I introduced Howie to Lydia. "This is the fellow I was talking about. I was just going to tell him the
problem."

She took the other chair. "Shall I go on, then?" When I nodded, she produced that paper again and then
handed it to Howie. While he read, she said what she wanted, flatly and directly. The nervousness I had
seen last night was gone.

When she finished, Howie set the paper on the corner of my desk and said simply, "Pork Hill." I raised
my eyebrows, and he went on. "My dad was up there once. Ayuh, huntin' deer in the dark of the moon.
He heard that scream. Didn't see nothin', though."

"Where's Pork Hill?"

"North by west, 'bout ten miles."

And that was all he had for us.

We now had a place to look, and the next dark of the moon was just two weeks away' in case that
mattered. Lydia could hardly wait. She insisted on borrowing a tent, sleeping bags, a Coleman stove, all
the gear anyone could want for a night camping on a lonely hilltop. She got most of it from two members
of the school board. She got their sons, too. Keith Hutchison and Ronny Jackson were two of her best
students, and she thought they deserved a field trip, a little hands-on research. They thought so too,
especially since it meant a Friday away from school. I didn't argue, since I was sure we could meet no
danger from a superstition.