"David Eddings - High Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

own rifle that winter, and enough left over to get his mother some yard goods she'd wanted. Then he drug
the carcasses back to camp through the snow and hung them all up to cool out.

"He cleaned up, washing his hands with snow, fed the team, and then boiled up another pan of coffee.
He fried himself a big mess of deer liver and onions and heated up some more of the biscuits. After he
ate, he sat on a log and lit his pipe."

"I'll bet he was tired," Jack said, just to be saying something. "Not being in bed all the night before and
all that."

"He still had something left to tend to," Dad said. "It was almost dark when he spotted Old Buell slinking
back toward camp. He was out on the open, coming back along the trail Pete had broken though the
snow. His belly looked full, and his muzzle and ears were all bloody the same way Pete's had been."

"He found the other dog's deer, I'll betcha." Jack laughed. "You said he was a smart old dog."

Beyond the kitchen doorway, one of my shadowy dogs crept slowly toward the warmth of the pilot-light
campfire, his eyes sad and friendly, like the eyes of the hound some kid up the block owned.

"Well, Dad watched him for a minute or two, and then he took his rifle, pulled back the hammer, and
shot Old Buell right between the eyes."

The world beyond the doorway shattered like a broken mirror and fell apart back into the kitchen again.
I jerked up and looked straight into my father's face. It was very grim, and his eyes were very intent on
Jack, as if he were telling my brother something awfully important.

He went on without seeming to notice my startled jump. "Old Buell went end over end when that bullet
bit him. Then he kicked a couple times and didn't move anymore. Dad didn't even go over to look at him.
He just reloaded the rifle and set it where it was handy, and then he and Old Pete climbed up into the
wagon and went to bed.

"The next morning, he hitched up the team, loaded up the deer carcasses, and started back home. It
took him three days again to get back to the wheat ranch, and Granddad and Grandma were sure glad to
see him." My father lifted me off his lap, leaned back and lit a cigarette.

"It took them a good two days to cut up the deer and put them down in pickling crocks. After they
finished it all up and Dad and Granddad were sitting in the kitchen, smoking their pipes with their sock
feet up on the open oven door, Granddad turned to my Dad and said, "Sam, whatever happened to Old
Buell, anyway? Did he run off?"
 "Well, Dad took a deep breath. He knew Granddad had been awful fond of that old hound. 'Had to
shoot him,' he said. 'Wouldn't hunt тАФ wouldn't even hunt his own food. Caught him feeding on Pete's
kill.'

"Well, I guess Granddad thought about that for a while. Then he finally said, 'Only thing you could do,
Sam, I guess. Kind of a shame, though. Old Buell was a good dog when he was younger. Had him a long
time.'"

The wind in the chimney suddenly sounded very loud and cold and lonesome.

"But why'd he shoot him?" I finally protested.