"Phyllis Eisenstein - In the Western Tradition" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eisenstein Phyllis)

whose sun-bleached sign said GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL.
Earp rose from his chair, tall and loose-limbed, and stepped into the
doorway of Beebe's, flattening himself against the jamb. Up and down the
street, people peered out of other doorways, roused by the clamor but
unwilling to come out into the sunlight.
Quick footsteps sounded nearby, hard heels on the boards of the
sidewalk; a man materialized from nothing directly in front of the console,
his back to us. He was short and stocky, and the sleeves of his white shirt
were rolled up over thick, gray-haired forearms. He wore a sweat-stained
vest.
"Whitney," said Holland.
Whitney stopped by Earp. "What's going on?" he asked.
Earp shook his head.
"Now Logan," whispered Holland.
More footsteps, very fast this time, and a young manтАФscarcely more
than a boy, reallyтАФappeared abruptly to clutch at Whitney's arm. "I ran to
find you as soon as it happened, sheriff." He was breathing hard, and his
dark hair was plastered in wet points against his forehead. "Bill Thompson
got nasty drunk, and John Sterling gave him the flat of his hand across the
mouth. When Bill invited John to get a gun and meet him outside, John
hit him again and knocked him out of his seat. Then Bill and Ben ran after
their guns."
Whitney turned, fists on his hips, and I could see the glint of the metal
star on his vest.
By this time the Thompsons had returned to the street with gunbelts,
shotgun, and rifle and were standing behind a hay wagon, shouting
threats toward the saloon.
"All right," said Whitney. "We can't have this." He started across the
street toward the wagon.
"You keep out of this, sheriff!" shouted a Thompson. "We don't want to
hurt you."
"Don't be foolish, Ben," Whitney replied.
"You tell that to Sterling!" said Ben, and he shook a fist toward the
saloon door, adding a string of profanities for Sterling's benefit.
Whitney went into the saloon.
Several people from the interior of the store crowded its doorway,
craning over Earp's shoulder, trying for a good view of the excitement
without exposing themselves to danger. Holland pointed to them one by
one, relishing their names as if they were fine wines. "Stacey. Anderson.
McDonald. And there's Beebe himself in the apron."
Alison leaned forward, elbows coming to rest among the telltales,
fingers interlacing beneath her chin. "Logan's the young one, the one who
brought the news?"
Holland nodded. "Jimmy Logan. Blacksmith's son. Hangs around the
saloons too much for his father's taste."
She smiled. "You've really done your homework."
"I know every one of them," he replied. "I know every man, woman, and
child who impinged on Wyatt Earp's life."
"Must be quite a crowd," murmured Alison.
"AhтАФhe's coming back now."