"Clayton Emery - Robin Hood's Treasure" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

front. It worried him terribly to be carrying this much money. It felt
obscene. Especially since he didn't deserve it.
Alphonse had a good heart, inherited from his deceased father. The boy
knew well his mother hadn't lost "near ninety pounds" but more like
thirty. She'd hoped more would somehow find its way home. It might
have, except that Robin Hood's men had thought Alphonse dishonest.
With a pride that can only come from poverty, he'd prove them wrong.
The widow's son counted out stacks of ten coins each, as he'd seen
Will Scarlett do, then piled four stacks back into the saddlebags. His
mother would be pleased enough to receive ten extra marks.
The rest of the gold stood stacked on the grass, glittering in the sun.
Alphonse hunted for inspiration. The crows circled overhead. Flies
thickened. The forest glade was oppressive. Where to hide the money?
Not the cave -- caves led to hell.
He spotted the saddle. He scooped up the gold and swept it
underneath, covering it completely. Then he grabbed the sheriff's
saddlebags and scampered for the woods.
"The rats. The shits. The bastards."
Old Tomkin had run for most of a mile before his breath gave out. He
leaned against a giant oak and clutched his chest. Cool air burned his
lungs. He tugged off his heavy helmet and threw it in the bushes. A hell
of a thing, running. No wonder God invented horses. They'd run off and
left him, all of them. He started as a covey of quail raced by on invisible
legs. Christ, what a place, this forest. "The dogs. The pigs --"
He squinted at his backtrail. There was no one in sight, but there could
be any second. Best to keep moving. That Robin Hood was a killer.
Teetering from tree to tree, he stumbled off down the path.
And stopped. Up ahead -- damn! -- was another of Robin Hood's
outlaws, dressed like the devil in green. One before, one behind, no
way to leave the trail without getting lost...
But that one was carrying something on his shoulder. A chest. A small
one for gold.
Tomkin wiped his face and checked his back trail again. No sign of
Robin Hood. No sign the fat forester before had heard him. Tom drew
his long knife.
Much the Miller's Son rolled down the trail towards the road. He had a
walk all his own, like a crippled duck, but he covered ground quickly and
never tired. Get to the road, he thought. Find Robin... and then... do
something... Robin would know.
A thumping sounded behind him, feet on the forest floor, coming fast,
and he stepped out of the way.
Charging like a demon let loose from Hell, knife held high, on his last
breath, Tomkin sailed towards the idiot. Much discommoded him by
side-stepping, and further so by leaving his foot in the path. Tom
stubbed on it and crashed full length on the ground. His knife flew away
and slithered under the oak leaves that lay everywhere.
Much the Miller's Son helped him up.
"You hurt?"
Tom was surprised at the idiot's strength. "No, no, I'm not hurt. Uh, are
you?"