"Alan Dean Foster - Jed the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

lush with spring snowmelt. Old gray barns listing on their sides stood lazy sentry over orchards spotted
with spring color. Cattle cropped new grass amid mesquite-posted fields. Food hadn't been a problem,
not with each little town boasting its own kindred Dairy Queen. He'd been told that once he
reachedArizona , Dairy Queens would become scarce, a notion difficult for any son of theLoneStarState
to grasp.Texas health food such as fries and gravy and steak fingers would be hard to find.

Well, he'd get by somehow. Where food was concerned, Ross Ed Hager's concern wasn't quality so
much as it was quantity. At six-foot-six and two hundred fifty pounds, he needed a fair amount of fuel.
He was used to hunting down his own food. The only kind of gun his family wasn't familiar with was a
salad shooter. Mention bok choy to Mama Hager and she likely would have reached for a map instead
of a cookbook.

For someone who'd been raised in the country tradition of fried cholesterol, Ross Ed had turned out just
fine. His mom and dad were still cruising on a lifelong diet of fried chicken, fried steak, fried crappie and
catfish, fried corn bread, fried okra, fried potatoes, fried corn-on-the-cob, and fried cheesesticks. Just
about the only food in the Hager family that wasn't regularly deep-fat-fried was dessert, whose signature
dish was his moth-er's hog-lard coconut-cream cake.

Yessir, he told himself, you couldn't beat down-homeTexas country cooking for good health. Everything
else, his daddy insisted, was rabbit food. In consequence, Ross Ed had grown big enough to terrorize
more than a few opponents both on the football field and on the basketball court, making honorable
mention all-state in the former.

Too easygoing to play college ball, he'd gone straight to work in the oil fields, where his good nature,
size, and strength had served him well and assured steady work in an industry noted for the
capaciousness of its employment practices.

The heavily laden pickup that appeared in front of him was making slow work of the steady grade.
Biding his time until they reached a straightaway, he depressed the accelerator and leaned left on the
wheel. The massive V-8 block under the capacious hood of the '72 Fleetwood growled softly as he
passed the pickup with a friendly wave. The driver's return wave was visible in the rearview mirror.

"Atta girl." He gave the steering wheel an affectionate pat. He'd bought the big white Caddy years ago
from an old rancher on the lookout for a new one. A few bucks here, a little tuning there, and he had a
car that not only ran splendidly but that almost fit him.

It was cooling off nicely outside and he lowered the window, letting his arm rest in the opening. The
peaks ahead loomed loftier than any he'd ever seen, much higher than the buttes down in the Hill Country
aroundAustin . A few teased ten thousand feet. On the other side of the range would
beWhiteSandsNational Monument , another local highlight he'd been advised not to miss.

Except for the pickup he'd had the road pretty much to himself all the way from Artesia. Late spring
preceded the summer tourist season and schools were still in session. It was a good time to be traveling.

One Saturday morning it had just up and hit him that he was about to turn thirty without ever having been
outsideTexas andLouisiana . He'd been sprawled in his easy chair in front of the TV. Some dumb
artificial sports show was on between games. It had been shot inSouthern California , which seemed to
be populated entirely by people under the age of twenty-four. All had perfect bodies and sprayed-on
complexions and hair that was never out of place. From what he could see there was no natural dirt
inSouthern California ; only asphalt, sand, and landscaping.