"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 279 - The Freak Show Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

cold
and hard as steel, because it was. Dropping back into the subsiding clay,
Steve
clapped his hand to his chest, glad that he still had it. A slow, hard
grinding
sound, creeping in front of him, made him realize that instinct, plus luck,
were
still factors in his favor.
This was a railroad cut, away down below a high clay bank that flanked
Treft's premises. The distant blare was a locomotive whistle, around a bend,
announcing that a halted train was about to start. The jolting shock so close
to
Steve had been the clatter of couplings, taking up slack. The cold, hard steel
that Steve had clutched was the near rail of the track underneath a car. The
creeping, grind was a wheel, beginning an onward roll just after Steve had
whipped his hand away.
Lying back against the clay, Steve could see the big black hulks of cars
moving slowly and laboriously above him, like great stupid creatures that
considered him too insignificant to notice. He had counted three of them when
he
realized that to ignore them wasn't the proper way to return their
indifference.
Coming to his feet, Steve felt one leg bend under him, but he clamped his
hands into the clay to gain additional support. One shoulder nearly buckled
under the strain, but Steve fought off the stabs of pain until his weak leg
could do its part. With the clay giving under foot, he was in danger of
toppling
forward, but he didn't care, not if he could time it to the ladder of a
box-car.
Only there weren't any box-cars. Nothing but flats, with great shrouded
shapes upon them, silent monsters being carried through the night. But flats
had
ladders, short ones, and Steve saw the glistening rungs he wanted. He grabbed
with his good hand and as the ladder dragged him from the clay, he remembered
that one foot could still serve him. Kicking for a toehold, Steve found it on
the bottom rung and with a corkscrew motion rolled himself on top of the flat,
glad that it wasn't a box-car which he never could have climbed
Crawling toward one of the shrouded monsters, Steve touched its skirt and
recognized it as canvas. Probing further, he found the spokes of a wooden
wheel.
The thing was a wagon, braced with cleats so that it wouldn't roll. Satisfied
that the cleats were solid, Steve crawled between the wheels and encountered
something that yielded when he poked it.
Steve heard a hard, snoring breath that ended in a growled voice:
"Shove over, guy. Ain't there enough wagons to sleep under without
crowding?"
Replying with an apologetic grunt, Steve let the jarring of the train
roll
him the other way. His numbed senses yielded all at once, under his sudden
relief from strain and the knowledge that he had found the safety that he