"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 281 - Town of Hate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Outside, the downpour had obliterated the entire scene. Those houses on the far hill were gone--not only
from Lenstrom's sight but from his mind as well. The fury of the cloudburst terrified the timid man with the
piggish face. He didn't like the town of Lamira, when it stormed.

Ralph Lenstrom wasn't going to like Lamira even afterward.

II.
A LITTLE matter like a terrific thunderstorm might alarm the soft townsfolk in Lamira--particularly
newcomers like Preston Brett, the man who thought he owned the town. But it didn't bother the county
crowd that patronized the Old Bridge Tavern. They were hill-folk, like Claude Bigby.

What if the storms did hurl their hardest bombardment through the narrow, sloping gorge; there, where
the old bridge crossed the turbulent Kawagha as it tumbled toward the mill valley? These people were
used to the river's roar. A rousing thunderstorm simply added to the accustomed tumult. Once in a while
a passing storm splintered a towering pine tree and crashed it somewhere near the inn; when it did, the
drinks were on the house.

It was just an old Kawagha custom, dating from the days when teamsters used to lash their horses to the
limit so they could reach the tavern by the old bridge and find an excuse for sampling its liquid wares,
with a chance for a free tripper. Ramshackle though the tavern was, it had stood the test of a century.
Only one building in this region was older; the house where Claude Bigby lived.

There were Bigby portraits in the Old Bridge Tavern, beginning with the glowering old original who had
felled Indians with his axe along with trees. He had been noted for saying--and proving--that an axe was
just the same as a tomahawk, except that it had a longer reach. They had been hard men, these Bigbys,
to others than their friends.

The last portrait in the line behind the tavern bar was a modern photograph. It was enlarged and
chrome-tinted. It had the straight Bigby nose, the broad eyes and the square chin, proving that the Bigby
line lost none of its determination in its present scion, Claude.

Old Clem Jolland, who ran the inn, had a habit of toasting Claude's picture in anticipation of his patron's
occasional visit. At those times the drinks were on Mr. Bigby instead of the house. But since Bigby had a
preference for riding out thunderstorms in his own residence, Clem was at present counting other faces.
There was a chance that he might soon be pouring an obituary for some stricken pine tree.

"Nine of you," said Clem, dourly. "Which guy snuk in, hoping for a free? There was only eight, last time I
counted. How about you, Zeke Stoyer?"

Clem shot the question at a stoop-shouldered man with a morbid, drawn face. With a shake of his head,
Zeke planked a half-dollar on the bar.

"I was here afore," he argued. "Guess I was using the telephone last time you counted. Anyway, here's
for a drink, out of my own money."

"Out of somebody else's money," sneered Clem, "Getting important, aren't you, using the telephone?
Who were you calling? Maybe to Mr. Bigby, huh, to apologize for falling asleep without counting his
sheep the last time you were tending them?"