"Grey, Zane - The U.P. Trail" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grey Zane)

That silence was broken by the screeching, blood-curdling yell of
the Sioux.

At times these bloody savages attacked without warning and in the
silence of the grave; again they sent out their war-cries, chilling
the hearts of the bravest. Perhaps that warning yell was given only
when doom was certain.

Horn realized the dread omen and accepted it. He called the
fugitives to him and, choosing the best-protected spot among the
rocks and wagons, put the women in the center.

"Now, men--if it's the last for us--let it be fight! Mebbe we can
hold out till the troops come."

Then in the gray gloom of dawn he took a shovel; prying up a piece
of sod, he laid it aside and began to dig. And while he dug he
listened for another war-screech and gazed often and intently into
the gloom. But there was no sound and nothing to see. When he had
dug a hole several feet deep he carried an armful of heavy leather
bags and deposited them in it. Then he went back to the wagon for
another armful. The men, gray-faced as the gloom, watched him fill
up the hole, carefully replace the sod, and stamp it down.

He stood for an instant gazing down, as if he had buried the best of
his life. Then he laughed grim and hard.

"There's my gold! If any man wins through this he can have it!"

Bill Horn divined that he would never live to touch his treasure
again. He who had slaved for gold and had risked all for it cared no
more what might become of it. Gripping his rifle, he turned to await
the inevitable.

Moments of awful suspense passed. Nothing but the fitful beating of
hearts came to the ears of the fugitives--ears that strained to the
stealthy approach of the red foe--ears that throbbed prayerfully for
the tramp of the troopers' horses. But only silence ensued, a
horrible silence, more nerve-racking than the clash of swift, sure
death.

Then out of the gray gloom burst jets of red flame; rifles cracked,
and the air suddenly filled with hideous clamor. The men began to
shoot at gliding shadows, grayer than the gloom. And every shot
brought a volley in return. Smoke mingled with the gloom. In the
slight intervals between rifleshots there were swift, rustling
sounds and sharp thuds from arrows. Then the shrill strife of sound
became continuous; it came from all around and closed in upon the
doomed caravan. It swelled and rolled away and again there was
silence.