"THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

across the valley stood out, clearly defined as though but a few yards away instead
of as many miles.
Where he sat the sun was bright, but in the west, which was his direction, towering
masses of cumulus piled to majestic heights, dwarfing the mountains to insignificance.
The crests of the mighty clouds were glorious with sunlight, but the flat undersides
were sullen with impending rain. Hopalong squinted appraisingly at the sky and became
no happier at what he saw.
Seven Pines, proudly claiming title as the toughest town west of anywhere, was a
good twelve miles off, hidden in the mountains across the valley. Long before he
could ride a third of that distance those clouds would be giving the valley a thorough
drenching. What he needed now was shelter, and he needed it badly.
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THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES
So it was that he sat in his saddle studying the country with careful eyes. The stage
route was but a mile or so to the north, but he had heard of no shelter there and
so far his information had been most accurate. Even as he watched, the gigantic cloud
moved nearer, lightning stabbed through it, and the thunder rolled and grumbled.
To the south and west the valley narrowed before spewing out into the vast waste
of Adobe Flat. Waterless most of the time, after a rain it would become a slippery,
greasy surface that concealed unexpected sinks and mud traps. Close by, the mountainside
was broken and serrated, carved by upheaval and erosion. There were notches among
the rocks in some of the canyons, but they might well prove deathtraps in such a
storm as this would be. Hopalong Cassidy had lived too long in the West not to realize
the danger that lay in the bottoms of canyons and dry washes. It was such a sudden
rush of water that had finally ended his feud with Tex Ewalt and brought them together
as friends, but more often than not, it meant only death to the unwary traveler.
Suddenly, as he was about to ride on, a movement caught his eye and he drew up sharply.
From the mouth of a canyon below and to the southwest a small group of riders had
emerged. Something in their bunched way of riding warned Cassidy, and he kneed his
mount to the partial concealment of a juniper. At this distance even his field glasses
offered him no marks of identification, save a single white splotch on the flank
of one horse and that same horse's white nose. There were six riders, and they moved
north at a rapid pace, keeping close to the mountain and choosing a route that offered
cover from view.
He watched them until they disappeared, scowling slightly,
6
LOUIS L'AMOUR
for he knew this land in which he lived. Although a stranger in this area, he was
far from strange to the West and western ways, and it seemed these men were riding
on a mission. A mission that demanded they remain hidden from anyone passing down
the stagecoach road.
"All right, Topper," Hopalong said quietly to the short-coupled gelding, "let's ride
along and see what happens. It's a cinch they know where there's shelter. They won't
like to get wet any more than we do."
The white horse moved along, choosing its own trail, heading down and northward on
a slant. With another appraising glance at the cloud, much nearer now, Hopalong Cassidy
drew his six-shooters one after the other and carefully wiped them free of dust.
They were worn silver-plated Colt .45's, their bone handles networked with tiny cracks,
their balance perfect. It had been weeks since he had drawn a gun for any reason,
but he knew that the price of safety was unresting vigilance.