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

Seven Pines was his immediate destination, but actually he was just roving across
the country. Somewhere to the north, an old friend of the cattle trails, Gibson of
the old STL, had a ranch where he lived with his widowed daughter. Hopalong planned
to stop with them for a few days before swinging northeast into Montana.
The presence of the riders, even while it promised the proximity of shelter, disturbed
him. He had no desire to walk into a range war or any trouble whatsoever. This ride
of his was strictly a sightseeing trip, taken with money in his pocket and no feeling
of hurry.
A few spattering drops of rain struck his hat brim, sweeping it with a hasty barrage.
Hopalong frowned and dug for his slicker, donning it without slowing his pace. By
now he was off the ridge and well into a stand of cedar, his eyes busy searching
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THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES
for shelter. Once he glimpsed an old mine dump, but the tunnel was long since caved
in and the buildings had collapsed.
When he reached the vague trail skirting the foot of the mountain he found the tracks
of the bunch ahead of him. He studied the tracks briefly, reading them as easily
as another man might read a page of print. These were fresh horses, well shod, but
one horse had the hoof trimmed too narrow, causing him to toe in somewhat. Another
dash of rain came, gained impetus, and then proceeded in a downpour that drew a gray
veil across the desert and mountains. The sky darkened and the rolling clouds closed
out the sun, shutting down all the miles before him with darkness and slashing rain.
The gray streak of a trail led downward from the mine dump, offering a chance of
speed, so he lifted the gelding into a canter and went down the mountain to the main
road. Halting briefly, he again found the tracks of the riders. Not yet wiped out
by the rain, they crossed the road and then ran along through the brush parallel
to it.
The shower eased, and Hopalong smelled the old familiar odor that raindrops bring
to long-dry dust. Then there was a crash of thunder and more rain, and behind the
rain a roaring weight of wind. Now the darkness became absolute, without a chink
of light anywhere except for the constant play of lightning. The wide valley was
filled with sound, and the rain came down in solid sheets of water turned into a
scythe driven by the fierce wind.
He turned onto the stage road, and Topper held to his canter. Then suddenly the storm
lulled, and down this hallway of silence Hopalong heard the sudden crash of shots!
Two . . . three more, a light volley . . . and then one. The last was a lone, final
shot. The ending of something.
Reining in, Hopalong strained his ears against the sudden
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LOUIS L'AMOUR
silence, listening. There was nothing, and then the rain came again, whispering at
first, then mounting in crescendo to new heights of fury. Pushing on, his hat brim
pulled low, his slicker collar high around his ears, he wondered at the shots. A
cold drop fell down the back of his neck and found a trail down his spine. He shivered
and strained his eyes into the blackness ahead.
Riding suddenly onto the scene of a shooting was anything but smart, but this was
new country to him, known only by hearsay, and if he got off the trail now he could
easily wander out into the valley and become lost. Suddenly Hopalong felt the gelding's
muscles tense and in a flash of lightning he saw its head come up sharply. At the
same time Hopalong saw, on the trail ahead, a dark shape sprawled in the mud!