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

Drawing up, he waited for lightning. It came, and he stared beyond the man's body,
but the trail was empty as far as he could see. Whatever had happened here was now
over. Swinging down beside the fallen man, he turned him over. Rain splashed on a
white, dead face and over a bullet-riddled body. One hole was in the head. Shielding
a struck match, Hopalong's lips compressed. This man had been downed by the other
shots, but the last one had been fired by a gun held against his skull, burning with
its muzzle blast the hair and skin. Of this man they had made sure.
Quickly he went through the man's pockets, removing his wallet, papers, and what
loose money he could find. These things should go to the man's relatives, if any,
and would help serve as identification. In this rain they would soon become soaked
and illegible unless protected.
The dead man had made a try for his life. His pistol was gripped in his hand and
one shot had been fired.
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THE TRAIL TO SEVEN PINES
Standing over him, oblivious of the rain, Hopalong studied the situation. The man
had been removed from the stage, for he lay to one side of the trail, and it looked
as if he had been given his chance, had taken it, and lost. Cut deeply into the trail
were the tracks of the stage. "Holdup," Hoppy muttered. "This hombre either asked
for a scrap or had it forced on him. One thing, he doesn't size up like any pilgrim.
He'd been to the wars before."
Mounting, Hopalong rode up the trail a short distance, then stopped as a flash of
lightning revealed yet another body. Swinging down, Hopalong bent to touch the man,
and he groaned. Straightening up, Hopalong waited for another flash of light, then
spotted a slight overhang in the rock of the cliff, an overhang that gave promise
of growing deeper as the rock curved away from the trail.
Tying his horse to a juniper, Hopalong returned and picked the man up, carrying him
deep into the sheltered cleft where no rain fell and where the sand was dry. Gathering
dried sticks from the remains of a long-dead tree, he built a fire. When it was burning
briskly he put some water on and opened the wounded man's coat and vest. A glance
showed the man was hard hit.
The first hole was a flesh wound, low down on the left side. It had bled profusely,
and the whole side of the fellow's clothing was soaked with blood. Higher, there
was yet another and more serious wound. This one was just over the heart, and Hopalong
felt his skin tighten at the look of it.
When the water was hot he took his time bathing the wounds, then bandaged them tightly
with a compress made of split and slightly roasted prickly-pear leaves. It was a
remedy he had seen Indians and old-timers use for the removal of inflammation and
he had nothing else at hand. Familiar as he was with
10
LOUIS L'AMOUR
bullet wounds, he knew the man's chance of survival was small, yet the fellow was
young, powerfully built, and obviously in excellent health.
Going back for more fuel, Hopalong led his white horse more deeply into the cut and
stripped off the saddle. There was a bank of blown-up earth that had sprouted grass,
and the gelding was quickly at home. Walking back, Hopalong saw that his patient's
eyes were open. The man was staring around him with uncomprehending wonder. Moving
closer, Hopalong advised quietly, "Just take it easy, partner. You caught a couple
of bad ones."
The man stared at him, his brow puckering. "Who-who are you?"