"TXT - Louis L'Amour - The Tall Stranger" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

perfectly well. Not a man here liked him, not a man here talked to him except on
business. He was not even a member of their train, except by accident.
They had found him at the crossing of the Platte. Riding, half dead, with two
bullet wounds in his body, his horse ready to drop with fatigue, he had run upon
the wagon train. Sharon Crockett had bedded him down in her wagon and cared for
him, and he had ridden on in the same place where her father rode now.
He had offered no explanation of his wounds, and had talked but little. A grim
and lonely man, gentle words came hard and he could only look up into Sharon's
face and wonder at her beauty, tongue-tied and helpless. Yet his hard, tough,
trail-battered body was too used to pain to remain helpless for long. He
recovered rapidly, and after that he had ridden along with the wagons, hunting
for fresh meat and helping when he could.
He was not a man who made friends easily, yet gradually the ice was melting, and
the clannishness of the wagon train was breaking down. Twice he had even talked
with Sharon, riding beside her wagon, speaking of the mountains and his own wild
and lonely life. All that ended abruptly that night beside the campfire at the
fort.

They had been seated around the fire eating supper, listening to the bustle of
life around the fort, when a tall, handsome man rode up on a beautiful black
mare.
Perfectly groomed, his wide white hat topping coal-black hair that hung to his
shoulders, a drooping black mustache and a black broadcloth suit, the trousers
tucked into hand-tooled boots, Morton Harper had been a picture to take any eye.
Swinging down, he had walked up to the fire. "Howdy, folks!" His voice was
genial, his manner warm and pleasant. In an instant his personality and voice
had done what Rock Bannon's could not do in two weeks. He had broken down their
reserve and become one of the group. "Headin' for California?"
"Reckon we are," Mulholland had agreed. "We ain't rightly decided whether to
stay on the Humboldt Trail or to swing north and go to Oregon."
"Why go either way?" Harper asked. "There's a southern route I could recommend
that would be much easier going for your womenfolks." His alert eyes had already
found and appraised Sharon Crockett. "More water, plenty of grass, and no high
mountain passes."
Cap Mulholland looked up with interest. "We ain't heard of no such pass, nor no
such trail," he admitted. "How does she go?"
"Man named Hastings scouted some of it, and I scouted the rest myself. It is a
more southerly route, and within another few months all the travel will be going
that way. Right now," he winked, "the trains that go that way are going to have
a mighty fine trip of it. Very little dust except in one stretch, fine grass,
lots of water. Also, the hostile Indians are all raiding far north of there
along the traveled routes.
"But," he added, "I can see you're well led, and you'll no doubt learn about
this trail yourselves. From the look of your teams I'd say you were lucky in
your choice of a leader."
Leaning against the hub of a wagon wheel, Rock Bannon ate in silence. The even,
smooth flow of the stranger's language had an enchanting quality, but his own
hard-grained, cynical character was impervious to mere talk.
As the hours flowed by, Harper sat among them, pleasing the men with subtle
flattery, the women with smiles. The reserve of the group thawed under his easy