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

The conversation had dwindled and died and after a while he rode off to the far
flank of the wagon train. Sharon's manner was distinctly stiff, and he could see
she was remembering that story of the killing in Laramie. After a few rebuffs he
avoided her. Nobody talked to him. He rode alone and camped alone.
Chapter II
It had remained like that for six days. They were six days during which Morton
Harper's name became one to conjure with. The long green valley down which they
moved was unrutted by wagon trains, the grass was green and waving, and water
was plentiful. Harper's map showed an accurate knowledge of the country, and was
a great help. On the sixth day after leaving the fort, the Indians hit them.
The attack came at daybreak. Rock Bannon, camping near a spring half a mile from
the wagons, awoke with a start. It was scarcely light, yet he felt uneasy.
Getting to his knees, he saw the steel-dust staring, ears pricked, at a distant
pile of rocks. Then he noticed the movement.
Swiftly and silently he saddled the stallion, bridled it and stowed his gear in
the saddlebags. Then, rifle in hand, he skirted the trees along the tiny stream
and headed back for the wagons. He rode up, and the man on guard got up,
stretching. It was the short, heavyset Pagones. A good man, and a sharp one. He
smiled at Bannon.
"Guess Harper had it more right than you when he said there were no hostiles
here," he said. "Ain't that right?"
"No," Bannon said sharply. "Get everybody up and ready. We'll be attacked within
a few minutes!"
Pagones stared. "Are you crazy?"
"Get busy, man!" Bannon snapped at Pagones. He wheeled and, running from wagon
to wagon, slapped the canvas and said, "On your feet! Indians!"
Men boiled from the wagons, crawling into their clothes and grabbing at rifles.
"Get around the whole circle!" he told them. "They're in those rocks and a draw
that runs along south of us."
Mulholland rushed out and halted, glaring around. The sky was gray in the east
and everything lay in a vague, indistinct light. Not a movement showed in the
dark width of the prairie. He started for Bannon to protest, when he heard a
startled exclamation. Wheeling, he saw a long line of red horsemen not over two
hundred yards away and coming at a dead run.
Even as his eyes touched them, the nearest Indian broke into a wild, shrill
whoop. Then the whole charging line broke into yells.
Rock Bannon, leaning against the Crockett wagon, lifted his Henry rifle and
fired. A horse stumbled and went down. He fired again, and an Indian threw up
his arms and vanished in the turmoil of oncoming horses and men, and then the
men of the wagon train opened up.
Firing steadily, Bannon emptied his rifle before the Indians reached the edge of
the circle. One brave, his wild-eyed horse at a dead run, leaned low and shot a
blazing arrow into the canvas of the Crockett wagon. Rock fired his right-hand
pistol and the Indian hit the dirt in a tumbling heap, just as a second arrow
knocked off Rock's hat. Reaching up with his left hand, Rock jerked the burning
arrow from the canvas. The fire had not yet caught. Then he opened up, firing
his pistol, shifting guns, and firing again. The attack broke as suddenly as it
had begun.
Tom Crockett was kneeling behind a water barrel, his face gray. A good shot, he
was not accustomed to killing. He glanced up at Rock, a sickened expression on