"London, Jack - Tales of the klondyke" - читать интересную книгу автора (London Jack)

"And wait till midnight, when the light gets dim for shooting."

"Can't start the ball a-rolling too early, then." Bill exchanged
the axe for a rifle, and took a careful rest. One of the
medicine-men, towering above his tribesmen, stood out distinctly.
Bill drew a bead on him.

"All ready?" he asked.

Stockard opened the ammunition box, placed the woman where she
could reload in safety, and gave the word. The medicine-man
dropped. For a moment there was silence, then a wild howl went up
and a flight of bone arrows fell short.

"I'd like to take a look at the beggar," Bill remarked, throwing a
fresh shell into place. "I'll swear I drilled him clean between
the eyes."

"Didn't work." Stockard shook his head gloomily. Baptiste had
evidently quelled the more warlike of his followers, and instead
of precipitating an attack in the bright light of day, the shot
had caused a hasty exodus, the Indians drawing out of the village
beyond the zone of fire.

In the full tide of his proselyting fervor, borne along by the
hand of God, Sturges Owen would have ventured alone into the camp
of the unbeliever, equally prepared for miracle or martyrdom; but
in the waiting which ensued, the fever of conviction died away
gradually, as the natural man asserted itself. Physical fear
replaced spiritual hope; the love of life, the love of God. It
was no new experience. He could feel his weakness coming on, and
knew it of old time. He had struggled against it and been
overcome by it before. He remembered when the other men had
driven their paddles like mad in the van of a roaring ice-flood,
how, at the critical moment, in a panic of worldly terror, he had
dropped his paddle and besought wildly with his God for pity. And
there were other times. The recollection was not pleasant. It
brought shame to him that his spirit should be so weak and his
flesh so strong. But the love of life! the love of life! He
could not strip it from him. Because of it had his dim ancestors
perpetuated their line; because of it was he destined to
perpetuate his. His courage, if courage it might be called, was
bred of fanaticism. The courage of Stockard and Bill was the
adherence to deep-rooted ideals. Not that the love of life was
less, but the love of race tradition more; not that they were
unafraid to die, but that they were brave enough not to live at
the price of shame.

The missionary rose, for the moment swayed by the mood of
sacrifice. He half crawled over the barricade to proceed to the