"Michael McCollum - Man of Renaissance" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCollum Michael)

Beckwith reached up to pull the pipe from his mouth and then lazily scratched at his week old growth of
beard. "Let's see now. I stopped for a week in New Refuge before crossing the river at Blythe, six
... no, seven ... yeah, seven days ago."

"Did you see any soldiers there?"

Beckwith let his smile degenerate into a sheepish grin. "Now, Captain, you know that my service doesn't
take sides in local politics. It would be a violation of my oath to answer such a question."

"Perhaps you would prefer walking to Nuevo Tubac without your boots?"

Beckwith raised one eyebrow. "Has His Imperial Majesty, Moctezuma VII, decided to abrogate his
sworn oath given in the Second Treaty of Hermosillo? Or is this the Duke of Sonora's idea? Is it now
the policy of the Empire to harass doctors of the service wherever found?"

"His Majesty does what he wishes, Sen├╡r , and My Lord, the Duke, is his strong right arm."

"Then I guess I'd better give you my boots and start walking, for I will not answer. I assure you, by the
way, that my response will be the same when the California border guards ask me about you when I
cross back over next fall. I am but a harmless medic trying to get on with his job."

At this last, the captain's eyes dropped to the polished-by-use wooden stock of the automatic rifle in its
scabbard beneath Beckwith's right knee. Beckwith followed his gaze, and shrugged.

"Even a doctor must oftentimes defend himself in the wilds. All my instruments are on my pack animals,
and would bring a goodly price on the black market in Mexico City."

At the mention of the pack animals, the captain holstered his needle gun and gave orders to a burly
noncom. The sargento leaned forward and took Beckwith's lead rope from him. A few more quick
orders in the local patois -- a corrupt version of Spanglish -- and the doctor found himself disarmed. The
patrol formed around him and the whole party clattered off in a southeasterly direction.

Beckwith took the opportunity to study the men around him as he rode among them. Everything about
them -- their lean, watchful look; their dusty, sweat stained uniforms and dirty sombreros; the
straight-backed way they sat their horses -- told him that they were regulars. That, too, confirmed
Vargas's initial report. The insignia they wore identified them as the Second Hermosillo Dragoons, one of
the Duke of Sonora's best regiments.

The men themselves were a varied lot. As Beckwith had already noted, the captain was a mustachioed
young dandy of nearly pure Hidalgo stock. His troops, however, ran the gamut of humanity. Several
pairs of blue eyes stared from out of reddened, sunburned faces above blond beards; indicating that their
owners were descended from the vast wave of refugees that had swept down from the north eighty years
before. Other members of the patrol sported Indio and Negroid features, and one was
Caucasian-Oriental mix. All looked as though they knew their business.

It was late afternoon when they entered the pueblo of Nuevo Tubac in the Gila River valley. The town
sat on one bank of the stream whose position was marked by a darker-green swath cut through the
yellow-green of the desert vegetation. He took in the signs of the Sonoran occupation with experienced
eyes, while appearing to have no interest beyond finishing the long dirty joke that he had been spinning
for his companions. He did not like what he saw. If the main street of this little hamlet contained a