"Andre Norton - Cat Fantastic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

got to the bobcat before mine and I'm probably lucky they did, since I might not have kept all my fingers.
I doubted that he would keep all his either, but the bobcat didn't put one scratch on those dark-skinned
hands. He spoke a few words of a language I didn't understand, but the bobcat did. She loosed her hold
on me and climbed into his arms. I stood up and found myself facing a short stocky young man dressed in
Ben Davis overalls, no shirt, and a dented hard hat.
The cement truck added insult to injury with a derisive blat from its power horn that sent the young Indian
scrambling downslope toward the construction site, clutching his bobcat. Not knowing what I intended to
do, I followed him. My knee stung like it had been dragged through a patch of mesquite, my pants had
two-foot long rents in the left leg and my disposition was out of joint.
When I caught up with the guy, I saw him cradling the bobcat. Something seemed to be wrong with her;
she gulped and her breathing sounded wheezy. I felt a pang of guilt for stamping on the rope even though
it probably saved her life. I could see the worry in the young man's face as he tried to soothe the animal. I
tapped the Indian's bare shoulder and pointed to the recorder shack on the other side of the canyon
bottom.
When we reached the shack, he put his pet on a rough-hewn workbench and felt in the fur around her
neck. She balanced on her long legs with her little tail flicking up and down, leaning against him and
watching me warily. She coughed once or twice, shook her wiry fur, then seemed okay. I imagine that
yank on the collar gave her a whack on the windpipe and she just needed a little time to recover.
Which gave me time to wonder what the hell she was doing here in the first place. A stinging and tickling
sensation on my left leg reminded me that she was not the only casualty of the incident. I caught her
master's eye and inflated myself, ready to act the part of the aggrieved white, irritated by the careless
ways of the Indian worker. But somehow he and I didn't fit those roles. Perhaps the reason was the
bobcat.
She was small for a bobcat, judging from the size of the skins I'd seen tacked on plyboard after some
friends of mine had been out varmint-hunting. Her build was heavier than a housecat's, her head larger in
proportion to her body. That and her legginess gave her a kittenish look.
The Indian bent over her and whispered a few words of his language. She lifted her nose and prrruped
back at him.
"She gives you apology," he said in a soft sandy voice that seemed to match the tone of his skin and hair.
"I, too. My name here is Mike. I call her Tonochpa."
"Curtis," I said, trying to keep my voice gruff, but without much success. "Dale Curtis. Pleased to
meetcha both, I guess."
Tonochpa swiveled her head, pricking black-tufted ears toward me. Tiger-stripes marked her face, with
black bands running out into wide muttonchop whiskers. The rest of her was tawny with black spots that
smeared out into bands encircling her legs.
When I moved closer and she didn't spit or hump her back in cat-fashion, I decided she might be in a
good mood. She pivoted to face me, leaning forward and hunching up her shoulders. I felt Mike's hand
on my elbow, drawing me back.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "She didn't give me the Halloween cat treatment."
Mike shook his head. "Bobcats aren't like your pet cats, Mr. Curtis. Tonochpa won't arch her back to
warn you. Instead she'll face you and hump her shoulders to make herself look bigger." He clucked to get
the bobcat's attention, then stroked her. "I have learned her language. She is saying that she will get used
to you, but she needs time."
He smiled shyly, then looked solemn. "Bobcat scratches can fester, Mr. Curtis. Sit and I will heal the
wounds."
I was already reaching for my battered, metal first aid kit. I sat down on a nearby orange crate with the
kit on my lap. Mike dug in the side pouch of a knapsack he carried.
"Don't you need anything from here? Alcohol? Iodine? Merthiolate?"
He shook his head. The only items he would accept were a clean rag and the little bottle of alcohol. Once
he had rolled up my pants leg and dabbed the wounds clean, he took what looked like the fleshy leaf of