"Chad Oliver - The Winds of Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Oliver Chad)

At first he wasn't afraid. He was annoyed, and that was all. He picked his way back to where he had
left his rod case, took the rod apart, and put it in the tube. The hail got under his collar, melted, and
trickled down his back.
He noticed two things: it was darker than it should have been, and he was cold. His first thought was
of shelter, but the unhappy fact was that there wasn't any. He was above the timber line, and there wasn't
even a tree to break the hail.
He stood up straight, trying to make as small a target as possible. He wished fervently that his hat had
a wider brim on it; he could hear the hail pocking into the felt, and the crown was already getting soggy.
He remembered an abandoned miner's cabin back down the trail. Its roof had collapsed, but the four
walls were more or less intact, unless his memory was tricking him. No matterтАФthe cabin was a good
two miles away, and the hail was so thick he could hardly see the trail. The storm got worse.
A cutting wind came up, sweeping out of the north, slashing the hail against his face. He stuck his red,
numbed hands in his pockets and held the rod case under his arm. He raised his head and looked around
almost desperately.
There was nothing. The slick rocks were blanketed with hail, and the world that had seemed so
inviting a few hours earlier now presented a bleak aspect indeed. He checked his watch. Four-twenty. It
would take him two hours to make the car under the best of conditions, and he wasn't anxious to try that
path in the dark. He waited, shivering, but in ten minutes the hail showed no sign at all of letting up.
He turned his back to the wind and managed to get a cigarette going on the fifth match, Then he
squinted his eyes and fumbled his way to the path that led along the rushing stream, back down the
mountain. He was decidedly miserable, and more than willing to concede that civilization wasn't so bad
after all.
If he could just get to it.
The hail rattled down with a vengeance, and Wes began to worry about his glasses. If they broke, he
would be in a bad fix for following a mountain trail. He tried to keep his head down, but that exposed his
neck.
He tried to increase his pace, and promptly slipped on the hailstones and fell on his back. He got up,
unhurt but touched by panic.
Slow down, he thought. Take it easy. It was hard to see. He couldn't just follow the stream because
the rocks and brush barred his way. If he could remember which side of the stream the path was onтАФ
 He couldn't. He floundered along what he had thought was the trail, and it just stopped against a rock
wall. The wind was whistling now, the hail the worst he had ever seen. He looked at his watch.
A quarter to five.
It would be dark in an hour unless the clouds lifted.
He tried to retrace his steps and fell again, landing in a clump of wiry brush that scratched his face.
Wouldn't do to bust a leg. No one knows where I am.
He stopped, shielded his eyes, tried to spot something, anything.
There.
Above him.
Was that a rock shelter, that shadow beneath the ledge?
He put down his rod case and trout basket and scrambled up the rocks. He ripped his trouser leg,
but he couldn't feel a thing. The stinging hail was right in his face and he lost his hat. He flopped over a
ledgeтАФlike a fish, he thought wildlyтАФand scrambled into the hollow made by a rock overhang.
The wind still cut at him. He bent over double and squeezed his way toward the back of the rock
shelter. He saw an openingтАФnot a big one, but large enough to admit his body.
A cave?
He didn't care what it was.
He took a deep breath, felt ahead to make sure there wasn't a drop, and squirmed inside.