"David Robbins - Blade 05 - Pirate Strike" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robbins David L)

nauseating. He'd never smelled anything tike it. Nervously fingering the
trigger of his rifle, he increased his pace, alert to the sounds of the night.
He could hear insects, and off to the east an owl hooted. Overall, the forest
was tranquil.

So why was he uneasy?

Mentally chiding himself for being a nitwit, George followed the trail to
a meadow, then angled slightly to the southeast and made a beeline for the
Fraser River. He lost all track of time, concentrating on reaching the
trading post rapidly. Another stretch of woodland remained to be
traversed. Decades of wilderness life, of wresting a living from the forest,
of surviving by his ability to move stealthily, enabled him to hike quietly
toward his goal without disrupting the patterns of the night creatures.

The breeze from the west picked up.

George slowed when he came within several hundred yards of Ostman's
Trading Post. The unmistakable aroma of burnt wood and smoke reached
his nostrils. He proceeded cautiously. There was always the possibility that
the fire had been started accidentally, but he doubted such was the case.
And if the trading post had been destroyed by bandits, those responsible
might be nearby.

Streaks of orange and yellow appeared ahead. Bending over, George
darted from trunk to trunk, recalling the lay of the land. The forest would
end 30 yards from the rear of the two-story log structure. Between the
front of Ostman's establishment and the north bank of the Fraser was a
sloping lawn 25 yards wide containing a corral for Ostman's four horses.
At the bank was a wooden dock for canoes and boats. He approached the
edge of the woods, treading lightly. At the last tree he peered around the
bole and beheld the trading post in ruins, its roof gone and two walls
down, with random flames shooting skyward and two enormous charred
beams rearing above the wreckage. Engrossed in the fire, he didn't notice
the figure standing halfway between him and the burning building until
the person shifted position. His eyes widened and he inadvertently rose,
shocked more by the sight of the familiar buckskins than the ravaged
trading post. "Red Hawk!" he blurted out.

The shaman turned, saw him, and gave a little wave.

George ran to his in-law's side. "What are you doing here?" he
demanded in amazement.

Red Hawk watched sparks spiral aloft from the embers of the west wall.
"I told you I was coming, remember?" he answered matter-of-factly.

"That's not what I meant!" George declared. "How did you get here
ahead of me?"