"Smith, Wilbur - Courtney 04 - Golden Fox" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

The baskets were fanned out over a semicircle of forty-five degrees in front of him, there was no indication as to which lid would fly open at the command 'Pull' and no way to predict which direction the bird would take once it was released. It could cross either left or right, bear directly away, or sometimes - the most disconcerting of all - race straight towards the gunner's face.

Added to all this, the pigeons were fast noisy fliers, that could jink and swerve in full flight, and now the judges had decided that instead of a single bird two pigeons would be released simultaneously.

The American braced himself at the plate, crouching a little, left foot leading slightly like a boxer, and Isabella reached for Ramsey's hand and squeezed it lightly. They sat in the front bottom row of the covered grandstand in the padded leather chairs reserved for contestants and club officials.

"Pull!' said the American, and his Texan twang rang in the silence like a hammer on a steel anvil.

"Miss.!' whispered Isabella. 'Please miss!" For a second and then another second, nothing happened. Then, with a crash, the lids of two of the baskets snapped open, numbers two and five, half left and full right from where the American stood, and both birds, hit by compressed-air jets from nozzles in the bottom of the baskets, launched into instant flight.

Number two went straight out, keeping low and going very fast. The American swung smoothly on to him, mounting the shotgun to his shoulder, and as it touched he fired. Five yards out from the basket, the silhouette of the pigeon was distorted by the rush of pellets. Its wingbeats froze in mid-stroke, and it died instantaneously in the air, and fen in a puff of feathers to hit well inside the ring and lie without further movement on the bright green turf.

The American swung on to the second bird. It had broken away towards his right, a glistening streak of burnished bronze, but at the sound of the first shot it jinked back inside the American's swing so swiftly that he could not correct his aim in time. The shot was left of centre, but only inches out. Instead of slicing into heart and brain, the blast of pellets from the fully choked barrel tore away the bird's right wing, and the horribly maimed creature tumbled and fluttered, streaming a trail of feathers through the air.

It struck only a foot inside the low white wooden wall, and a sigh went up from the watchers in the grandstand. Then, incredibly, the bird, one wing gone, pumped frantically with its remaining wing and found its feet. It tottered towards the wall, beating at the air ineffectually with one wing, uttering an agonized cawing sound in its puffed-out throat.

The spectators gasped and rose to their feet as one, and in the centre the American froze with the empty shotgun still mounted to his shoulder. He was allowed only two cartridges. If he reloaded now and killed the bird with a third shot, he would be instantly disqualified and would forfeit the prize money.

The pigeon reached the barricade and leapt weakly at it. It struck the wood with its chest only an inch from the top and fell back, leaving a splash of brilliant ruby blood on the white paint.

Half the spectators screamed, 'Diev while those who had bet against the American screamed: 'Go! Go for it, bird!" The pigeon gathered itself groggily, and leapt once more. at the barrier.

This time, it reached the top and balanced there uncertainly, swaying back and forth.

Isabella was on her feet howling wildly with the others. 'Jumpp she pleaded. 'Don't - oh, please don't die, pigeon! Get over, please!" Suddenly the dying bird stiffened into a convulsive rigor, its neck arched backwards and it flopped from the wall and lay still and dead on the green lawn.

"Thank youp Isabella breathed, and dropped back into the seat.

The pigeon had fallen forward and died outside the circle, and the loudspeakers above their heads boomed out the verdict in the Spanish phrases that Isabella had come to understand so well in the past two days.

"One kill. One miss." 'My heart won't stand the strain.' Isabella clutched her bosom in a theatrical gesture, and Ramsey smiled at her with those cool green eyes.

"Look at youp she cried.-'The onigmial ice man. Don't you even feel a thing?" 'Not outside your bed,' he murmured, and before she could find a suitable reply the loudspeakers interrupted her.

"Next gun up! Number one hundred and ten!" Ramsey stood up, and while he adjusted the protectors over his ears his expression was still cold and remote. He had taught Isabella not to wish him luck, so she said nothing more as he moved to the long rack at the gate on which his was the only weapon still standing. He took it down, and broke it open and placed it over the crook of his arm and walked out into the bright Iberian sunshine.

To Isabella he looked so beautiful and romantic. The sunlight sparkled in his hair, and the sleeveless shootingvest with suede leather shoulder-patches was tailored to his lean torso, fitting so smoothly that the butt of the shotgun could not catch on a fold or tuck of cloth as he swung it up to mount.

At the plate, he loaded the 'under an dover' barrels of the Perazzi 12-gauge and snapped the breeches closed. Only then he glanced back over his shoulder at Isabella as he had done every time he had shot over the past two days. She had anticipated it, and now she held up both hands, clutching her own thumbs hard, and showed him her clenched fists.

Ramsey turned back, and his whole body went still. Once again he reminded her of an African cat, that peculiar stillness of the wild leopard as it fixed on its prey. He did not crouch as the American had done, but stood tall and lean and graceful, and said softly, 'Pull!" Both birds bounded from the open baskets on wildly clattering wings, and Ramsey mounted the gun with such elegant economy of movement that he seemed casual and unhurried.

When he had been in Mexico with his cousin Fidel Castro he had provided much of the funds of the embryo army of liberation's war-chest with his shotgun in the live pigeon rings of Guadalajara. So he also was a professional with the marvelous eye and reflexes needed for the job.

The first bird was going obliquely out, speeding on shining green wings for the wall, and he had to drop that one first. He took it cleanly with a charge of number six shot from the fully choked bottom barrel, and it exploded in a puff of feathers like a burst pillow.

He turned for the other bird, pirouetting like a dancer. This pigeon was a veteran; it had been shot at a dozen times before, and it kept low at basket-level. The handler had plucked its tail unevenly, and although it was going at sixty miles an hour it slid to one side and wobbled in flight.

Instead of going for the wall, it came straight at Ramsey's head, reducing the range to less than ten feet and, in doing so, making the shot many times more difficult. As it flashed towards his eyes, he had only a hundredth part of a second to react, and the extreme shortness of range would not give the charge of shot an opportunity to spread. It was as though he were firing a single ball, and an error of a mere fraction of a minute of angle would mean a miss.