"Justin Stanchfield - Gypsy Wings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stanchfield Justin)

bushes.

тАЬLooks like we frightened your brother.тАЭ

тАЬDonтАЩt worry about Wes. He ainтАЩt quite right in the head.тАЭ

тАЬThis pasture belong to your old man?тАЭ the first pilot asked.
 тАЬYeah.тАЭ The word caught in JerryтАЩs throat. FarmerтАЩs Bank of Montana owned the field, and lately had made
certain they knew it, but he wasnтАЩt about to tell that to a pack of strangers. тАЬItтАЩs ours.тАЭ

тАЬThink heтАЩd mind if we camped here a couple days?тАЭ the taller man asked. Jerry shrugged. The first pilot
laughed a little louder than he needed.

тАЬJust tell him Les Gitans are here. You ever heard of the Gitans, kid?тАЭ

Jerry swung his head in an emphatic no. The short man grinned all the
broader. More pilots were stepping out of their machines now, a motley collection.
Several held bottles in their hands and were passing them around. Even from where
he stood, Jerry caught the sour scent of bootleg whisky.

тАЬWell, kid,тАЭ the pilot took out a silver flask, tipped it back, then wiped the
stray drops off his face with his dirty sleeve. тАЬNow youтАЩve heard of us.тАЭ

JerryтАЩs eyes roved around the strange collection of aeroplanes, their cloth skin
stiff as wood. Some had rifles fixed to the upper wings, a few even boasted
round-drummed machine guns. His eyes widened as he looked back at the pilots.
тАЬHave you been to the war?тАЭ

The men laughed, all except the lanky pilot who simply nodded. тАЬYeah, weтАЩve
been to the war.тАЭ He smiled in a friendly way, but his eyes were gray and sad. тАЬYour
pa have anything against the war?тАЭ

тАЬI donтАЩt think he cares one way or the other,тАЭ Jerry lied. For some reason, he
desperately wanted the Gitans to camp in their cow meadow. тАЬBut it might be best if
you laid a little low.тАЭ

тАЬKid,тАЭ the stocky pilot said with a flourish. тАЬLaying low is what we do best.тАЭ

****

Wes was already home by the time Jerry returned. Relief that his brother was
safe quickly faded to worry about what the boy might have told his parents. He
washed his hands and face in the chipped enamel bowl on the porch, shook the
water off, then went inside. His father looked up as the screen door banged shut, but
said nothing. Garr Mackie was not a large man, but he was strong and stiff as
sun-baked leather. Jerry hung his hat on the peg near the stove, then quickly took his
place at the table. His mother leaned over his shoulder and set a plate of cold
biscuits beside a pitcher of water. Jerry caught her eye as she straightened, the
unspoken message plain.