"S. M. Stirling - Draka 05 - Drakas!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stirling S. M)

At the time it had been no more than a neat bit of professional work, tactical surprise against a usually
clever enemy; but the satisfaction had given way, with time, toтАФnot guilt, no, a soldier could never feel
guilt at carrying out his orders, more a weary disgust.

The recollection sickened him, now, as did the pathetic spectacle before him. He shook his head angrily
and looked around as Luther Boss came riding up. The scout's big double-barreled rifle rested across his
saddle-bow, but Custer knew he hadn't fired it; there would have been no missing the blast of that old
cannon.

"Ubi and Jonas went after a couple of the ones who ran," Luther Boss reported.

Custer made no reply. The scout scratched his beard and added, "They say these aren't your culprits.
The ones who killed the rancher, the ones we've been following, were Kung. These are Gwi. Southern
tribe, don't know why they'd be this far north."

Custer shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said tiredly. "You know that."

Luther Boss nodded heavily. There was no need to spell it out. A white man had been killed, an example
had to be made; there had never been any question of selective action. Anyway, Drakian policyтАФnever
officially stated, but universally understoodтАФwas that the Bushmen were basically a species of pest, to
be eradicated as soon as possible. (Though a few old-school aristocrats, who sometimes enjoyed the
sport of hunting them with dogs, had been agitating for the establishment of preserves for Bushmen and
other challenging game.)

"We'll bivouac here for the night," Custer went on, "and then tomorrow we'll get on the trail of the others
again. How far is it to the next waterhole?"

"Long way," Luther Boss said. "Hell of a ride, in factтАФ"
 Later, no one could figure out where the old man had come from. The grass was too short and thin, all
around the acacia tree, to cover even a Bushman's approach. He was justthere, all of a sudden, standing
no more than a dozen feet away: an old Bushman, the oldest Custer had ever seen. He couldn't have
stood much over five feet and his nearly naked body was nothing but bones and dried-apricot skin. He
was pointing a finger at Custer, calling out a string of tongue-clicking syllables, his voice high and hoarse.

Custer jerked back in his saddle, eyes wide; he almost screamed, but his throat had closed shut.

There was a loud flatbang and a quick twisting shock against his right palm. The old man stood still for a
moment and then toppled backward, limp before he hit the ground, like some assemblage of dry sticks.
Custer looked down in amazement at the smoking revolver that he had not aimed, had not even been
conscious of firing, had in fact forgotten he still held.

Decurion Shaw rode up, holding his service pistol muzzle upward. "Sorry, sir," he said to Custer. "Can't
think how we let him get past us like that." He looked down at the tiny body and then back at Custer,
smiling. "Good shot, Centurion."

Custer made a vague gesture with his left hand. For the moment, he had no words. He had a strange
mad thought that if he tried to talk, he would find himself speaking some savage tongue.

***