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

A trifle rough, yes. That was good. That was another voice he had occasion to remember in the time that
followed. As for example on the present operation, during the ride north to pick up the trail of the
Bushmen who had killed the Drakian rancher.

Riding along beside the little column, looking over his command, he considered that he had never seen a
scruffier lot. All wore at least the major components of the KMP's brown cotton uniformтАФit was
comfortable, after all, and freeтАФbut each man had felt free to make his own modifications: shirt sleeves
and trouser legs hacked off to taste, shapeless slouch hats substituted for the regulation cap, leather
cartridge belts festooned with unauthorized private weaponry. Some wore cowboy-style boots in place
of the knee-high issue jackboots; none, whatever their choice of footgear, seemed to have heard of
polish.

Well, a man's appearance was a poor indicator of his worth; Custer had seen at close quarters the
magnificent fighting qualities of ragged, shoeless Confederate troops, let alone the near-naked warriors of
the Plains. But he knew these men, had dealt with most of them personally at one time or
anotherтАФusually for disciplinary offenses or dereliction of dutyтАФand he was under no illusions.
Hardcases, they would have been called on the American frontier; excellent shots and skilled horsemen,
to be sure, tough as rhinoceros hide and physically brave to the point of recklessness, but constitutionally
incapable of accepting discipline, of playing by any rules but their own.

None of the eight ordinary troopers was native Drakian; all had come here from elsewhere, some
dreaming of gold and diamonds, some at odds with the governments of their homelandsтАФlike the army,
the KMP included a considerable number of unreconstructable American rebelsтАФand, though the
subject was not safe to talk about, more than a few running from criminal warrants. Custer had seen their
kind drinking and raising hell in the cowtowns of the westтАФor staring out from WANTED posters, or
dangling from the ends of ropes.
 Of course there were exceptions. Up at the head of the troop, Decurion Shaw sat upright and
impeccably uniformed astride his beloved bay mare. Custer had often wondered what Shaw was doing in
the KMP; Drakia born, well educated from his speech, and absolutely steady and reliable, he was wholly
out of place here. A broken love affair, perhaps, or family trouble; Custer had never inquired. The KMP
had one iron rule, never written down but never broken:Don't ask .

Out in front of the column rode another exception: old Luther Boss, onetime elephant hunter (and, some
said though not to his face, diamond smuggler.) A civilian on contract to the KMP, Boss didn't bother
even going through the motions of looking military; he wore loose flapping shorts, exposing big bony
knees, and a bright-patterneddashiki shirt such as the blacks wore up along the coast. A huge
dirt-brown hat shaded his weathered face. Flanking him, dressed in castoff rags of KMP uniform, his two
black trackers Ubi and Jonas sat easily on their tough little Cape ponies.

A dozen men, good God,what a pathetic command for a man who had once led regiments . . . but in this
case there was no choice; the few small waterholes of the Kalahari would never support a larger
mounted force, not at this time of year. As it was they would be pushing their luck.

***

The patrol got even smaller next day. As they left the isolated ranch where the cattleman had been killed,
Trooper Lange's horse pulled up lame. Custer thought he didn't look terribly disappointed at having to
drop out. The others called out various derisive remarks as Lange led his horse slowly back toward the
ranch.