"Manly Wade Wellman - The Dead Man's Hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wellman Manly Wade)

"The Shonokins," he said, "do not recognize the existence of any such thing as a
soul."
He was gone, as abruptly as he had gone from the end of the path last night.
Berna sat down, her heart stuttering inside her. After a minute, her father came in.
He, too, sat down. Berna wondered if she were as pale as he.
"ThatтАФthatтАФthat trick-playing, sneering skunk," he panted. "No man can try
things like that on Ward Conley." He looked around. "Did he come in here? Is he
still here? If he is, I'm going to get the shotgun."
"He's gone," Berna replied. "I made him go. But who is he? Did he tell you that
preposterous story?"
As she spoke, she knew she had believed it all, about the Shonokins who had
ruled before the Indians, who wanted to rule again, and who claimed this land, on
which nobody could live except as their tenant and vassal.
"He put some sort of a trance or spell on me," said Conley, still breathing hard.
"If he hadn't been able to do it, I'd have killed himтАФthere's a hayfork out there in the
barn. And he wanted me to believe I'd do some hokus-pokus for him, to be allowed
to live here on my own land. Berna," said Conley suddenly, "I think he'll be sneaking
back here again. And I'm going to be ready for him."
"Let me go to town when you go," she began, but Conley waved the words aside.
"You'll drive in alone and shop for whatever we need. Because I'll stay right here,
waiting for Mr. Smart Aleck Shonokin." Rising, he walked into the front room,
where much of the luggage was still stacked. He returned with his shotgun, fitting it
together. It was a well-kept repeater. Ponderously he pumped a shell into the barrel.
 "We'll see," promised Conley balefully, "how much lead he can carry away with
him."
And so Berna drove the car to the village. At the general store in front of which
loiterers had mocked the evening before, she bought flour, potatoes, meat, lard,
tinned goods. Her father had stipulated nails and a few household tools, and on
inspiration Berna bought two heavy new locks. When she returned, Conley
approved this last purchase and installed the locks, one at the front door and one at
the back.
"The windows can all be latched, too," he reported. "Let him jimmy his way
inside now. I'll give a lot to have him try it." When he had finished his work, Conley
picked up the shotgun again, cradling it across his knees. "Now we're all ready for a
call from Mr. Shonokin."
But he was tense, nervous, jumpy. Berna cut herself peeling vegetables for
supper, and dreaded the dropping of the sun toward the western horizon.


At Hanksville, several townsfolk had ambled out to see the afternoon train arrive.
They stared amiably at the one disembarking passenger, a broad giant of a man with
a small mustache, who addressed them in a voice that sounded purposeful and
authoritative.
"Old Monroe's," they echoed his first question. "Lookee, mister, nobody ever
goes there."
"Well, I'm going there at once. A matter of life and death. Will anybody let me
rent his automobile?"
Nobody answered that at all.
"How do you get there?" he demanded next, and someone told about the
crossing, the sanded road, the stone bridge, the clump of willows, the side trail.