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

"And how far?"
Ten miles, opined one. A companion thought it might be nearer twelve.
John Thunstone looked up at the sinking sun. "Then I have no time to waste," he
said, "for I'll have to walk it."
He strode off through Hanksville. Those who had spoken with him now watched
him go. Then they turned to each other, shook their heads, and made clicking
sounds with their tongues.


It was not easy for Conley to explain to Berna all that had passed between him
and Shonokin. In the first place, Conley had been both furious and alarmed, and was
still so. In the second, there was much he could not understand.
It seemed that the visitor had bobbed up at Conley's elbow, with that talent he had
for appearing and disappearing so quickly. He had courteously admired the growing
fields of corn and beans, and when Conley had repeated his complaint that someone
was making free with the ground, had assured Conley that these things had been
planted and were growing for the Conleys alone. He, Shonokin, took credit for the
putting in and advancement of what looked like a prize crop.
"And then," Conley told Berna, "he took up the question of payment. I said, of
course, that I'd be glad to give him something for his trouble. Whatever was fair, I
said. And he came out with an idea you'd never believeтАФnot even though I swear to
every word he said."
Shonokin wanted the Conleys to live comfortably, pleasantly, even richly. He was
willing to give assurance that there would never be anything to limit or endanger their
material prosperity. But, here and now, Conley must admit by signed paper his
indebtedness and dependency.
"Dependency!" Conley fairly exploded, describing the scene to his daughter.
"DependencyтАФon that young buck I never even saw before last night! I just stood
there, wondering which word to say first, and he went on with the idea that he and
his bunchтАФ whoever the Shonokins might beтАФwould make themselves responsible
for the crops and the profits of this place, deciding what would be raised and see
that it succeeded. Then I blew up."
He paused, and his face went a shade whiter. He looked old.
"I told you what came after that. I grabbed for the hayfork. But he held up his
hand, that hand he carries that gives off light."
"The little candles?" prompted Berna.
"It's a hand, I tell you, a sort of skinny hand. It has lights on the fingers. I froze
like a wooden Indian in front of a cigar store. And he grinned that ugly way he has,
and told me that I now had time to think it over quietly; that I'd better be a good
tenant, and that he and we could be a wonderful help to each other if we didn't lose
any energy by quarreling. I couldn't move until he walked away out of sight."
Conley shuddered. "What," he demanded savagely, "is he driving at? Why does
he want to run our affairs?"
That question, reflected Berna to herself, had been asked countless times in the
world's history by people who could not understand tyranny. Tyrants alone could
understand, for they lived tormented by the urge and appetite and insistence to
dominate others.
"He won't come back," she said, trying to be confident and not succeeding.
"Yes, he will," replied Conley balefully, "and I'll be ready for him." He patted the
shotgun in his lap. "Is supper about done?"