"Duncan, Andy - Fortitude" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Andy)

memories became more complete, rushing into my head and filling it the way
one's youth rushes back because of a piano tune, a whiff of gunpowder, a
slant of light.
Some intellectual pissant would call this deja vu. Any soldier would call
it intelligence, and act.
"That's enough," I said. I flicked away the button. "Let's go."
"What about this rat right here, lieutenant?"
I leaned over him, lifted his bloody chin. "You're a good man," I said
into his face, in Spanish. "You have been very unhelpful. Carry on." I
saluted him, and walked out.
As we waded into the broiling sun, wincing at the glare off the hoods of
the Dodges, I said, "Son of a bitch should get a medal. Too bad he's not
in a real army. Saddle up, boys." The auto sagged sideways as I clambered
aboard. Waller spat on his hands and went to work on the crank.
"Where to, lieutenant?"
I could remember everything. Everything. I died at age 60 in a German
hospital room, with tongs in my temples and fishhooks in my cheeks to keep
my head from moving and crushing what was left of my spine --
No time for that.
"San Miguelito," I said.
"But lieutenant," Adams said, "that ranch has already been checked out.
Cardenas ain't there."
"He's there now. Take my word for it, soldier. He's there." The Dodge
farted and shivered and started to chug, and Waller jumped behind the
wheel, shirt plastered to his back. I reached for my cigars as we lurched
forward, tires spinning in the dirt. I knew the fat uncle would stagger to
the door, rubbing his wrists and staring at us as we drove away, and when
he did I waved and tossed him a cigar. Same as he had before, he just let
it fall to the dirt. Lay there like a turd. Don't know when they've got it
good, these Mexicans.
As we drove I remembered the gunfight that awaited us. I told the men
exactly what to expect. They looked at me like I was crazy, but they
listened. Hell, they were good soldiers. They didn't care whether I was
crazy, they just wanted someone capable to tell them what to do.
Before, there had been some question about who actually killed Cardenas --
not in the papers, which gave me all the credit, of course, but in the
ranks, since there was such a volley it was hard to tell whose .45 had
done the job. We hadn't even identified Cardenas until after it was all
over. I'd wasted most of my bullets on some damn horse-rustling nobody.
Not this time. If I had to live the next thirty years knowing I was doomed
to a worse death than Hitler, then goddamn it, I was going to make use of
my other knowledge, too. Shouting to the other cars as we drove along, I
described Cardenas and his horse, and made it clear: He's mine.
San Miguelito was just the same. Mostly. Same sun like a hot rough hand
squeezing your temples. Same four bowlegged hombres outside the gate
skinning a cow, hide coming off in jerks and pops. They didn't even look
up when the shooting started, when the three riders burst out of the gate
and tried to outrun the Dodges.
That silver saddle made a damned impressive display. Hard to miss. I fired
two shots, and he hit the ground like one of Caesar's winesacks. "BANDIT