"Harlan Ellison - The End of the Time of Leinard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellison Harlan)

calmed down quite a lot, and there ain't no call for all the
gunslingin’ you do.”
“Like I was sayin', Frank,” Pete Redallo continued, asserting his
position as spokesman with slight belligerence, “this was a wild
town, and you came down from Kansas, and cleaned it up. Now we
ain't belittlin’ you at all. It was what we hadda have done, and you
done it. We're mighty grateful for that. But, well, we, uh—”
“What're you tryin’ to say, Pete?” Frank asked. His gaze was
steady, without guile.
“Well, uh, well, there was just no call to shoot up poor old Gus
Tabbert that way.”
“He was drunk and disorderly. He drew on me.”
Redallo dropped the hat, a flush hitting his cheekbones. “You know
Gus was always drunk, Frank. And the little bit of shootin’ he did
was nothin’ compared to what used to happen when Con Farlow's
boys used to hit town. Tabbert oughtn't to be dead. It's just not right,
is all.”
Morn Ashley moved up beside Redallo.
“Look, Frank, I'll be honest ’bout this.
“You've gotten to be more than just Sheriff ’round here. The way
some folks feel, you're the law entire. The mayor, and the Council,
and whatall. And that ain't right, Frank. This is as much your town
as ours, but you don't act the way we figger a Sheriff should, no
more.
“We're lots quieter now. The frontier days are gone, Frank. When

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you had to draw on every man who shot up a saloon, that was
another time ... what was right then, it just don't seem proper now.
Hell, Frank, old Tabbert was a friend to all of us—”
“Gus was my friend, too, Morn,” Leinard said, softly.
“That's what we're tryin’ to say, Frank.” It was Karl Breslin from
the B-slash-D speaking for the first time. “When you had plenty of
rowdy-dowdys to tame, you were in fine style; but now that it's
mostly families and such in Bartisville, you've taken to huntin’ yore
meat in the townsfolk. We just want you to understand that times
change, and the men gotta change with ’em, otherwise—”
Leinard stood up slowly. He was a big man, well over six feet,
graying but fit, and they edged back warily. There was no telling
what burned beneath that calm surface. The way he always spoke so
soft and warm. Leinard put his hands out—fingers spread, palms flat
—on the desk. His face was calm, as he answered them.
“What you're tryin’ to say is, you want me to resign. That right,
Pete, Morn, Karl, Anse? That it?”
They stumbled and stammered and mumbled. “Well, no, that ain't
exactly...” or “Oh, you know how things are, Frank...” and “Now
don't get sore, Frank...” But he knew what they meant. It stuck up in