"Clayton Emery - Joseph Fisher - Inwardly Ravening Wolves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

Hissing, Macintosh swung, but Paul batted his arm
so the knife flew into the hemlocks. The two men
grappled, punched, tangled and tumbled. Villagers
aimed kicks at Macintosh.

Unnoticed, Joseph laid his hand on Opechee's
breast, felt the flesh grow cold. "Walk on the light to
Pemaquid, friend redbreast. May your soul feast on
super-shad and sport with comely maidens." He
rubbed his own chest and then Opechee's, the
Abenaki handshake, then closed the bulging eyes.
Gently Joseph slipped off the warbag and donned it,
picked up the fallen trade gun, checked the priming.

Paul Hopkins and Rob Macintosh were yanked apart.
Restrained, the brawlers hollered obscenities until
they ran out of breath. Then Paul spruced his
clothes and tackle, yanked on his tricorn. Macintosh
rubbed a sore jaw, pointed at Joseph. "That warbag
-- and musket -- are mine. Spoils'a war."

"Of course," said the student mildly. "I'll just carry
them for you."
Mister Hopkins took his time juggling flint and steel
and charcloth to light his pipe, then gushed blue
smoke. "All right, Rob, let's have it."

"I told ya! We was huntin', and this Indian rears up
and shoots Elias! I thought it was a war party! I got
scared and run and I ain't ashamed to admit it! You
look in his warbag, tell me you don't find a pewter
crucifix!"

Joseph lifted the flap on the bearskin bag, sifted
possibles. "No crucifix."

Mister Hopkins tapped his pipe on his teeth. "Could
he a'been French, Joe?"

"No. His tongue lay in the south. He called the
beaver tummock quauog after the Narragansetts,
not tmakwa as we do up here."

Macintosh interjected, "That don't mean nothing!
Any Indian'd kill a white man any chance he got! A
white scalp's worth eight pounds in Quebec!"

Mister Hopkins looked to his Indian expert. Joseph
didn't know what to say. Even after decades of
friction and intrusion, many Indians were still