"Evans, Tabor - Longarm 204 - Longarm and the Arizona Ambush" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Tabor)

didn't see any horses. Of course they might be bunched up against the back of
the cabin, seeking what shade there was.

All of a sudden he heard a thunk. Immediately there followed the report
of a gun that sounded like a rifle. Longarm felt his horse stumble, and he
knew the horse had been hit and was going down. He began, moving swiftly, to
get ready to dismount. As rapidly as he could he unwound the lead rope from
the saddlehorn so that the pack animal would be free. In the same motion he
drew his carbine out of the boot on the right side of his saddle. His eyes
were already searching the ground ahead for cover as he felt his horse go to
its knees. He heard the buzz of a bullet near his ear and then the sound of
the gun. With his carbine in his right hand, he was just able to grab his
canteen by its strap and step onto the ground as his horse, with a gurgle and
a sigh, fell forward onto the sandy prairie.

Stopping and weaving, Longarm ran forward, frantically looking for cover
of any kind. Ten yards further on he saw a little wash. It wasn't much, no
more than a little depression in the prairie floor some two feet deep by four
feet wide by ten feet long. A little clump of greasewood clung to one end.
Longarm lunged for the wash just as another bullet kicked up dust no more than
a foot from his boot. He ran the last few yards and flung himself down,
hugging the bottom of the wash as another bullet ripped through the air over
his head.

For a moment he was content to lie still, doing his best to flatten
himself out. He was lying almost lengthwise in the wash, with his head just
slightly pointing toward the cabin. He'd managed to land behind a low fringe
of the greasewood bushes, but there was a heavier thicket to his right. All
of a sudden he realized he was still wearing his hat as another slug went
whizzing just over his head. As deftly as he could, without raising so much
as a shoulder blade, he eased his hat off and let it fall in the sandy, rocky
clay of the wallow. Then, using the toes of his boots and his elbows, he
worked himself along the edge of the wash until he'd reached the center of the
greasewood bramble. The worthless plant had grown thick along the top part of
the wash, a tribute to its ability to survive where nothing else could. At
the base of the greasewood were little stalks of woody growth about an inch
thick. They immediately curled up and onto themselves to form a tangled
bramble. Sometime past it must have rained, allowing the plant to take good
root and grow. Longarm could see it was starting to die, but he was grateful
it had lasted long enough to give him what shelter it could.

When he thought he was in a good enough position, he lifted his head just
enough to see over the edge of the wash and between the stalks of the
greasewood. He seemed to be exactly at the corner of the cabin. He was
facing one wall as much as he was facing the front of the little building. He
studied the place closely, looking for a weakness. The cabin had been built
of rocks, probably rocks that were handy nearby, and then chinked with adobe
mud. There was no porch, and the roof might as well be called flat. As
little as it rained in that country, there didn't appear to be any need for a
pitch that would allow the water to run off. As near as he could tell, the