"Steven Gould - Wildside" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

We reached the doorway. Marie opened it and we backed in, keeping our eyes on the valley
below. Three, four, six buffalo came into sight, then a steady stream, following the rising hill into the
meadow that corresponded to my airstrip on the other side. About a hundred yards in front of us,
they swerved to our left, to the low point of the ridge, to run into the next valley.

Marie said something to Joey, but he shook his head, unable to hear her over the wave of noise.
She shouted, "They're huge!"

They were taller at the head than any of us, with the possible exception of Rick. At the shoulder,
they towered far above us. I yelled to be heard. "I believe these are woods bison. They're bigger than
plains bison."

A cow, running with a half-grown calf, swung wider than the rest, coming closer to us. The calf
was laboring, unable to keep to the pace of the adults. A bull swung wider still and came between us
and the calf. It peered at us, turning its head left, then right. It shook its head and bellowed, its long
beard flapping below its chin. Its short curved horns seemed longer and sharper than before.

I edged closer to Marie's ear and said, "Hold still. If he charges, we shut the door. Nobody
shoots. Pass it on." Moving slowly, she told Joey, who told Clara and Rick.

Suddenly the bull spun away from us and charged to the left, bellowing. I saw something tawny
streak through the grass, then rear up, screaming, clawed paws raised, lips drawn back from huge
curved teeth. The bull charged forward and the cat jumped to the right, racing around the bull for the
calf, but by now other bulls charged out of the black rolling mass, between the cow and the cat. With
a higher-pitched bawling sound, the calf found hidden reserves of strength and ran back toward the
herd, its mother beside it.

The cat turned aside and streaked away from the charging bulls, vanishing back into the grass.

Joey shut his mouth and shifted his grip on the thirty-ought-six. "We're going to need bigger
guns," he shouted.

I shrugged, nonchalant. When he looked back at the bison, I carefully wiped my sweating hands
off on my jeans and checked the safety on the shotgun again.

The herd took another five minutes to pass and, by the time they did, the dust was dimming the
sun and making us breathe carefully through our noses. There were wolves following the stragglers.
Big wolves trotting through the dust like ghosts in fog. I shut the door before they got near us, secured
the bar, and we went back through the tunnel to the barn.

This time, nobody made fun of the way I locked the door in the back wall. Joey even gave the
lock an extra tug. We stacked the hay back where it had been and locked up the barn. The sky was
still overcast but not with dust—just ordinary clouds. Joey and Rick walked over the top of the hill,
lining up on the barn, to satisfy themselves that there wasn't a herd of bison on the other side of it.

They were back in five minutes, quiet and thoughtful. Joey flopped down on the edge of the
porch. Rick stood on the porch steps, his arms crossed.

"Well?" said Clara.