"Joe Haldeman - Guardian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

"Mom ..."
"But if Skagway is too rough, or I can't find a good job, I won't stay there. Go
back to Juneau or Seattle."
"Not back home?"
I'd been telling the lie so long it almost felt true. "Philadelphia, no. We left
because there are too many sad memories there. My husband died recently."
"Oh." Doc and Chuck exchanged glances. "Then we have that in common, too.
After my wife passed away, I couldn't bear living on the farm. So we sold it and decided
to head for the Yukon."
"Neighbors said we were running away," Chuck said angrily.
"And if we were?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "Where was the farm?"
 "Sedalia, Missouri." He gave me a wry smile. "It ain't Philadelphia. I took you for
a city woman, Mrs. Flammarion." He pronounced it "Flam-reon."
"Call me Rosa," I said. "Everyone does."
"And I prefer Daniel," Daniel said. "Never did like Charles."
"Me neither," Chuck said.
"Saw you get on back there. You got kin in Kansas?"
Half a lie. "No, I took a temporary job teaching there. The school year's over, and
when Daniel graduated, he decided he wanted to join the stampeders. I came along to see
that he got a good start—and to see this part of the world."
"Yeah. . . ." He looked out the window at the vague shapes sliding by in the
darkness.
"Pop . . . ," Chuck started.
"Uh-huh." He put his elbows on the table and looked straight at me. "Rosa, is
your boy easy to get along with?"
"I generally find him so."
He shifted his gaze to Daniel. "Son, Chuck and me, we were just talkin' about
takin' on a partner or two, at least as far as Dawson. Cost everybody less that way."
"Dad and me don't have ten years of school between us," Chuck said, "so you
could help that way. But we know a heck of a lot about mules and shovels and all."
Daniel chewed his lower lip for a moment. He didn't look at me. "I would be glad
to. Proud to." He smiled. "I don't know much about shovels."
Doc laughed. "Called 'em idiot sticks in the army. A stick with an idiot on one end
and a shovel on the other."
I had a sudden cold feeling, but then realized Doc was only a few years older than
me; he couldn't have been a Union soldier.
He saw my disquiet. "I wasn't much of a soldier. Spent two years in Texas lookin'
for Indians; never found a one. Came back to farm and raise a family."
"You have other children?"
"Two daughters, both married. Two grandkids—had to get outa there, makin' me
feel old."
We had to leave the dining car so others could have the table, but we moved into
the lounge car for coffee and talked for a couple of hours about the world they were
going to and the worlds we had left.
That was strange. The man and his son were direct, simple, honest folk, their life
stories predictable and uncomplicated. Daniel and I had a life story that was a carefully
woven fabric of lies, often rehearsed and elaborated on.
Doc's father had not served in the War Between the States, because of bad
eyesight. Being half blind hadn't kept him from homesteading, though, and his small farm