"TAGGART" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

There were thirty-odd rounds of .44 ammunition, and before this was over he might
need it. Staggering a little as he straightened up, Swante Taggart glanced around
him.
How long since the others had gone by? He had come three
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miles ... nearly four, and they must have gone as far or farther. He gathered the
gelding's reins and started on once more, plodding along, his eyes staring into the
heat-blurred mystery into which he walked.
And then green leaves were brushing his face and with a grunt of longing he burst
through the brush into the bed of the Tonto.
It was dry.
Three times before, some years earlier, Swante Taggart had camped beside Tonto Creek
or watered his horse there, but now, when he needed it so much there was no water
in it.
It was twenty miles to Turkey Spring, and through a mind fogged by exhaustion he
knew he was not going to make it. Nor was his horse.
The slight breeze from the south brought no reaction from the steeldust, and had
there been water in a pool of the stream bed to the south, Swante knew the horse
would have smelled it. If water there was, anywhere near, it must lie to the north.
Turning, he plodded along the sandy bed, each step a special effort of will.
And then he fell again.
He did not stumble this time. He seemed to be wading in sand, and each step seemed
to take him deeper and deeper, until he fell face down in the sand.
For several minutes he lay prone until the nudging of the gelding stirred him to
action. Slowly, he got to his feet.
A faint sound came to him, and he turned his head like a man in sleep, struggling
to place the sound. A cottonwood ... leaves rustling. The whispering leaves spoke
of water. And then that sound again, a scratching and rustling. Carefully, he worked
his way into the brush on the stream's bank, but exhaustion had robbed him of guile
and he made the brush rustle. Instantly, the sound he had been moving toward stopped.
After a moment of silence it began once more. Pushing his way through the brush,
he emerged a dozen feet from the base of a giant cottonwood. Nearby two porcupines
were digging for water.
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The hole they had dug was only as large as a good-sized water bucket but the last
of the sand was damp.
He picked up a rock and shied it at them, but they stood their ground, quills bristling.
Swante Taggart moved toward them and reluctantly they backed off, giving ground slowly.
The gelding had followed him and it went to the hole, sniffing eagerly at the damp
sand, and scratching at it with one hoof.
Pulling the horse away, Swante knelt and began to scoop sand from the hole with both
hands. The sand became damper, and he was down less than two feet. He dug on, working
feverishly, and soon the hole began to fill with muddy water.
Swante sank back on his heels, and let the steeldust have the first of the water.
Then pushing the horse away, he dug the hole deeper, widened it out. The porcupines
had not left him. They waited on the edge of the brush making angry sounds at him,
their need for water overcoming their fear of him.
He would make it then ... he would drink and the horse would drink and he would fill