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

rust and copper land. Through time
corroded hills flecked with the green of juniper or the dusty gray of sage he walked
the gaunt steeldust, knowing the ache of hunger and the heaviness of nights without
sleep.
At thirty-two, Swante was thankful for the years behind and hopeful for those yet
to come, but now he lived, not from day to day, or even from hour to hour, but from
minute to minute.
That he rode through such a land at such a time was a matter of selection but not
of choice. The choice had been made for him by the sudden arrival of Pete Shoyer
at Crown King.
The selection of route was Swante's own, for he knew it well enough to doubt anyone
would follow him ... but Shoyer was doing it.
Eleven of the posse had turned back when Swante Taggart had ridden into Apache country,
but Shoyer was behind him, and there were still men with him, although but few.
Taggart was out of water, out of food. Somewhere south of him was Globe, but he did
not want to go to Globe. And he was at least three hard days' ride from the mining
town of Morenci. Three days or even more at the rate of travel he must use, for Geronimo's
dust-brown warriors were riding a grudge against the white man, and under cover of
Geronimo's activities a dozen small bands had come out to raid and kill.
No ridge could be crossed without a careful study of the country around, and he must
take time to hide his own trail when that was at all possible. A dozen times already
he had
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doubled the changed direction, but so far he had been less than lucky, for Pete Shoyer
was still behind him.
Pete Shoyer was a man-hunter by choice and profession. He had been a scout for the
Army, as had Taggart himself, and they had known each other slightly, but without
liking. Shoyer had also ridden as a paid gunhand for the big cattle outfits, and
lately he had been a Wells Fargo agent and a deputy United States marshal. Taggart
dd not mean to be taken, and Shoyer was notorious for bringing in dead men, but until
now Swante Taggart had never fired a shot at a man wearing a badge, and he did not
want to begin ... even with Pete Shoyer.
The Verde River and twenty miles of blistering land lay behind him, but by the route
Taggart had taken he had covered more than thirty miles. Leaving the Verde he had
taken what he believed was Canyon Creek trail, but it had proved a cul-de-sac north
of Lion Mountain. When he found a way out of there and reached the bed of Alder Creek,
the sand was dry and there was no hint of water, anywhere.
When he got down now from the horse he staggered, and for a moment he leaned against
the horse before straightening to look around. He had drawn up in the partial shade
of a thick clump of juniper, and squinting his eyes against the glare, he searched
the country before him.
Five miles away and three thousand feet lower was Tonto Creek, a faint green line
indicating its course. Beyond the valley of the Tonto, the Sierra Anchas were a wall
across the sky. Taking his time, fighting the weakness brought on by thirst, hunger,
and exhaustion, Swante Taggart worked out a course that would take him to the old
Apache trail that lay alongside Greenback Mountain and toward the peak of Lookout,
which lay beyond.
To the south, at least twenty miles away, the Four Peaks of the Mazatals bulked dark