"TXT - Louis L'Amour - Rivers West" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

In any event, it behooved me to be very careful; to let no one know I'd seen the dead man or talked to him or examined the body.
Jambe knew, but had shown no urge to discuss it. Was he the murderer? Might he not have concealed himself when he heard me coming?
Under my blankets I drew out my knife. My work often called for a knife, and most men carried them as a tool if not as a weapon. Mine was razor-sharp, with a point like a needle. With the knife in my hand, I went to sleep.
The last thing I recalled was firelight nickering on the ceiling; then, shocked awake, I saw a dim red glow with a black figure looming above me and my blanket drawn back. A hand reached for the inside of my shirt. My knife thrust sharply upward.
Lying on my side with the knife in my right hand, I had to roll to my back to thrust. The thief, whoever he was, jerked away and vanished. Vanished!
I sat up quickly, then came to my feet, knife in hand.
All was dark and still. Nothing moved. There was a faint glow from the fire, a reddish glow that flickered on some of the faces, threw others into deeper shadow.
Stepping across the sleeping men, I sheathed my blade and, taking the poker, stirred the fire, then added some smaller sticks. The fire blazed up, and the room grew lighter.
Six men lay on the floor; all seemed to be sleeping. I looked around the room. Nothing seemed amiss.
One of the six men was faking. At least one, and possibly more. One of those men would have robbed, perhaps murdered me.
Which one?
For a moment I looked at them, then I went back to my bed and lay down.
It was unlikely there'd be another attempt, but a man never knew. It might have been a simple attempt at robbery. I lay awake, staring up at the roof and listening. Light was breaking before I dozed off again—but only for a few minutes, and then they were all getting up.
After pulling on my boots, I stood up and started to shove the pistol behind my belt.
Macklem extended a hand. "That's an interesting weapon. May I see it?"
I tucked the pistol behind my belt and let my coat fall into place, concealing it. "You like to make jokes," I said, coolly, "I lend weapons to no man." And then I added, "It is just a pistol, like any other."
Over the table Watson told us the swamp lasted for only a few more miles, and the road would lead through forest.
Inside my shirt I could feel the oilskin packet, and my curiosity was a burning thing. Yet I must be alone when the packet was opened. The other papers had dried from the heat of my body, and they, too, might be revealing.
Jambe-de-Bois came to sit beside me at the table. "It would be a good thing," he suggested, "if we traveled together."
"Yes?"
"It would be safer, I think."
"For you or for me?"
"For both. I do not like the look of some of these," his gesture took in the others in the room, and he kept his voice low, "But I believe you already agree."
Why would he think me suspicious? Had he been awake during the night? Or was he, himself, the man who had loomed over me and then vanished so swiftly?
Yet, why not let him come along? If he was the man, he could be watched better when close at hand, and if he was not, then his presence might be an added protection.
"If you are going my way," I said, "why not?"
Not until the others had gone did we gather our possessions to leave. When my pack was firmly settled and I had taken up my tools and rifle, I turned to Watson.
"Back up the trail four or five miles, there is a dead man. He was a British officer, and someone will be looking for him.
"Take this," I handed him a coin from the dead man's small store, "and see that the body is properly buried on dry land. His name was Captain Robert Foulsham, and it was yesterday he died. Put his name and date of death upon the marker."
Bett was staring at me, her eyes level and hard. Watson took the coin, then said, "How did he die?"
"He was murdered," I replied. "Stabbed. And he either fell or was thrown into the swamp. He lived long enough to get out and to tell me these things."
"Murdered? But who—?"
"I think one of those who slept the night. That's why I said nothing. Had I told you before there might well have been another killing."
"His possessions?"
"He had little. I shall write to his family and his superiors, and they will come to be sure he is buried well." I paused. "See to it."
We stepped off at a good pace, for I no longer worried about the peg-legged man keeping up; he was as good a walker as me. During my talk with Watson, he had said nothing.
Alone upon the trail he said, "You take risks, my friend. There are some things better left alone."
"Perhaps. But I am not one to let things lie. I shall inform those who should be informed, and then I shall go about my business."
"It may not be so easy. Once a thing like this begins, who knows when it will end? Or where?"
How dark was the swamp! How dank and dark!
We walked under the perpetual gloom of interlaced boughs that shut out all but scattered bits of daylight. The earth beneath was black, a mass of rotting vegetation. Old leaves lay upon stagnant pools, old logs thrust ugly heads tangled with a Medusa's weaving of twisted roots, old trees lay in mud around which the black water gathered.
The trail was barely passable, and every step was a risk of life and limb. Yet at last we reached firm ground, higher ground. The cold wind started up again, chilling us as it blew down the long dark trail.
Once we passed the ruin of a cabin, a worn fence close by, the bark falling from the poles, rank grass growing up to cover all that lay upon the ground and to make the cabin seem even more lost and lonely.
We walked the lonely road, and as we walked, we talked of many things—of ships and men and storms at sea, of wrecks and ship's timbers and the building of strong craft, and of the feel of a well-made ship in a heavy sea. I was no seafaring man, although I'd been out on the gulf many a time, had sailed to Newfoundland, to Nova Scotia, and to Labrador. When no more than ten, I had sailed alone to Bonaventure Island, which lay within sight of my home. But these were things many a lad from Gaspe had done, and although I was no deep-water sailor, I knew how to build a ship and what it took to make it seaworthy.
Jambe-de-Bois was more. He was a deep-sea sailor-man, and no flying-fish sailor. He had sailed as bos'n, as sailmaker and as ship's carpenter. He spoke of Marseilles, La Rochelle, and Dieppe, of St. Malo, Bristol, and Genoa. He knew the Malabar Coast and the Irrawaddy. All of what he talked about I'd heard from childhood, for many a Talon had returned to the sea, and the old man of the family was not the only one who'd been a privateer.
Suddenly, I stopped. We had rounded a turn in what passed for a road, and there, a few hundred yards away, was Macklem. He and others.
Jambe-de-Bois swore, but it was too late, for he had seen us and stopped to wait
"Be careful, lad," Jambe-de-Bois said. "Yon's an evil man, a sinful man, and one without morality or mercy. Give him the slightest chance, and he'll have your heart out and bleeding."
"You know him then?"
He was silent, as if he had said too much, and then he replied bitterly. "Aye, know him I do ... or of him, and an ugly thing it was when first he crossed my bows.