"Mitchell Smith - Snowfal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Mitchell)

the Olsens were going to be killed.
We're not going to get out of this. My fault, for splitting the party and sending the other six men off around the
mountain. If we had those six men with us, we'd be chasing these fucking Crees back up onto the ice.
His leg began to feel better now it was off the arrow. He thought for a moment about the tribesmen—Crees, or
whatever the hell they were. Came trailing down after the caribou eleven or twelve years ago in little bunches, and
didn't bother anyone. Called themselves Indians, Native Amers, though most were white.... They'd just hung around
the caribou and took a few head, traded a little, and stayed out of the Trappers' way—until now.
Sam forced himself to sit up again, grunting at the pain, took off his bone-buckle belt and strapped it tight around
his calf to stop the bleeding. He could feel blood in his moccasin, slippery around his toes.... When he got the belt
fastened, he stuck his hands in his armpits to warm them for a moment, then got to his knees again behind the log, and
picked up his bow.
All right. One of you bastards move just a little out there. That's all I ask of Mountain Jesus.
It was becoming night. The evergreens were clusters of black in deepening shadows. As the four men waited,
listening hard because it was such uncertain seeing, another arrow came flirting, struck a low branch, deflected with a
soft sneezing sound, and whirred away into darkness.
It was so quiet, Sam could hear one of the Olsens, probably Tom, whispering to himself, praying.
Sam found himself getting sleepy from the cold and the wound in his leg. The blood was frozen in the moccasin
now; it felt like snow when he wiggled his toes. Looking out, it seemed to him the pattern of the forest had changed a
little, a shadow had shifted in the darkness. There was one more—or one less—black tree trunk out there; he was sure
of it. What he was seeing now, wasn't what he had been seeing.
He rose, bent his bow—the yew creaking in the cold—and shot at what was different.
A man yelped like a hurt dog, and what might have been a tree trunk rolled away, thrashing, then slowly settled...
and after a while lay still.
When the Cree began shooting at them again, they shot carefully, aiming to skim just over the Trappers' fallen
trees. Soon, Sam and the Olsens had to lie flat behind the logs, and couldn't raise up for even a quick shot back.
The moon was rising now, and the woods, which had been so dark, began to be lit here and there by slender
beams of moonlight filtering through spruce boughs. The snowy forest floor glowed pale silver.
Jim reached out to touch Sam's foot, and whispered to him, "They're going to come in on us pretty soon."
Sam could see Olsen's teeth shine in the moonlight.
"—We should run out of here right now. Some of us would make it...."
Jim looked at Sam expectantly, as if Sam was going to say, "Yes. Let's do that, and see how far I get with this hurt
leg, how long it takes these Crees to catch me and cut my throat."
Sam didn't say it. He lay looking at Jim until Olsen turned away. Son-of-a-bitch wants to get those skinny hands
on Susan... wants to be head hunter, too. Sam reached for his knife where it stuck up from the log, and worked the
blade free. He was sorry he'd thought about Susan; that made the whole thing worse.
It had gotten colder; Sam had to put his fur mittens on. Tom Olsen tried to raise up, find a target—and one of the
Crees put an arrow through the top of his right ear. Tom lay down fast, with his hand on the side of his head, and said,
"You motherfucker!" which was something no one said, because of Lord Jesus' mother.... Then the Trappers lay still,
huddled with William's body between the fallen trees. They couldn't even look over the top of the logs, the moonlight
now made them such fine targets.
They lay quiet, their long knives in their hands, and waited for the tribesmen to make up their minds.
Sam wondered if the Crees might just stay back and let them freeze to death. It would be smart of them to make a
fire back in the woods, then take turns watching while we freeze. I hope they're not that patient. I hope they come
soon, so I can still move and kill one.
He felt sorry even for Jim, now. And his leg was hurting so much he began to weep. The tears froze on his face.
Snot ran out of his nose, and that froze, too. He wiped his nose with his parka sleeve, shifted his knife to his right
hand, and took a better grip on it.
One of the tribesmen screamed in the forest. Then another man called out, yelled something. Suddenly, men were
running through the trees.
The Trappers struggled up, long knives ready.