"Walter Jon Williams - The Last Ride of German Freddie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

yourselves?"
Curly Bill Brocius scowled. "I'm on top of things, Freddie. Behan will do what he's told."
Freddie looked at him. "But will the Earps?"
"We got two hundred riders, Freddie," Brocius said. "I ain't afraid of no Earps."
. "We were driven out of Texas," Freddie reminded. "This is our last stand."
"Last stand in Tombstone," Ringo said. "That doesn't have a comforting sound."
"I'm on top of it," Brocius insisted.

2
 He and his crowd defiantly called themselves Cowboys. It was a name synonymous with rustler, and
hardly respectable—legitimate ranchers called themselves stockmen. The Cowboys ranged both sides of
the American-Mexican border, acquiring cattle on one side, moving them across the border through
Guadalupe and Skeleton Canyons, and selling them. Most of the local ranchers—even the honest
ones—did not mind owning cattle that did not come with a notarized bill of sale, and the Cowboys'
business was profitable.
In the face of this threat to law from the two hundred outlaws, the United States government had sent to
Tombstone exactly one man, Deputy Marshal Virgil Earp, who had been sent right out again. The
Mexicans, unfortunately, were more industrious—they had been fortifying the border, and making the
Cowboys' raids more difficult. The Clantons' father, who had been the Cowboys' chief, had been killed in
an ambush by Mexican rurales.
Brocius now led the Cowboys, assuming anyone did. Since illegitimate plunder was growing more
difficult, Brocius proposed to plunder legitimately, through a political machine and a compliant-sheriff.
His theory was that the government would let them alone if he lined up enough votes to buy their
tolerance.
German Freddie mistrusted the means—he did Hot trust politicians or their machines or their
sheriffs—but then his opinion did not rank near Brocius's, as he wasn't, strictly speaking, a Cowboy, just
one of their friends. He was a gambler, and had never rustled stock in his life—he just won the money
from those who had.
"Everybody ante," said Brocius. Freddie threw a half-eagle into the pot.
"May I sit in?" asked a cultured voice. Ay, Freddie thought as he looked up, the plot thickens very much
upon us.
"Well," Freddie said, "if you are here, now we know that Tombstone is on the map." He rose and
gestured the newcomer to a chair. "Gentlemen," he said to the others, "may I introduce John Henry
Holliday, D.D."
"We've met," said Ringo. He rose and shook Holliday's hand. Freddie introduced Brocius and pointed
out Ike Clanton, still asleep on the table.
Holliday put money on the table and sat. To call him thin as a rail was to do an injustice to the
rail—Holliday was pale and consumptive and light as a scarecrow. He looked as if the merest breath of
wind might blow him right down Skeleton Canyon into Mexico. Only the weight of his boots held him
down—that and the weight of his gun.
German Freddie had met Doc Holliday in Texas, and knew that Holliday was dangerous when sober
and absurd when drunk. Freddie and Holliday had both killed people in Texas, and for much the same
reasons.
"Is Kate with you?" Freddie asked. If Holliday's Hungarian girl was in town, then he was here to stay. If
she wasn't, he might drift on.
"We have rooms at Fly's," Holliday said.
Freddie looked at Holliday over the rim of his cards. If Kate was here, then Doc would remain till either
his pockets or the mines ran dry of silver.
The calculations were growing complex.
"Twenty dollars," Freddie said.