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

"Bump you another twenty," said Holliday, and tossed a pair of double eagles onto the table.
Ike Clanton sat up with a sudden snort. "I'll kill him!" he blurted.
"Here's my forty," Ringo said. He looked at Ike. "Kill who, Ike?"
Ike's eyes stared off into nowhere, pupils tiny as peppercorns. "I'm gonna kill him!" he said.

Ringo was patient. "Who are you planning to kill?"
"Gonna kill him!" Ike's chair tumbled to the floor as he rose to his feet. He took a staggering step
backwards, regained his balance, then began to lurch for the saloon door.
"Dealer folds," said Brocius, and threw in his cards.
Holliday watched Ike's exit with cold precision. "Shouldn't one of you go after your friend? He seems
to want to shoot somebody."
"Ike's harmless," Freddie said. "Besides, his gun is at his hotel, and in his current state Ike won't

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remember where he left it."
"What if someone takes Ike seriously enough to shoot himV Holliday asked.
"No one will do that for fear of Ike's brother Billy," said Freddie. "He's the dangerous one."
Holliday nodded and returned his hollow eyes to his cards. "Are you going to call, Freddie?" he asked.
"I call," Freddie said.
It was a mistake. Holliday cleaned them all out by midnight. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said politely
as he headed toward the door with his winnings jingling in his pockets. "I'm sure we'll meet again."
John Ringo looked at the others. "Silver and gold have I none," he quoted, "but such as I have I'll share
with thee." He pulled out bits of pasteboard from his pockets. "Tickets to Doctor Faustus, good for the
midnight performance. Wilt come with me to hell, gentlemen?"
Brocius was just drunk enough to say yes. Ringo looked at Freddie. Freddie shrugged. "Might as well,"
he said. "That was the back end of bad luck."
"Luck?" Ringo handed him a ticket. "It looked to me like you couldn't resist whenever Docraised the
stakes."
"I was waiting for him to get drunk. Then he'd start losing."
"What was in your mind, raising on a pair of jacks?"
"I thought he was bluffing."
Ringo shook his head. "And you the only one of us sober."
"I don't see that you did any better."
"No," Ringo said sadly, "I didn't."
They made their way out of the Occidental, then turned down Allen Street in the direction of Shieffelin
Hall. The packed dust of the street was hard as rock. The night was full of people—most
nights Tombstone didn't close down till dawn.
Brocius struck a match on his thumb as he walked, and lit a cigar.
"I plan to go shooting tomorrow," he said. "I've changed my gun—
filed down the sear so I can fan it."
"Oh, Lord," Ringo sighed. "Why'd you go and ruin a good gun?" "Fanning is for fools," Freddie said.
"You should just take aim—" "I ain't such a good shot as you two," Brocius said. He puffed his
cigar. "My talents are more organizational and political. I figure if I
got to jerk my gun, I'll just fan it and make up for aim with volume? "You'd better hope you never have to
shoot it," Freddie said. "If we win the election," Brocius said cheerfully. "I probably
won't."

Even the drinking water must be carried to us on wagons, Freddie wrote in his notebook a few hours later.
The alkali desert is unforgiving and unsuitable for anything but the lizards and vultures who were here
before us. Even the Indians avoided this country. The ranchers cannot keep enough cattle on this