"Anatoly Rybakov. The dirk (Кортик, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Misha hid at Genka's and when the firing stopped he looked into the
street and ran home, keeping close to the fences. Grandfather was standing
on the porch, confused and pale. Lathered horses with Cossack saddles were
snorting near the house.
Misha ran up the porch and what he saw in the house froze him to the
threshold.
Polevoy was fighting desperately with bandits in the dining-room; six
of them hung on to him and though he resisted with all the strength of his
powerful body, they pulled him down to the floor where they rolled over and
over, knocking over the furniture and dragging with them the table-cloth,
door-mats and curtains.
Another Whiteguard, the leader evidently, was standing motionless near
the window his eyes riveted on Polevoy's movements.
Misha concealed himself behind numerous coats hanging from the rack.
His heart was in his mouth. He waited for Polevoy to get up, as he had so
often seen him in dreams, shake the bandits off with his mighty shoulders,
single-handed, and send them all flying.
But Polevoy did not get up. His furious efforts to throw the bandits
off grew weaker. Finally, the bandits stood him on his legs, twisted his
arms behind his back, and led him to the Whiteguard standing near the
window. Polevoy's breath was coming in gasps and blood was oozing through
his fair hair. He was barefooted and wearing his striped jersey. Misha
realized he had been surprised in his sleep. The bandits were armed with
carbines, pistols, and sabres, and their hobnailed boots rang against the
floor.
The Whiteguard leader looked at Polevoy with unblinking eyes. A black
forelock had escaped from under his cocked fur cap and hung over his
piercing grey eyes. A crimson scar ran down his right cheek. The only sounds
in the room were the laboured breathing of the men and the indifferent
ticking of the clock.
"The dirk!" the Whiteguard snapped in a sharp, hollow voice. "The
dirk!" he repeated, his eyes, fixed on Polevoy, almost popping out.
Polevoy said nothing. He took a deep breath and slowly shrugged his
shoulders. The Whiteguard stepped up to him, raised his whip, and brought it
down heavily across Polevoy's face. Misha shuddered, tightly shutting his
eyes.
"You've forgotten Nikitsky? Then I'll remind you!" the Whiteguard
raved.
So this was Nikitsky! And Polevoy had concealed the dirk from him!
"Listen here, Polevoy," Nikitsky's voice was unexpectedly calm, "you
can't get away. Return the dirk and clear off anywhere please. If you don't
my men'll hang you!"
Still Polevoy said nothing.
"All right," Nikitsky said. "Blame yourself!"
He nodded to two of the bandits and they went to Polevoy's Misha
recognized them as the wood-cutters he had seen in the mo: They began
searching the room, turned everything over, littered the floor, broke the
door of the cupboard with the butts of their carbines, ran their knives into