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

the pillows, and raked the ash out of the stove.
Misha was afraid they would now go to his room. He left his shelter and
moved stealthily to it.
Night was already setting in. In the darkness Misha's hand closed round
the cold steel of the dirk that lay under the bed. He pulled it out and hid
it in his sleeve. Holding both the sleeve and the handle in his fist, he
returned to his hiding place behind the coats in the passage.
The bandits were still ransacking Polevoy's room, while Polevoy himself
stood in the dining-room, his body bent forward, his arms twisted behind his
back. Suddenly there was a thud of hoofs from the street and rapid footsteps
were heard on the porch. A Whiteguard bandit came in and said something to
Nikitsky in a low voice.
Nikitsky made no move.
"To horse!" he cried in the next second, cracking his whip.
The bandits dragged Polevoy into the dark passage that opened on to the
street and the back-yard. As they pushed him into the passage, Misha took
Polevoy's hand and opened his fist.
The handle of the dirk touched Polevoy's palm. He drew the dirk towards
him and, taking several steps forward along the passage, jerked his hand up
and stabbed the bandit in front of him in the neck. Meanwhile, Misha threw
himself at the other bandit's feet, tripping him up, thus giving Polevoy
time to run out into the dark back-yard.
But Misha did not see whether Polevoy had escaped. He was struck down
by a terrible blow with the butt of a revolver and he sagged like a sack
into the corner under a canvas rain-coat hanging from the rack.


Chapter 7

MOTHER



Swathed in bandages, Misha lay quietly in bed listening to distant
sounds coming in through the slightly stirring lace curtains.
People were walking in the street. He heard their footsteps on the
wooden sidewalk, and their deep-toned voices speaking in Ukrainian....
A cart squeaked by....
A boy rolled a wheel, driving it with a stick.
All these sounds reached Misha through a sort of haze and were jumbled
up with his short quickly-forgotten dreams. Polevoy.... The Whiteguards....
The dark night into which Polevoy had vanished... Nikitsky.... The dirk....
The blood on Polevoy's face, on his own face.... Warm, sticky blood....
Grandfather told him what had happened. A detachment of railway workers
had surrounded the town and not all the bandits got away on their swift
horses. But Nikitsky had escaped. Polevoy had beer wounded in the fight and
was now in the hospital at the railway station.
"What a hero you are!" Grandfather said with a pat on Misha's head.
But he was not a hero at all! A hero would have shot all the bandits
and captured Nikitsky.