The End of the Time of Leinard

Начало книги

Sheriff Frank Leinard felt the creeping cold of the grave—his or the old man's—riming his body. Every inch of his skin; but not the flesh of his right hand. He stood ready, right hand warm and loose, poised in limbo above the gun. His belly was drawn in tightly, his legs well-planted, body half-turned to present the narrowest target.

“I don't want to draw on you, Gus ... don't make me,” he said softly. But his voice carried down the street to the old man.

The breeze coming in from the west end of town ruffled his lank brown hair. The breeze whispered of holy rain for which the town had hoped, and it bore the metallic scent of the barranca, miles away. The breeze also stirred the shirttail hanging from Gus Tabbert's pants. The flap of cotton shirting over the old man's holster.

Tabbert swayed. It was obvious he was drunk. “’N I ain't gonna make ya draw, Sher'f. But you ain't gonna take me t'no jail, neither...”

Читать дальше →