Death Waits Here

Начало книги

After ten minutes of waiting, there was still no sign of the storekeeper. Pace Jernigan shrugged, cut himself a slice of cheese, reached across the scarred plank counter for a can of sardines, and dipped his hand into the cracker barrel. A solitary bluebottle fly played him a buzzing lullaby for dinner music.

Pace leaned against the counter and ate slowly, a tall young man in faded jeans and trail-dusty checkered shirt. His well-worn, wide-brimmed hat was pushed back on his head, exposing sandy hair, a tanned, creased forehead, and blue eyes with crinkles at their corners that offset the baiting light in their depths. His face was heavy boned, and his hands were large with long, sensitive fingers and callouses on the palms.

As he finished eating, he looked through the open front door of the barn-like general store and studied Fairfax town. It lay, a cluster of buildings, at a wide bend where the road swung with the creek. At this late afternoon hour, the town was indolent; even the dust seemed reluctant to stir where the road widened to accommodate the village, only to narrow again to twin ruts as it wandered to the open country westward.

Читать дальше →