30 лучших рассказов американских писателей. Коллектив авторов
shirt who was feverishly pushing cartridges into a large revolver. Upon the instant the man dropped his revolver to the ground, and, like lightning, whipped another from its holster. The second weapon was aimed at the bridegroom’s chest.
There was silence. Potter’s mouth seemed to be merely a grave for his tongue. He exhibited an instinct to at once loosen his arm from the woman’s grip, and he dropped the bag to the sand. As for the bride, her face had gone as yellow as old cloth. She was a slave to hideous rites gazing at the apparitional snake.
The two men faced each other at a distance of three paces. He of the revolver smiled with a new and quiet ferocity.
‘Tried to sneak up on me,’ he said. ‘Tried to sneak up on me!’ His eyes grew more baleful. As Potter made a slight movement, the man thrust his revolver venomously forward. ‘No, don’t you do it, Jack Potter. Don’t you move a finger toward a gun just yet. Don’t you move an eyelash. The time has come for me to settle with you, and I’m goin’ to do it my own way and loaf along with no interferin’. So if you don’t want a gun bent on you, just mind what I tell you.’
Potter looked at his enemy. ‘I ain’t got a gun on me, Scratchy,’ he said. ‘Honest, I ain’t.’ He was stiffening and steadying, but yet somewhere at the back of his mind a vision of the Pullman floated, the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass, silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as the surface of a pool of oil – all the glory of the marriage, the environment of the new estate. ‘You know I fight when it comes to fighting, Scratchy Wilson, but I ain’t got a gun on me. You’ll have to do all the shootin’ yourself.’
His enemy’s face went livid. He stepped forward and lashed his weapon to and fro before Potter’s chest. ‘Don’t you tell me you ain’t got no gun on you, you whelp. Don’t tell me no lie like that. There ain’t a man in Texas ever seen you without no gun. Don’t take me for no kid.’ His eyes blazed with light, and his throat worked like a pump.
‘I ain’t takin’ you for no kid,’ answered Potter. His heels had not moved an inch backward. ‘I’m takin’ you for a – fool. I tell you I ain’t got a gun, and I ain’t. If you’re goin’ to shoot me up, you better begin now. You’ll never get a chance like this again.’
So much enforced reasoning had told on Wilson’s rage. He was calmer. ‘If you ain’t got a gun, why ain’t you got a gun?’ he sneered. ‘Been to Sunday-school?’
‘I ain’t got a gun because I’ve just come from San Anton’ with my wife. I’m married,’ said Potter. ‘And if I’d thought there was going to be any galoots like you prowling around when I brought my wife home, I’d had a gun, and don’t you forget it.’
‘Married!’ said Scratchy, not at all comprehending.
‘Yes, married. I’m married,’ said Potter distinctly.
‘Married?’ said Scratchy. Seemingly for the first time he saw the drooping, drowning woman at the other man’s side. ‘No!’ he said. He was like a creature allowed a glimpse of another world. He moved a pace backward, and his arm with the revolver dropped to his side. ‘Is this the lady?’ he asked.
‘Yes, this is the lady,’ answered Potter.
There was another period of silence.
‘Well,’ said Wilson at last, slowly, ‘I s’pose it’s all off now.’
‘It’s all off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didn’t make the trouble.’ Potter lifted his valise.
‘Well, I ’low it’s off, Jack,’ said Wilson. He was looking at the ground. ‘Married!’ He was not a student of chivalry; it was merely that in the presence of this foreign condition he was a simple child of the earlier plains. He picked up his starboard revolver, and placing both weapons in their holsters, he went away. His feet made funnel-shaped tracks in the heavy sand.
Francis Marion Crawford
The Upper Berth
Chapter I
Somebody asked for the cigars. We had talked long, and the conversation as beginning to languish; the tobacco smoke had got into the heavy curtains, he wine had got into those brains which were liable to become heavy, and it was already perfectly evident that, unless somebody did something to rouse our oppressed spirits, the meeting would soon come to its natural conclusion, and we, the guests, would speedily go home to bed, and most certainly to sleep.
No one had said anything very remarkable; it may be that no one had anything very remarkable to say. Jones had given us every particular of his last hunting adventure in Yorkshire. Mr. Tompkins, of Boston, had explained at elaborate length those working principles, by the due and careful maintenance of which the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fé Railroad[49] not only extended its territory, increased its departmental influence, and transported live stock without starving them to death before the day of actual delivery, but, also, had for years succeeded in deceiving those passengers who bought its tickets into the fallacious belief that the corporation aforesaid was really able to transport human life without destroying it.
Signor Tombola had endeavoured to persuade us, by arguments which we took no trouble to oppose, that the unity of his country in no way resembled the average modern torpedo, carefully planned, constructed with all the skill of the greatest European arsenals, but, when constructed, destined to be directed by feeble hands into a region where it must undoubtedly explode, unseen, unfeared, and unheard, into the illimitable wastes of political chaos.
It is unnecessary to go into further details. The conversation had assumed proportions which would have bored Prometheus[50] on his rock, which would have driven Tantalus[51] to distraction, and which would have impelled Ixion[52] to seek relaxation in the simple but instructive dialogues of Herr Ollendorff, rather than submit to the greater evil of listening to our talk. We had sat at table for hours; we were bored, we were tired, and nobody showed signs of moving.
Somebody called for cigars. We all instinctively looked towards the speaker. Brisbane was a man of five-and-thirty years of age, and remarkable for those gifts which chiefly attract the attention of men. He was a strong man. The external proportions of his figure presented nothing extraordinary to the common eye, though his size was above the average. He was a little over six feet in height, and moderately broad in the shoulder; he did not appear to be stout, but, on the other hand, he was certainly not thin; his small head was supported by a strong and sinewy neck; his broad, muscular hands appeared to possess a peculiar skill in breaking walnuts without the assistance of the ordinary cracker, and, seeing him in profile, one could not help remarking the extraordinary breadth of his sleeves, and the unusual thickness of his chest. He was one of those men who are commonly spoken of among men as deceptive; that is to say, that though he looked exceedingly strong he was in reality very much stronger than he looked. Of his features I need say little. His head was small, his hair is thin, his eyes are blue, his nose is large, he has a small moustache, and a square jaw. Everybody knows Brisbane, and when he asked for a cigar everybody looked at him.
‘It is a very singular thing,’ said Brisbane.
Everybody stopped talking. Brisbane’s voice was not loud, but possessed a peculiar quality of penetrating general conversation, and cutting it like a knife. Everybody listened. Brisbane, perceiving that he had attracted their general attention, lit his cigar with great equanimity.
‘It is very singular,’ he continued, ‘that thing about ghosts. People are always asking whether anybody has seen a ghost. I have.’
‘Bosh! What, you? You don’t mean to say so, Brisbane? Well, for a man of his intelligence!’
A chorus of exclamations greeted Brisbane’s remarkable statement. Everybody called for cigars, and Stubbs, the butler, suddenly appeared from the depths of nowhere with a fresh bottle of dry champagne. The situation was saved; Brisbane was
Atchison, Topeka and Santana Fé Railroad – one of the largest railway companies in the United States, founded in 1859.
Prometheus – in Greek religion, the god of fire and one of the Titans; the legend said that Zeus nailed him to the rock and sent an eagle to eat his liver as punishment for stealing fire and giving it to people.
Tantalus – in Greek mythology, the son of Zeus; he was punished for his crimes against gods – in the underworld he stood in water but couldn’t drink, fruits hung above his head but he couldn’t eat them.
Ixion – in Greek mythology, Zeus, to punish Ixion for murdering his father-in-law, bound him on a wheel which rolled without stopping.