Men of Men - Smith Wilbur (онлайн книга без txt) 📗

He began to walk towards the front door, but his right hand was on his hip, under the tail of his jacket, almost touching the checkered grip of the revolver.

He reached the doorway, keeping clear of the entrance, and then flattened his back against the wall.

With faint surprise he realized that his breathing was rough, as though he had been running. Then another surprise, he was enjoying his own fear, the feeling of heightened sensitivity of his skin, the enhanced clarity of vision, the singing of the adrenalin in his blood, the nervous tension of his sinew and muscle, the awareness of being alive in the threat of death. He had been too long without this stimulant.

He placed one hand on the sill of the window and vaulted through it lightly, dropping to the earthen floor as he landed and rolling swiftly to his feet again in the corner, facing the room. It was small and empty, bunches of dusty cobwebs hung from the rafters, and the floor was scattered with the white-flecked droppings of gecko, lizards.

Zouga moved down the wall, keeping his back covered, and stepped through into the second room. The kagel fireplace was blackened with soot, and the smell of dead ash caught in his throat. He looked through the open doorway into the sunlit sheep kraal beyond. There was a riderless horse tethered in the angle of the wall. A grey, dappled quarters, uncropped dark mane and full tail almost sweeping the ground.

The rifle scabbard on the saddle was empty, and Zouga's nerves fizzed.

The unknown rider must have the gun with him.

Zouga loosed the long barrel of the Colt revolver in his belt, peering out into the sunlight.

"Keep your hand away from that gun." The voice came from behind him, from the empty front room through which Zouga had just passed. "Don't draw it, and don't turn around."

The voice was quiet, controlled and very close. Zouga obeyed it, standing awkwardly with his right hand under his coat, and he felt the touch of steel between his shoulder blades. It had been well done; the man had been lying outside, had let him walk through the house and then had come in behind him.

"Now very slowly bring out the gun and put it on the floor between your feet. Very slowly, please, Major Ballantyne. I don't want to have to kill you, but if I hear the hammer cocked I will, believe me, I will."

Slowly Zouga freed the heavy pistol and stooped to place it on the littered kitchen floor. He glanced back between his own legs and saw the man's feet. He was wearing velskoen of tanned kudu hide and leather leggings, big feet, big man, strong legs.

Zouga straightened up, holding his hands well away from his body.

"You should not have brought a gun, Major. That is very distrustful of you, and dangerous for both of us." He could hear the relief in the man's tone, and the voice was familiar, he searched his memory. That strange accent, where had he heard it? The footsteps retreated across the kitchen.

"Slowly now, Major, very slowly, you may turn around."

The man stood in the gloom of the soot-darkened walls, but the shaft of sunlight from the high window fell on his hands and the weapon they held.

It was a shotgun. Both big fancy hammers were at full cock,-and the man's fingers were hooked around the triggers.

"You!" said Zouga.

"Yes, Major, me!" The pockmarked Griqua Bastaard smiled at him, white teeth in the darkly handsome face and the gypsy ringlets dangling to his collar. "Hendrick Naaiman, at your service, once again."

"If you are buying cattle, it's a hell of a way to do business."

The Griqua was the one who had bought Zouga's bullock team the money he had used to buy the Devil's Own.

"No, Major, this time I am selling." And then sharply, "No, Major, do not move, and keep your hands there, where I can see them. I have loaded with Big Loopers lion-shot, Major. At this range it will cut you in half."

Zouga lifted his hands away from his sides.

"What are you selling?"

"Wealth, Major, a new way of life for you, and for me."

Zouga smiled bleakly, sarcastically.

"I am truly grateful for your kindness, Naaiman."

"Please call me Hendrick, Major, if we are to be partners."

"We are?" Zouga inclined his head gravely. "I am honoured."

"You see, you have something I need and I have something you need., "Go on."

"You have two excellent claims, they are truly excellent claims in all except they yield very few diamonds."

Zouga felt the scar on his cheek heating up, but he kept his expression neutral.

"And as you know, Major, my ancestry, the touch of the tarbrush, I think is the polite term, or more succinctly my kaffir blood, precludes me from owning claims."

They were silent then, regarding each other warily across the darkened kitchen. Zouga had abandoned any idea of going for the shotgun. He was starting to become intrigued by the articulate and persuasive voice of the tall Griqua.

"For that reason I cannot sell you my claims, not even at gunpoint," Zouga said quietly.

"No, no, you do not understand. You have the claims but no diamonds, while I have no claims but Hendrick drew a drawstring tobacco bag from his inner pocket and dangled it by its string from his forefinger.

"-But I have diamonds." He finished the sentence and tossed the bag across the room.

Instinctively Zouga reached out one hand and caught it. The bag crunched in his hands like a bag of humbugs, bringing back childhood memories. He held it, staring still at Hendrick Naaiman.

"Open it, please, Major."

Slowly Zouga obeyed, pulling open the mouth of the cloth bag, and then peered into it.

The light was bad, but in the bag something gleamed like the coils of a sleeping serpent.

Zouga felt the diamond thrill close its fist upon his chest. It never failed, he thought, always that choking feeling when the stones shine.

He tipped the bag and spilled a small rush of uncut diamonds into his hand. He counted them quickly; there were eight of them altogether.

One was a canary bright stone, twenty carats if it was a point. Two thousand pounds" worth, Zouga estimated.

"These are just samples of my wares, Major, a week's takings."

There was another perfect eight-sided crystal, slick and soapy silver-grey, bigger than the yellow diamond, at least three thousand pounds" worth.

Another of the stones was a symmetrical triangular shape, like those throat lozenges that tasted of liquorice, more childhood memories. A clear silver stone, limpid and lovely. Zouga picked it up between thumb and forefinger and held it to the light of the high window.

"These are I.D.B?" he asked.

"Dirty words, Major; they offend my delicate breeding.

Do not concern yourself further with where they come from, or how I get them. just be certain that there will be more, many more, every week there will be a parcel of first water stones."

"Every week?" Zouga asked, and heard the greed in his own voice.

"Every week," Hendrick agreed, watching Zouga's expression, and he knew the fly had touched the sticky strands of his web. He let the barrel of the shotgun sag towards the mud floor and he smiled that flashing flamboyant smile. "Every week you will have a parcel like this to seed into your own cradle, to throw out on your own sorting-table."

There was another stone in his palm. At first Zouga had thought it to be black boart, the almost worthless industrial diamond; but his heart bounced suddenly as the poor light caught it and he saw the deep emerald colour flash from its heart. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted it.