Читать книгу Сердца трех / Hearts of three. Уровень 3 - Джек Лондон, William Hootkins - Страница 3

So Francis Morgan found himself[16] on board his schooner, the Angelique[17]. The water was glassy. Francis, through his glass, saw a white hacienda, and a woman on the beach.

“Who lives here?” he asked

“The Enrico Solano[18] family, sir,” was the answer. “And they are prideful and fiery as cayenne pepper[19].”

Francis took a boat to the shore. When the skiff grounded, he stepped out. Then he looked around. The beach to the jungle was bare.

Suddenly, the woman sprang out of the green wall of jungle and with both hands seized his arm. She muttered tensely:

“Quick! Follow me!”

She shook him.

He smiled and obeyed. Abruptly she stopped and sat down, her hand directed him to sit beside her. “Thank God!”

“My dear lady…” Francis began.

But he heard the movement of men several yards away. She slipped away down the runway. Francis followed her, through the jungle to the beach. She stopped.

“You fool!” she cried, and lifted her finger to his moustache. “That won’t disguise you!”

“But my dear lady…” he began to protest.

“I won’t talk with you,” she answered. “Go back to your schooner, and go away… Forever. If you ever come back I’ll shoot you.”

She showed him a revolver.

“So I’d better go, then,” he uttered, as he turned to the skiff. She followed him. The strange young woman was crying. Suddenly she stopped him.

“At least you can…” she began, then faltered and swallowed, “kiss me good-bye[20].”

She advanced impulsively. Francis hesitated a moment, then she kissed his lips. She lifted her face and kissed him again and again.

Then she menacingly directed him with the revolver to get into the boat.

From the edge of the jungle he saw three men. They were armed with rifles. They ran toward the woman. They saw Francis, who was rowing. The next moment, one of the tree men on the beach, an elderly man with a beard, was directing the girl’s binoculars on him. And the moment after, he was taking aim with his rifle[21].

The bullet spat on the water within a yard of the skiff’s side. The girl sprang to her feet, knocked up the rifle with her arm, and spoiled the second shot. She was threatening the men with the revolver.

“Cayenne pepper, those damned, horrible, crazy Solanos,” the captain said.

“Yes, you’re right,” Francis agreed.

After breakfast Francis landed to reconnoiter on the Bull[22]. He found that was not merely thirty degrees of latitude from New York but thirty hundred years, or centuries. Nearly naked, armed with machetes[23], the Indians told him that the Bull belonged to them. But there lives a madly impossible Gringo[24].

Francis decided to meet the mysterious Gringo. He came down to the beach. On the shore, he saw a barefooted young man in the canvas trousers. That Gringo was standing behind a palm. The man had an automatic pistol in hand, and shouted:

“Get out!”

“I beg you pardon?” Francis grinned.

“Nobody invited you,” the stranger retorted. “You’re intruding. Get off my island. I’ll give you half a minute.”

Francis went behind the trunk. Suddenly a bullet thudded into the other side of it. Francis centered a bullet into the trunk of the other man’s palm. The next few minutes they were shooting each other.

“What gun are you using?” Francis asked.

“Colt’s,” came the answer.

Francis stepped boldly into the open:

“Then you don’t have bullets any more. I counted them. Eight. Now we can talk.”

The stranger stepped out. He looked like Francis himself. It was a replica of himself!

“Talk!” the stranger sneered. He threw down his pistol and drew a knife. “Now I’ll cut off your ears, and maybe scalp you.”

“Let’s wrestle,” Francis retorted

“I want your ears,” the stranger answered pleasantly.

“Sure. The man who wins gets the other fellow’s ears.”

“Agreed.”

The young man in the canvas trousers sheathed his knife. They began to fight. Francis was winning, but in a moment Francis was lying on his back.

“Why do you wear a mustache?” the stranger muttered.

“Cut my ears,” Francis gasped. “The ears are yours, but the mustache is mine.”

“As for your ears, keep them. Get up and get out of here. And don’t come here again!”

Francis turned down to the beach toward his canoe.

“Say, will you leave your card?” the victor called after him.

“My name’s Morgan, that’s enough,” Francis answered.

“Really? No wonder we look alike. Listen,” the stranger said. “I am a Morgan, too.”

“My first name is Francis,” Francis returned. “And yours?”

“Henry. We must be cousins. What are you doing here? As for me, I am looking for the old Morgan’s treasure.”

“So am I,” said Francis.