Отрывок из книги
AT THE overnight stop in North Platte, Nebraska, Bill Wayne didn’t copy the other tourists in the party when they bought postcards to mail to friends. He was running a little low on friends these days. Once he had classed five guys as friends but they had picked up a habit of doing things behind his back, like shooting at it. The only wish-you-were-here postcard he wanted to send them was a picture of a cemetery.
In his hotel room that night he unpacked the automatic so he could practice drawing it fast. He stuck the gun under his belt and walked over to the full-length door mirror. Once upon a time mirrors had shown him a happy-go-lucky face that grinned easily and foolishly at people. This was a very different face. Under rumpled black hair were eyebrows linked in a frown, eyes that looked around restlessly for trouble, a thin tight mouth, chin set in hard lines. Not a pretty face. It would only look good on a police WANTED poster, and that was where it would end up if he wasn’t careful.
.....
The big man behind the wheel flipped a hand casually. “Howdy, Wayne,” he said. He had a drawling voice with guitar tones in it.
That sounded casual enough, Bill thought. Not as if Smith had been told anything about the .45. Smith hadn’t looked at him with special interest, either. “Hi,” he said. Now the idea was to get Holly away from the guy and eliminate any chance that she might talk about the gun.
.....
