Читать книгу The Saint of the Speedway онлайн

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The man’s pale eyes were no longer watchful. There was no longer any need. With a great depth of water under his canoe he could drive her leisurely, awaiting the coming flood from the ocean far behind.

Cy Liskard was lounging in the doorway of his cabin. He was smoking contemplatively while his pale eyes gazed out over the gravelly, trickling creek below him. Near by, secured to a tying post, which was the stump of a sapling spruce, two Alaskan ponies were waiting ready for the long trail into Beacon Glory. One was saddled and bridled, the other was carrying a well-laden pack. Both were sturdy, powerful creatures still clad in their long winter coats.

It was a still, warm day, with the air full of the hum of the insect world. The long tails of the horses were swishing with flail-like force to keep the attacking mosquitoes and flies at bay. For the moment the sun was lost behind frothing summer clouds, while below, the dense forests were silent and still with that profound hush which is their prevailing mood.