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- Фрэнк Норрис
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But
he
preferred
to
pass
it
in
out
-
of
-
door
work
,
sometimes
herding
cattle
,
sometimes
pitching
hay
,
sometimes
working
with
pick
and
dynamite
-
stick
on
the
ditches
in
the
fourth
division
of
the
ranch
,
riding
the
range
,
mending
breaks
in
the
wire
fences
,
making
himself
generally
useful
.
College
bred
though
he
was
,
the
life
pleased
him
.
He
was
,
as
he
desired
,
close
to
nature
,
living
the
full
measure
of
life
,
a
worker
among
workers
,
taking
enjoyment
in
simple
pleasures
,
healthy
in
mind
and
body
.
He
believed
in
an
existence
passed
in
this
fashion
in
the
country
,
working
hard
,
eating
full
,
drinking
deep
,
sleeping
dreamlessly
.
But
every
night
,
after
supper
,
he
saddled
his
pony
and
rode
over
to
the
garden
of
the
old
Mission
.
The
’
dobe
dividing
wall
on
that
side
,
which
once
had
separated
the
Mission
garden
and
the
Seed
ranch
,
had
long
since
crumbled
away
,
and
the
boundary
between
the
two
pieces
of
ground
was
marked
only
by
a
line
of
venerable
pear
trees
.
Here
,
under
these
trees
,
he
found
Angele
awaiting
him
,
and
there
the
two
would
sit
through
the
hot
,
still
evening
,
their
arms
about
each
other
,
watching
the
moon
rise
over
the
foothills
,
listening
to
the
trickle
of
the
water
in
the
moss
-
encrusted
fountain
in
the
garden
,
and
the
steady
croak
of
the
great
frogs
that
lived
in
the
damp
north
corner
of
the
enclosure
.
Through
all
one
summer
the
enchantment
of
that
new
-
found
,
wonderful
love
,
pure
and
untainted
,
filled
the
lives
of
each
of
them
with
its
sweetness
.
The
summer
passed
,
the
harvest
moon
came
and
went
.
The
nights
were
very
dark
.
In
the
deep
shade
of
the
pear
trees
they
could
no
longer
see
each
other
.
When
they
met
at
the
rendezvous
,
Vanamee
found
her
only
with
his
groping
hands
.
They
did
not
speak
,
mere
words
were
useless
between
them
.
Silently
as
his
reaching
hands
touched
her
warm
body
,
he
took
her
in
his
arms
,
searching
for
her
lips
with
his
.
Then
one
night
the
tragedy
had
suddenly
leaped
from
out
the
shadow
with
the
abruptness
of
an
explosion
.
It
was
impossible
afterwards
to
reconstruct
the
manner
of
its
occurrence
.
To
Angele
’
s
mind
—
what
there
was
left
of
it
—
the
matter
always
remained
a
hideous
blur
,
a
blot
,
a
vague
,
terrible
confusion
.
No
doubt
they
two
had
been
watched
;
the
plan
succeeded
too
well
for
any
other
supposition
.
One
moonless
night
,
Angele
,
arriving
under
the
black
shadow
of
the
pear
trees
a
little
earlier
than
usual
,
found
the
apparently
familiar
figure
waiting
for
her
.
All
unsuspecting
she
gave
herself
to
the
embrace
of
a
strange
pair
of
arms
,
and
Vanamee
arriving
but
a
score
of
moments
later
,
stumbled
over
her
prostrate
body
,
inert
and
unconscious
,
in
the
shadow
of
the
overspiring
trees
.
Who
was
the
Other
?
Angele
was
carried
to
her
home
on
the
Seed
ranch
,
delirious
,
all
but
raving
,
and
Vanamee
,
with
knife
and
revolver
ready
,
ranged
the
country
-
side
like
a
wolf
.
He
was
not
alone
.
The
whole
county
rose
,
raging
,
horror
-
struck
.
Posse
after
posse
was
formed
,
sent
out
,
and
returned
,
without
so
much
as
a
clue
.
Upon
no
one
could
even
the
shadow
of
suspicion
be
thrown
.
The
Other
had
withdrawn
into
an
impenetrable
mystery
.
There
he
remained
.
He
never
was
found
;
he
never
was
so
much
as
heard
of
.
A
legend
arose
about
him
,
this
prowler
of
the
night
,
this
strange
,
fearful
figure
,
with
an
unseen
face
,
swooping
in
there
from
out
the
darkness
,
come
and
gone
in
an
instant
,
but
leaving
behind
him
a
track
of
terror
and
death
and
rage
and
undying
grief
.
Within
the
year
,
in
giving
birth
to
the
child
,
Angele
had
died
.
The
little
babe
was
taken
by
Angele
’
s
parents
,
and
Angele
was
buried
in
the
Mission
garden
near
to
the
aged
,
grey
sun
dial
.
Vanamee
stood
by
during
the
ceremony
,
but
half
conscious
of
what
was
going
forward
.
At
the
last
moment
he
had
stepped
forward
,
looked
long
into
the
dead
face
framed
in
its
plaits
of
gold
hair
,
the
hair
that
made
three
-
cornered
the
round
,
white
forehead
;
looked
again
at
the
closed
eyes
,
with
their
perplexing
upward
slant
toward
the
temples
,
oriental
,
bizarre
;
at
the
lips
with
their
Egyptian
fulness
;
at
the
sweet
,
slender
neck
;
the
long
,
slim
hands
;
then
abruptly
turned
about
.
The
last
clods
were
filling
the
grave
at
a
time
when
he
was
already
far
away
,
his
horse
’
s
head
turned
toward
the
desert
.
For
two
years
no
syllable
was
heard
of
him
.
It
was
believed
that
he
had
killed
himself
.
But
Vanamee
had
no
thought
of
that
.
For
two
years
he
wandered
through
Arizona
,
living
in
the
desert
,
in
the
wilderness
,
a
recluse
,
a
nomad
,
an
ascetic
.
But
,
doubtless
,
all
his
heart
was
in
the
little
coffin
in
the
Mission
garden
.
Once
in
so
often
he
must
come
back
thither
.
One
day
he
was
seen
again
in
the
San
Joaquin
.
The
priest
,
Father
Sarria
,
returning
from
a
visit
to
the
sick
at
Bonneville
,
met
him
on
the
Upper
Road
.
Eighteen
years
had
passed
since
Angele
had
died
,
but
the
thread
of
Vanamee
’
s
life
had
been
snapped
.
Nothing
remained
now
but
the
tangled
ends
.
He
had
never
forgotten
.
The
long
,
dull
ache
,
the
poignant
grief
had
now
become
a
part
of
him
.
Presley
knew
this
to
be
so
.
While
Presley
had
been
reflecting
upon
all
this
,
Vanamee
had
continued
to
speak
.
Presley
,
however
,
had
not
been
wholly
inattentive
.
While
his
memory
was
busy
reconstructing
the
details
of
the
drama
of
the
shepherd
’
s
life
,
another
part
of
his
brain
had
been
swiftly
registering
picture
after
picture
that
Vanamee
’
s
monotonous
flow
of
words
struck
off
,
as
it
were
,
upon
a
steadily
moving
scroll
.
The
music
of
the
unfamiliar
names
that
occurred
in
his
recital
was
a
stimulant
to
the
poet
’
s
imagination
.
Presley
had
the
poet
’
s
passion
for
expressive
,
sonorous
names
.
As
these
came
and
went
in
Vanamee
’
s
monotonous
undertones
,
like
little
notes
of
harmony
in
a
musical
progression
,
he
listened
,
delighted
with
their
resonance
.
—
Navajo
,
Quijotoa
,
Uintah
,
Sonora
,
Laredo
,
Uncompahgre
—
to
him
they
were
so
many
symbols
.
It
was
his
West
that
passed
,
unrolling
there
before
the
eye
of
his
mind
:
the
open
,
heat
-
scourged
round
of
desert
;
the
mesa
,
like
a
vast
altar
,
shimmering
purple
in
the
royal
sunset
;
the
still
,
gigantic
mountains
,
heaving
into
the
sky
from
out
the
canyons
;
the
strenuous
,
fierce
life
of
isolated
towns
,
lost
and
forgotten
,
down
there
,
far
off
,
below
the
horizon
.
Abruptly
his
great
poem
,
his
Song
of
the
West
,
leaped
up
again
in
his
imagination
.
For
the
moment
,
he
all
but
held
it
.
It
was
there
,
close
at
hand
.
In
another
instant
he
would
grasp
it
.
