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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 279/416
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Young
Vacca
,
turning
in
his
seat
in
the
carryall
,
was
looking
up
the
road
.
All
at
once
,
he
jumped
from
his
place
,
and
dashed
towards
the
window
.
“
Dyke
,
”
he
shouted
.
“
Dyke
,
it
’
s
Dyke
.
”
While
the
words
were
yet
in
his
mouth
,
the
sound
of
the
hoof
-
beats
rose
to
a
roar
,
and
a
great
,
bell
-
toned
voice
shouted
:
“
Annixter
,
Annixter
,
Annixter
!
”
It
was
Dyke
’
s
voice
,
and
the
next
instant
he
shot
into
view
in
the
open
square
in
front
of
the
house
.
“
Oh
,
my
God
!
”
cried
Presley
.
The
ex
-
engineer
threw
the
horse
on
its
haunches
,
springing
from
the
saddle
;
and
,
as
he
did
so
,
the
beast
collapsed
,
shuddering
,
to
the
ground
.
Annixter
sprang
from
the
window
,
and
ran
forward
,
Presley
following
.
There
was
Dyke
,
hatless
,
his
pistol
in
his
hand
,
a
gaunt
terrible
figure
the
beard
immeasurably
long
,
the
cheeks
fallen
in
,
the
eyes
sunken
.
His
clothes
ripped
and
torn
by
weeks
of
flight
and
hiding
in
the
chaparral
,
were
ragged
beyond
words
,
the
boots
were
shreds
of
leather
,
bloody
to
the
ankle
with
furious
spurring
.
“
Annixter
,
”
he
shouted
,
and
again
,
rolling
his
sunken
eyes
,
“
Annixter
,
Annixter
!
”
“
Here
,
here
,
”
cried
Annixter
.
