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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 289/416
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“
The
engine
passed
me
on
the
tracks
further
up
,
and
empty
,
”
said
S
.
Behrman
.
“
Boys
,
I
think
he
left
her
here
.
”
But
before
anyone
could
answer
,
the
bloodhounds
gave
tongue
again
,
as
they
picked
up
the
scent
.
“
That
’
s
him
,
”
cried
S
.
Behrman
.
“
Get
on
,
boys
.
”
They
dashed
forward
,
following
the
hounds
.
S
.
Behrman
laboriously
climbed
to
his
saddle
,
panting
,
perspiring
,
mopping
the
roll
of
fat
over
his
coat
collar
,
and
turned
in
after
them
,
trotting
along
far
in
the
rear
,
his
great
stomach
and
tremulous
jowl
shaking
with
the
horse
’
s
gait
.
“
What
a
day
,
”
he
murmured
.
“
What
a
day
.
”
Dyke
’
s
trail
was
fresh
,
and
was
followed
as
easily
as
if
made
on
new
-
fallen
snow
.
In
a
short
time
,
the
posse
swept
into
the
open
space
around
the
division
house
.
The
two
Portuguese
were
still
there
,
wide
-
eyed
,
terribly
excited
.
Yes
,
yes
,
Dyke
had
been
there
not
half
an
hour
since
,
had
held
them
up
,
taken
a
horse
and
galloped
to
the
northeast
,
towards
the
foothills
at
the
headwaters
of
Broderson
Creek
.
On
again
,
at
full
gallop
,
through
the
young
wheat
,
trampling
it
under
the
flying
hoofs
;
the
hounds
hot
on
the
scent
,
baying
continually
;
the
men
,
on
fresh
mounts
,
secured
at
the
division
house
,
bending
forward
in
their
saddles
,
spurring
relentlessly
.
S
.
Behrman
jolted
along
far
in
the
rear
.
And
even
then
,
harried
through
an
open
country
,
where
there
was
no
place
to
hide
,
it
was
a
matter
of
amazement
how
long
a
chase
the
highwayman
led
them
.
Fences
were
passed
;
fences
whose
barbed
wire
had
been
slashed
apart
by
the
fugitive
’
s
knife
.
The
ground
rose
under
foot
;
the
hills
were
at
hand
;
still
the
pursuit
held
on
.
The
sun
,
long
past
the
meridian
,
began
to
turn
earthward
.
