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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 332/416
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“
We
better
look
out
,
”
said
one
of
the
young
men
,
“
how
we
go
fooling
around
in
here
.
If
he
’
s
alive
yet
he
’
s
just
as
liable
as
not
to
think
we
’
re
after
him
and
take
a
shot
at
us
.
”
“
I
guess
there
ain
’
t
much
fight
left
in
him
,
”
another
answered
.
“
Look
at
the
wheat
here
.
”
“
Lord
!
He
’
s
bled
like
a
stuck
pig
.
”
“
Here
’
s
his
hat
,
”
abruptly
exclaimed
the
leader
of
the
party
.
“
He
can
’
t
be
far
off
.
Let
’
s
call
him
.
”
They
called
repeatedly
without
getting
any
answer
,
then
proceeded
cautiously
.
All
at
once
the
men
in
advance
stopped
so
suddenly
that
those
following
carromed
against
them
.
There
was
an
outburst
of
exclamation
.
“
Here
he
is
!
”
“
Good
Lord
!
Sure
,
that
’
s
him
.
”
“
Poor
fellow
,
poor
fellow
.
”
The
cow
-
puncher
lay
on
his
back
,
deep
in
the
wheat
,
his
knees
drawn
up
,
his
eyes
wide
open
,
his
lips
brown
.
Rigidly
gripped
in
one
hand
was
his
empty
revolver
.
The
men
,
farm
hands
from
the
neighbouring
ranches
,
young
fellows
from
Guadalajara
,
drew
back
in
instinctive
repulsion
.
One
at
length
ventured
near
,
peering
down
into
the
face
.
