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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 49/416
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”
“
I
told
you
not
to
TALK
to
me
,
”
clamoured
Annixter
.
“
But
,
say
,
look
here
—
—
”
“
Get
off
the
ranch
.
You
get
off
the
ranch
.
And
taking
that
buckskin
against
my
express
orders
.
I
won
’
t
have
your
kind
about
the
place
,
not
much
.
I
’
m
easy
-
going
enough
,
Lord
knows
,
but
I
don
’
t
propose
to
be
imposed
on
ALL
the
time
.
Pack
off
,
you
understand
and
do
it
lively
.
Go
to
the
foreman
and
tell
him
I
told
him
to
pay
you
off
and
then
clear
out
.
And
,
you
hear
me
,
”
he
concluded
,
with
a
menacing
outthrust
of
his
lower
jaw
,
“
you
hear
me
,
if
I
catch
you
hanging
around
the
ranch
house
after
this
,
or
if
I
so
much
as
see
you
on
Quien
Sabe
,
I
’
ll
show
you
the
way
off
of
it
,
my
friend
,
at
the
toe
of
my
boot
.
Now
,
then
,
get
out
of
the
way
and
let
me
pass
.
”
Angry
beyond
the
power
of
retort
,
Delaney
drove
the
spurs
into
the
buckskin
and
passed
the
buggy
in
a
single
bound
.
Annixter
gathered
up
the
reins
and
drove
on
muttering
to
himself
,
and
occasionally
looking
back
to
observe
the
buckskin
flying
toward
the
ranch
house
in
a
spattering
shower
of
mud
,
Delaney
urging
her
on
,
his
head
bent
down
against
the
falling
rain
.
“
Huh
,
”
grunted
Annixter
with
grim
satisfaction
,
a
certain
sense
of
good
humour
at
length
returning
to
him
,
“
that
just
about
takes
the
saleratus
out
of
YOUR
dough
,
my
friend
.
”
A
little
farther
on
,
Annixter
got
out
of
the
buggy
a
second
time
to
open
another
gate
that
let
him
out
upon
the
Upper
Road
,
not
far
distant
from
Guadalajara
.
It
was
the
road
that
connected
that
town
with
Bonneville
and
that
ran
parallel
with
the
railroad
tracks
.
On
the
other
side
of
the
track
he
could
see
the
infinite
extension
of
the
brown
,
bare
land
of
Los
Muertos
,
turning
now
to
a
soft
,
moist
welter
of
fertility
under
the
insistent
caressing
of
the
rain
.
The
hard
,
sun
-
baked
clods
were
decomposing
,
the
crevices
between
drinking
the
wet
with
an
eager
,
sucking
noise
.
But
the
prospect
was
dreary
;
the
distant
horizons
were
blotted
under
drifting
mists
of
rain
;
the
eternal
monotony
of
the
earth
lay
open
to
the
sombre
low
sky
without
a
single
adornment
,
without
a
single
variation
from
its
melancholy
flatness
.
Near
at
hand
the
wires
between
the
telegraph
poles
vibrated
with
a
faint
humming
under
the
multitudinous
fingering
of
the
myriad
of
falling
drops
,
striking
among
them
and
dripping
off
steadily
from
one
to
another
.
The
poles
themselves
were
dark
and
swollen
and
glistening
with
wet
,
while
the
little
cones
of
glass
on
the
transverse
bars
reflected
the
dull
grey
light
of
the
end
of
the
afternoon
.
As
Annixter
was
about
to
drive
on
,
a
freight
train
passed
,
coming
from
Guadalajara
,
going
northward
toward
Bonneville
,
Fresno
and
San
Francisco
.
It
was
a
long
train
,
moving
slowly
,
methodically
,
with
a
measured
coughing
of
its
locomotive
and
a
rhythmic
cadence
of
its
trucks
over
the
interstices
of
the
rails
.
On
two
or
three
of
the
flat
cars
near
its
end
,
Annixter
plainly
saw
Magnus
Derrick
’
s
ploughs
,
their
bright
coating
of
red
and
green
paint
setting
a
single
brilliant
note
in
all
this
array
of
grey
and
brown
.
Annixter
halted
,
watching
the
train
file
past
,
carrying
Derrick
’
s
ploughs
away
from
his
ranch
,
at
this
very
time
of
the
first
rain
,
when
they
would
be
most
needed
