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All
about
him
the
country
was
flat
.
In
all
directions
he
could
see
for
miles
.
The
harvest
was
just
over
.
Nothing
but
stubble
remained
on
the
ground
.
With
the
one
exception
of
the
live
-
oak
by
Hooven
’
s
place
,
there
was
nothing
green
in
sight
.
The
wheat
stubble
was
of
a
dirty
yellow
;
the
ground
,
parched
,
cracked
,
and
dry
,
of
a
cheerless
brown
.
By
the
roadside
the
dust
lay
thick
and
grey
,
and
,
on
either
hand
,
stretching
on
toward
the
horizon
,
losing
itself
in
a
mere
smudge
in
the
distance
,
ran
the
illimitable
parallels
of
the
wire
fence
.
And
that
was
all
;
that
and
the
burnt
-
out
blue
of
the
sky
and
the
steady
shimmer
of
the
heat
.
The
silence
was
infinite
.
After
the
harvest
,
small
though
that
harvest
had
been
,
the
ranches
seemed
asleep
.
It
was
as
though
the
earth
,
after
its
period
of
reproduction
,
its
pains
of
labour
,
had
been
delivered
of
the
fruit
of
its
loins
,
and
now
slept
the
sleep
of
exhaustion
.
It
was
the
period
between
seasons
,
when
nothing
was
being
done
,
when
the
natural
forces
seemed
to
hang
suspended
.
There
was
no
rain
,
there
was
no
wind
,
there
was
no
growth
,
no
life
;
the
very
stubble
had
no
force
even
to
rot
.
The
sun
alone
moved
.
Toward
two
o
’
clock
,
Presley
reached
Hooven
’
s
place
,
two
or
three
grimy
frame
buildings
,
infested
with
a
swarm
of
dogs
.
A
hog
or
two
wandered
aimlessly
about
.
Under
a
shed
by
the
barn
,
a
broken
-
down
seeder
lay
rusting
to
its
ruin
.
But
overhead
,
a
mammoth
live
-
oak
,
the
largest
tree
in
all
the
country
-
side
,
towered
superb
and
magnificent
.
Grey
bunches
of
mistletoe
and
festoons
of
trailing
moss
hung
from
its
bark
.
From
its
lowest
branch
hung
Hooven
’
s
meat
-
safe
,
a
square
box
,
faced
with
wire
screens
.
What
gave
a
special
interest
to
Hooven
’
s
was
the
fact
that
here
was
the
intersection
of
the
Lower
Road
and
Derrick
’
s
main
irrigating
ditch
,
a
vast
trench
not
yet
completed
,
which
he
and
Annixter
,
who
worked
the
Quien
Sabe
ranch
,
were
jointly
constructing
.
It
ran
directly
across
the
road
and
at
right
angles
to
it
,
and
lay
a
deep
groove
in
the
field
between
Hooven
’
s
and
the
town
of
Guadalajara
,
some
three
miles
farther
on
.
Besides
this
,
the
ditch
was
a
natural
boundary
between
two
divisions
of
the
Los
Muertos
ranch
,
the
first
and
fourth
.
Presley
now
had
the
choice
of
two
routes
.
His
objective
point
was
the
spring
at
the
headwaters
of
Broderson
Creek
,
in
the
hills
on
the
eastern
side
of
the
Quien
Sabe
ranch
.
The
trail
afforded
him
a
short
cut
thitherward
.
As
he
passed
the
house
,
Mrs
.
Hooven
came
to
the
door
,
her
little
daughter
Hilda
,
dressed
in
a
boy
’
s
overalls
and
clumsy
boots
,
at
her
skirts
.
Minna
,
her
oldest
daughter
,
a
very
pretty
girl
,
whose
love
affairs
were
continually
the
talk
of
all
Los
Muertos
,
was
visible
through
a
window
of
the
house
,
busy
at
the
week
’
s
washing
.
Mrs
.
Hooven
was
a
faded
,
colourless
woman
,
middle
-
aged
and
commonplace
,
and
offering
not
the
least
characteristic
that
would
distinguish
her
from
a
thousand
other
women
of
her
class
and
kind
.
She
nodded
to
Presley
,
watching
him
with
a
stolid
gaze
from
under
her
arm
,
which
she
held
across
her
forehead
to
shade
her
eyes
.
But
now
Presley
exerted
himself
in
good
earnest
.
His
bicycle
flew
.
He
resolved
that
after
all
he
would
go
to
Guadalajara
.
He
crossed
the
bridge
over
the
irrigating
ditch
with
a
brusque
spurt
of
hollow
sound
,
and
shot
forward
down
the
last
stretch
of
the
Lower
Road
that
yet
intervened
between
Hooven
’
s
and
the
town
.
He
was
on
the
fourth
division
of
the
ranch
now
,
the
only
one
whereon
the
wheat
had
been
successful
,
no
doubt
because
of
the
Little
Mission
Creek
that
ran
through
it
.
But
he
no
longer
occupied
himself
with
the
landscape
.
His
only
concern
was
to
get
on
as
fast
as
possible
.
He
had
looked
forward
to
spending
nearly
the
whole
day
on
the
crest
of
the
wooded
hills
in
the
northern
corner
of
the
Quien
Sabe
ranch
,
reading
,
idling
,
smoking
his
pipe
.
But
now
he
would
do
well
if
he
arrived
there
by
the
middle
of
the
afternoon
.
In
a
few
moments
he
had
reached
the
line
fence
that
marked
the
limits
of
the
ranch
.
Here
were
the
railroad
tracks
,
and
just
beyond
—
a
huddled
mass
of
roofs
,
with
here
and
there
an
adobe
house
on
its
outskirts
—
the
little
town
of
Guadalajara
.
Nearer
at
hand
,
and
directly
in
front
of
Presley
,
were
the
freight
and
passenger
depots
of
the
P
.
and
S
.
W
.
,
painted
in
the
grey
and
white
,
which
seemed
to
be
the
official
colours
of
all
the
buildings
owned
by
the
corporation
.
The
station
was
deserted
.
No
trains
passed
at
this
hour
.
From
the
direction
of
the
ticket
window
,
Presley
heard
the
unsteady
chittering
of
the
telegraph
key
.
In
the
shadow
of
one
of
the
baggage
trucks
upon
the
platform
,
the
great
yellow
cat
that
belonged
to
the
agent
dozed
complacently
,
her
paws
tucked
under
her
body
.
Three
flat
cars
,
loaded
with
bright
-
painted
farming
machines
,
were
on
the
siding
above
the
station
,
while
,
on
the
switch
below
,
a
huge
freight
engine
that
lacked
its
cow
-
catcher
sat
back
upon
its
monstrous
driving
-
wheels
,
motionless
,
solid
,
drawing
long
breaths
that
were
punctuated
by
the
subdued
sound
of
its
steam
-
pump
clicking
at
exact
intervals
.
