Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Thisrainwouldreducethethickdustoftheroadtotwofeetofviscidmud.ItwouldtakehimquitethreehourstoreachtheranchhouseonLosMuertos.HethoughtofDelaneyandthebuckskinandgroundhisteeth.Andallthistrouble,ifyouplease,becauseofafoolfeemalegirl.Afinewayforhimtowastehistime.Well,nowhewasdonewithit.Hisdecisionwastakennow.Sheshouldpack.

           Steadilytherainincreased.Therewasnowind.Thethickveilofwetdescendedstraightfromskytoearth,blurringdistantoutlines,spreadingavastsheenofgreyoverallthelandscape.Itsvolumebecamegreater,theprolongedmurmuringnotetookonadeepertone.AtthegatetotheroadwhichledacrossDyke’shop-fieldstowardGuadalajara,Annixterwasobligedtodescendandraisethetopofthebuggy.Indoingsohecaughtthefleshofhishandinthejointoftheironelbowthatsupportedthetopandpincheditcruelly.Itwasthelastmisery,theculminationofalongtrainofwretchedness.OntheinstanthehatedHilmaTreesofiercelythathissharplysetteethallbutbithiscigarintwo.

           Whilehewasgrabbingandwrenchingatthebuggy-top,thewaterfromhishatbrimdrippingdownuponhisnose,thehorse,restiveunderthedrenchoftherain,moveduneasily.

           “Yah-h-hyou!”heshouted,inarticulatewithexasperation.“You—you—Gor-r-r,waittillIgetholdofyou.WHOA,you!”

           Buttherewasaninterruption.Delaney,ridingthebuckskin,camearoundabendintheroadataslowtrotandAnnixter,gettingintothebuggyagain,foundhimselffacetofacewithhim.

           “Why,hello,Mr.