Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           “Ach,Hilda,leedlegirl,”hecried,“holdtightbeidershdrapon.HeyMULE!Hoop!Gedtoop,you.”

           Annixtercanteredon.Inafewmoments,hehadcrossedBrodersonCreekandhadenteredupontheHomeranchofLosMuertos.Aheadofhim,butsofaroffthatthegreaterportionofitsbulkwasbelowthehorizon,hecouldseetheDerricks’home,aroofortwobetweenthedullgreenofcypressandeucalyptus.Nothingelsewasinsight.Thebrownearth,smooth,unbroken,wasasalimitless,mud-colouredocean.Thesilencewasprofound.

           Then,atlength,Annixter’ssearchingeyemadeoutabluronthehorizontothenorthward;theblurconcentrateditselftoaspeck;thespeckgrewbysteadydegreestoaspot,slowlymoving,anoteofdullcolour,barelydarkerthantheland,butaninkyblacksilhouetteasittoppedalowriseofgroundandstoodforamomentoutlinedagainstthepaleblueofthesky.Annixterturnedhishorsefromtheroadandrodeacrosstheranchlandtomeetthisnewobjectofinterest.Asthespotgrewlarger,itresolveditselfintoconstituents,acollectionofunits;itsshapegrewirregular,fragmentary.Adisintegrated,nebulousconfusionadvancedtowardAnnixter,preceded,ashediscoveredonnearerapproach,byamedleyoffaintsounds.Nowitwasnolongeraspot,butacolumn,acolumnthatmoved,accompaniedbyspots.AsAnnixterlessenedthedistance,thesespotsresolvedthemselvesintobuggiesormenonhorsebackthatkeptpacewiththeadvancingcolumn.Therewerehorsesinthecolumnitself.