Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Hefoundhishorse,and,tighteningthegirths,mountedandrodehomeunderthesheenofthestars,thoughtful,hisheadbowed.Beforehewenttobedthatnighthesent“TheToilers”totheSundayEditorofadailynewspaperinSanFrancisco.

           UponleavingPresley,Vanamee,histhumbshookedintohisemptycartridgebelt,strodeswiftlydownfromthehillsoftheLosMuertosstock-rangeandonthroughthesilenttownofGuadalajara.Hislean,swarthyface,withitshollowcheeks,fine,black,pointedbeard,andsadeyes,wassettothenorthward.Aswashiscustom,hewasbareheaded,andtherapidityofhisstridemadeabreezeinhislong,blackhair.Heknewwherehewasgoing.Heknewwhathemustlivethroughthatnight.

           Again,thedeathlessgriefthatneversleptleapedoutoftheshadows,andfasteneduponhisshoulders.Itwasscourginghimbacktothatsceneofavanishedhappiness,adeadromance,aperishedidyl,—theMissiongardenintheshadeofthevenerablepeartrees.

           But,besidesthis,otherinfluencestuggedathisheart.Therewasamysteryinthegarden.Inthatspotthenightwasnotalwaysempty,thedarknessnotalwayssilent.Somethingfaroffstirredandlistenedtohiscry,attimesdrawingnearertohim.Atfirstthispresencehadbeenamatterforterror;butoflate,ashefeltitgraduallydrawingnearer,theterrorhadatlongintervalsgivenplacetoafeelingofanalmostineffablesweetness.