Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

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           Heshotaglanceabouthimasifinsearchoftheinspiration.BynowhewasnotquitehalfwayacrossthenorthernandnarrowestcornerofLosMuertos,atthispointsomeeightmileswide.HewasstillontheHomeranch.Afewmilestothesouthhecouldjustmakeoutthelineofwirefencethatseparateditfromthethirddivision;andtothenorth,seenfaintandbluethroughthehazeandshimmerofthenoonsun,alongfileoftelegraphpolesshowedthelineoftherailroadandmarkedDerrick’snortheastboundary.TheroadoverwhichPresleywastravellingranalmostdiametricallystraight.Infrontofhim,butatagreatdistance,hecouldmakeoutthegiantlive-oakandtheredroofofHooven’sbarnthatstoodnearit.

           Allabouthimthecountrywasflat.Inalldirectionshecouldseeformiles.Theharvestwasjustover.Nothingbutstubbleremainedontheground.Withtheoneexceptionofthelive-oakbyHooven’splace,therewasnothinggreeninsight.Thewheatstubblewasofadirtyyellow;theground,parched,cracked,anddry,ofacheerlessbrown.Bytheroadsidethedustlaythickandgrey,and,oneitherhand,stretchingontowardthehorizon,losingitselfinameresmudgeinthedistance,rantheillimitableparallelsofthewirefence.Andthatwasall;thatandtheburnt-outblueoftheskyandthesteadyshimmeroftheheat.

           Thesilencewasinfinite.Aftertheharvest,smallthoughthatharvesthadbeen,theranchesseemedasleep.