Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Shebegantomentionhiminherprayerseverynight,addingafurtherpetitiontotheeffectthathewouldbecomeagoodman,andthatheshouldnotswearsomuch,andthatheshouldnevermeetDelaneyagain.

           However,asHilmastilldebatedtheideaofbathingherfeetinthecreek,atraindidactuallythunderpastoverhead—theregulareveningOverland,—thethroughexpress,thatneverstoppedbetweenBakersfieldandFresno.Itstormedbywithadeafeningclamour,andaswirlofsmoke,inalongsuccessionofway-coaches,andchocolatecolouredPullmans,grimywiththedustofthegreatdesertsoftheSouthwest.Thequiveringofthetrestle’ssupportssetatrembleinthegroundunderfoot.Thethunderofwheelsdrownedallsoundoftheflowingofthecreek,andalsothenoiseofthebuckskinmare’shoofsdescendingfromthetrailuponthegravelaboutthecreek,sothatHilma,turningaboutafterthepassageofthetrain,sawAnnixtercloseathand,withtheabruptnessofavision.

           Hewaslookingather,smilingasherarelydid,thefirmlineofhisout-thrustlowerliprelaxedgood-humouredly.Hehadtakenoffhiscampaignhattoher,andthoughhisstiff,yellowhairwastwistedintoabristlingmop,thelittlepersistenttuftonthecrown,usuallydefiantlyerectasanApache’sscalp-lock,wasnowhereinsight.

           “Hello,it’syou,isit,MissHilma?”heexclaimed,gettingdownfromthebuckskin,andallowinghertodrink.

           Hilmanodded,scramblingtoherfeet,dustingherskirtwithnervouspatsofbothhands.