Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Thenoisescamefromalittledistance.Herandownthetrack,crossingtheculvert,overtheirrigatingditch,andattheheadofthelongreachoftrack—betweentheculvertandtheLongTrestle—pausedabruptly,heldimmovableatthesightofthegroundandrailsallabouthim.

           Insomeway,theherdofsheep—Vanamee’sherd—hadfoundabreachinthewirefencebytherightofwayandhadwanderedoutuponthetracks.Abandhadbeencrossingjustatthemomentoftheengine’spassage.Thepathosofitwasbeyondexpression.Itwasaslaughter,amassacreofinnocents.Theironmonsterhadchargedfullintothemidst,merciless,inexorable.Totherightandleft,allthewidthoftherightofway,thelittlebodieshadbeenflung;backsweresnappedagainstthefenceposts;brainsknockedout.Caughtinthebarbsofthewire,wedgedin,thebodieshungsuspended.Underfootitwasterrible.Theblackblood,winkinginthestarlight,seepeddownintotheclinkersbetweenthetieswithaprolongedsuckingmurmur.

           Presleyturnedaway,horror-struck,sickatheart,overwhelmedwithaquickburstofirresistiblecompassionforthisbruteagonyhecouldnotrelieve.Thesweetnesswasgonefromtheevening,thesenseofpeace,ofsecurity,andplacidcontentmentwasstrickenfromthelandscape.Thehideousruinintheengine’spathdroveallthoughtofhispoemfromhismind.Theinspirationvanishedlikeamist.ThedeProfundishadceasedtoring.

           HehurriedonacrosstheLosMuertosranch,almostrunning,evenputtinghishandsoverhisearstillhewasoutofhearingdistanceofthatallbuthumandistress