Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія
Chapter VII
Presley,wholookedafterhim,pendingthearrivalofahackfromBonnevillethatwastotakehimhome,knewthathewasinagony.
Butthisposer,thissillyfellow,thiscrackerofjokes,whomnoonehadevertakenveryseriously,atthelastredeemedhimself.Whenatlength,thedoctorhadarrived,hehad,forthefirsttime,openedhiseyes.
“Icanwait,”hesaid.“TakeHarranfirst.”Andwhenatlength,histurnhadcome,andwhilethesweatrolledfromhisforeheadasthedoctorbeganprobingforthebullet,hehadreachedouthisfreearmandtakenPresley’shandinhis,grippingitharderandharder,astheprobeenteredthewound.Hisbreathcameshortthroughhisnostrils;hisface,thefaceofacomicactor,withitshighcheekbones,baldforehead,andsalientears,grewpalerandpaler,hisgreatslitofamouthshuttight,butheutterednogroan.
Whentheworstanguishwasoverandhecouldfindbreathtospeak,hisfirstwordshadbeen:
“Wereanyoftheothersbadlyhurt?”
AsPresleystoodbythedoorofthehouseafterbringinginapailofwaterforthedoctor,hewasawareofapartyofmenwhohadstruckofffromtheroadontheothersideoftheirrigatingditchandwereadvancingcautiouslyintothefieldofwheat.HewonderedwhatitmeantandCutter,comingupatthatmoment,Presleyaskedhimifheknew.
“It’sDelaney,”saidCutter.“Itseemsthatwhenhewasshothecrawledoffintothewheat.Theyarelookingforhimthere.”
Presleyhadforgottenallaboutthebusterandhadonlyavaguerecollectionofseeinghimslidefromhishorseatthebeginningofthefight.
