Вершник без голови

Chapter 8

           Afewsecondsafterthishadbeenaccomplished,ZebStumpreappearedinthedoorway,withacountenancethatproducedapleasantchangeinthefeelingsofthoseinside.Hisconfidentairandattitudeproclaimed,asplainlyaswordscouldhavedone,thathehaddiscoveredthatofwhichhehadgoneinsearchthe"yarb."Inhisrighthandheheldanumberofovalshapedobjectsofdarkgreencolourallofthembristlingwithsharpspines,setoverthesurfaceinequidistantclusters.Mauricerecognisedtheleavesofaplantwellknowntohimtheoreganocactus.

           "Don’tbeskeeart,MisterPheelum!"saidtheoldhunter,inaconsolatorytone,ashesteppedacrossthethreshold."Thur’snothin’tofearnow.Ihevgotthebolsumas’lldrawtheburnin’outo’yurblood,quicker’anflameudscorchafeather.Stopyuryellin’,man!Ye’veroustedeverybirdanbeast,ancreepin’thingtoo,Ireckon,outo’tharslumbers,formoreantwentymileupandownthecrik.Efyougoonatthatgristmuchlonger,ye’llbringtheKumancheesouto’thurmountains,anthat’udbewussmayhapthanthecrawlo’thishunderd-leggedcritter.MisterGerald,yougitriddyabandige,whilesIpurparesthepowltiss."

           Drawinghisknifefromitssheath,thehunterfirstloppedoffthespines;andthen,removingtheoutsideskin,hesplitthethicksucculentleavesofthecactusintoslicesofaboutaneighthofaninchinthickness.

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