It was these sounds, one by one, which impinged on Glenn Crawford's consciousness. Then the fetid odor of the mold beneath him. His face felt stiff and painful. It caused him a great effort to reach up to his cheek. The rips and tears made great gaps in his beard and his whole face was covered with dried blood. Finally he sat up, shaking his head dully. Three hours? Four hours? What time had it been? It was hard to think. He shook his head again. Early afternoon anyway. And this was—
That brought him up straight. They hadn't found him? It was strange. It was wrong, somehow. They hadn't found him. Wrong. They were better trackers than that. All of them. If Quartel could ride like that he could track like that.
He got up with great difficulty and fell down again. His head was spinning. When he got to his knees once more, the shreds11 of his ducking jacket bound his arms, and when he fell that second time, he went full on his face, unable to get his hands in front of him. In a fit of anger he tore the remains12 of the jacket off. The third time he managed to remain upright. As he stood there, the first thought of the horse came to him. He felt that pain begin in his loins. Just the thought of it!
With a sobbing13 curse he broke into a stumbling run at the first thicket14 of brush. He halted himself before he had reached the mogote. He was breathing heavily and his lips were pinched. He held out his hand before him. It shook visibly. He closed his eyes a moment, face twisted. Then he took a deep breath and opened them again, staring about the clearing. There was a great torn place in one thicket on the other side. He moved over there at a deliberate walk. The hole in the brush was big enough to walk through; beyond that was another open patch and then a second small thicket torn asunder15 by the passage of a heavy body. It was full night by the time he found the sorrel that way, following the trail it had made bursting through the brush. The animal stood in a clearing, head hanging wearily, dried lather16 forming dirty yellow patterns on its freshly scarred hide.
Crawford was about to step into the open when he caught himself. There was a dim rustling17 in the brush to his left. His face turned that way sharply. The noise ceased after a moment. He shook his head and went out to get the horse.
"Stand still, you crazy fool," he said, "stand still now, I'm not going to hurt you, just stand still, that's it, hold it."
The animal had started to shift away, but his soothing18 voice quieted it. He moved in close and ran his hand reassuringly19 along its rump and down its side. Then, as he stood with his face toward it that way, close enough so that the heat of its body reached his belly20, it began to come again. That insidious21, stirring, prickling sensation deep in his loins. That hollow sickness growing in his stomach till it approached nausea22; the sweat breaking out on his face and beneath his armpits.
The curse had a strangled sound in his throat, as he bent23 to get the trailing reins24. He wouldn't walk back to the spread. No matter what else, he wouldn't give them that satisfaction. He stopped, with his hand not yet touching25 the end of the reins. Even in the dark, bending over like that, he could see the footprints. The sorrel's hoofs26 had made their dim impression all over the decaying vegetation covering the gound. But here and there, where the horse had not blotted27 it out, was a smaller, deeper imprint28, like that of a boot heel. He remained stooped over it for a moment that way. Then, slowly, he started to lift the reins. They were caught on something. He reached down and found the ends tied about a long stake of wood embedded29 deeply beneath the rotting brush.
Crawford slipped the reins off the stick and rose beside the horse. Slowly he put his weight against its neck. His breath had a small, swift sound. The horse gradually shifted around under that pressure until it stood broadside between Crawford and the direction that small rustling had come from when he first entered the thicket.
"Now." He spoke30 to the horse softly, sliding his hands up the reins till they were directly beneath the bit, and pulling gently forward. "Let's go. Let's go. Take it easy. Let's go."
The animal moved toward the fringe of brush surrounding the clearing. Crawford walked close in by its side, tugging31 incessantly32 forward on the reins, talking in that soft low tone. The animal's hoofs crackled in the brush underfoot. It snorted once, pulling peevishly34 at his tight grip on the shanks of the bit. He twisted them upward slightly and the horse responded to the bit against its roof, quieting. They had almost reached the edge of the mogote when the shot crashed.
The horse was jerked over against Crawford by the force of the bullet going through its body. Then it reared into the air, screaming. Desperately35 Crawford tried to retain his hold on the reins, yanking the horse on ahead, throwing the whole weight of his body into it. He managed to fight the plunging36, rearing animal a couple more steps toward the brush. Then the beast's violent spasms37 tore his grip loose of the reins. With the animal still forming a shield in that last instant, he threw himself in a headlong dive for the thicket. Another shot roared behind him, and the horse screamed again, and then Crawford was rolling into the crackling, tearing mesquite thicket. He came to his feet, pawing a cluster of berries out of his face, and plunged38 blindly on into the mogote.
For a long, blind run, the only sound was that incessant33 deafening39 crash of brush all about him. He burst through that first thicket and crossed a game trail and clattered40 into another mogote. Black chaparral this time, and stabbing junco and maddening prickly pear. Then an open patch. And another ramadero. White brush and golden huisache that filled the air with a vague, viscid odor of honey. Then that was gone and the spines41 of the agarita tore at his face. He broke through the agarita into a game trail that wound its secretive way through the mogotes, and he stumbled down that till it petered out into more mesquite. Halfway42 through, the spread of mesquite became entwined with chaparro prieto and Spanish dagger43 that met his every movement with a vicious stab of its dirklike growth. He found himself fighting a frantic44, useless battle to penetrate45 this thicket farther; it had brought him to a complete stop and, standing46 there, chest heaving, face dripping sweat, he could see that the impenetrable mogote was on the rim47 of a draw, and that it grew on down into the bottom of the draw, choking it full. Even if he could manage to fight his way through the thicket, he would be exposed, crossing that draw. The realization48 came to him in a dim, spasmodic way, with no true reasoning behind it, for he was still filled with that animal panic.
He whirled back and fought his way out of the mesquite. And then, crossing the comparatively open space of the game trail, it came to him. He stopped there. Tears squeezed from his eyes with the effort it caused him to control his breath so he could hear more clearly. It came again, small, distant, yet distinct enough. The faint rattle49 of mesquite berries, brushed by a passing body. The soft snap of decaying vegetation beneath a careless foot. Again it was no reasoning process. Just a wave of instinctive50, animal realization of how he was trapped. Face twisting with frustrated51 rage, Crawford backed slowly, almost involuntarily, across the game trail into the mesquite thicket again. He moved as far back as he could, upright, and then he got down on his belly and crawled in until the roots and trunks and foliage52 became too thick even for that, and then he stopped.
His shirt was drenched53 with sweat and the perspiration54 dripped into his eyes, blinding and stinging. Gnats55 began to float in, attracted by the sweat and the blood of his scratches. At first he fought them. He rubbed his palms viciously against his face, mashing56 the maddening insects. He slapped wildly, gasping57 virulent58 curses. It only seemed to draw more. With a myriad59 of the gnats mashed60 wetly against the cut, bleeding, stinging, itching61 flesh of his face, and with a veritable cloud of them buzzing about his upper body, he put his head at last into his arms, and a bitter, hoarse62 sobbing arose mutedly from him.
At last he stopped even that. He lay there in utter, hopeless defeat. His crashing passage through the brush had frightened all the small animals into silence, but now the sounds of them began again. A hooty owl started to call, somewhere far out in the brush. Then, a coyote mourning in some distant draw. The singing of a mockingbird that had stayed awake to welcome the rising moon. The rustle10 of lizards63 through the decay. And that other sound. That desultory64, intermittent65 sound of someone moving out there.
A thin scream rang out with terrifying abruptness66, jerking Crawford's head up. He lay that way a moment, up on his hands, rigid67, trembling with strain. Then he lowered himself again. Only an ocelot, somewhere, out there, a big cat down from the mountains across the Rio maybe. And now, lying there, with the first awful sense of defeat losing its edge, the other began to come. They thought they had him? Damn them. Whoever it was, damn them. The anger grew in him till it struggled with the defeat. It thickened the blood in his throat till he almost choked. Had him trapped? The hell. Kill him like that? Without a gun, without anything. Think he'd just wait? Try it. Come on, try it. I'm here. Try it.
It was going through his head while he squirmed about beneath the low overhanging branches of chaparral, scratching his face and hands anew on barbed nopal and the harsh mesquite. Finally he found a maguey plant, close to the trail. He had no knife, and he had to tear at it with his fingers. They were ripped and bleeding by the time he had torn the first strip of the leathery plant.
The Mexicans cured the strips in brine and in the sun to supple68 it for their ropes. Crawford could do nothing but braid the stiff lengths together. And all the time, out there, approaching with the deliberateness of a man knowing the confidence of complete advantage, those sounds, rising with deadly intermittence69 over the other sounds. The soft crunch70 of a boot heel driving through the layer of rotting vegetation that covered the ground. The sibilant harshness of mesquite scraping leather. Crawford worked with swift desperation till he had a line long enough; then he knotted a hondo into one end and formed a loop. It took him half a dozen throws across the game trail to snag one of the low chaparral branches in a mogote over there. Then he hooked the line beneath a root on the opposite side of the trail so that it crossed the trail itself on the ground. He moved back into his own thicket as far as the line would permit. Then it was the waiting. Working with the rope that way, there had been no time to think. But now it had begun to come.
En la cárcel y en la cama se conocen los amigos.
Crawford felt his whole body grow rigid with a palpable jerk. He almost turned his head to see who had spoken. A muffled71 sound escaped him as he realized it had only been in his mind. The brasada could do that to a man, this way. In bed and in jail we know our friends? Sure. Maybe it was Aforismo. What did it matter.
The hooty owl stopped for a while, and there were only small rustlings in the underbrush. Then the sound again, returning. A sibilant, crushed, snapping sound.
I am a very dangerous man, Crawford.
This time he did not stiffen72. It jumped through his brain so vividly73 he could have sworn it was spoken. Yet he did not stiffen. All right. So maybe it was Whitehead. All right.
Moonlight spilled through his thicket suddenly, and he realized how long he had lain there. The rising moon made skeletal monsters of the chaparral bushes across the yellow river of the game trail, only adding to the haunted tension filling Crawford. Thoughts moved uncontrollably through his head now.
Please, no violence. I was born for laughter and wassail and song—
No. Not Jacinto. Anybody else. Even Wallace Tarant. But not big, fat, grumbling74 Hyacinth of the River. The gnats had found Crawford again. He dared not move as they buzzed fitfully about his face, stinging, maddening. He closed his eyes, gritting75 his teeth. Then he opened them again. That would not do.
He thought he would go crazy. His hands twitched76 with the impulse to slap at them. His body cried out for movement to escape their insane buzzing. Each sting made him jerk spasmodically.
Bueno—
Sure, Bailey. Sure. Crawford could imagine Bailey doing that sort of thing. All right, Bailey. Come on, Bailey. Let's get it over with, Bailey.
He tried to stop thinking like that. There were so many possibilities. He tried to stop considering them. A man could go loco that way. He could go loco and jump right up out of the thicket and run screaming down the game trail right into the arms of that bushwhacker, whoever it was. A man could go loco anyway. The ocelot screamed out there again, filling the night with a thin feral madness. It was all madness. The gnats and the screaming cat and the howling coyote and the crackling mesquite and the thoughts Crawford couldn't stop whirling faster and faster through his head till he wanted to beat it against the ground.
You'll excuse me. An old complaint.
Huerta? Sure, why not? It could be him. It could be any of them.
Yeah. Even Quartel. The ocelot or Quartel or the hooty owl or any of them.
He lay there, wanting to cry, his fists clenched78 around the rope till they hurt, his eyes squeezed tight with the terrible effort he made to control himself. Finally he opened them again, staring down the trail. It would be getting him, too, out there. If it was getting Crawford it would get the other man just as much. The brasada. That's what it was. The brasada. Enough to drive any man loco like this. And it would be getting him, too, out there.
The ocelot screamed. Crawford's lips pulled off his teeth in a wolfish grin. That get you, Bailey? That get you, Whitehead? Like it got me? The hooty owl began to talk. Crawford's grin spread. That get you? Huerta? Sort of scary, isn't it? Jacinto? Stop maybe, and look around. Sweat maybe. Like me. Aforismo? Sure. Sure it got them. They were as nervous as hell. Whoever it was, he was as nervous as hell. Crawford wanted to laugh suddenly. He was bathed suddenly in a cold sweat. Then heat flooded up from his loins. It was like a fever.
Or was it the waiting? Or the brasada. Sure, the brasada. He'd felt this way before out in it. At night. Not so much, maybe. But then he hadn't been waiting for a man with a gun to come and kill him either.
The decay was damp from his sweat beneath his belly and legs. His eyes ached from peering into the brush all about him. The gnats kept clouding his vision. But now the man was closer. Each minute sibilance crashed through Crawford's head like thunder. He could tell when the man's clothing brushed a clump79 of mesquite berries and knocked some to the ground. There was a peculiar80 rattling81 quality to that. He could tell when the man stepped on a prickly pear. It had a squashing sound. And when he shoved aside some chaparral. That held a hollow thump. And pulled aside some huisache. Sighing, like the wind.
I'm a very dangerous man, Crawford. Sure. Sure you are, Whitehead. Come on. I'll show you who's dangerous. I knew a man once who pinned it to his undershirt. All right. One more time, Quartel. One more time around and I'll show you who's dangerous. Made for laughter and wassail and song? Come on. I'm waiting. An old complaint? You'll have a complaint, Huerta. In bed and in jail—
Then it was the shadowy figure moving out of the darkness down the trail, and Crawford yanked on the maguey and it slipped off the branch and the branch snapped up with a soft crackle and caused the figure to whirl that way, his gun crashing, his back toward the thicket in which Crawford lay.
"Maybe you're a dangerous man," screamed Crawford in a terrible release, leaping to his feet and throwing himself bodily at the man, who was still firing wildly into the opposite thicket, "but this is one bronc you'll wish to hell you never climbed on."
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1
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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6
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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7
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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13
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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18
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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22
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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23
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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25
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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30
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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31
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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32
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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38
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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39
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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40
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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42
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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43
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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44
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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45
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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48
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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49
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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50
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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51
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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52
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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53
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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54
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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55
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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56
mashing
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| 捣碎 | |
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57
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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58
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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59
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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60
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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61
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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62
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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63
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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64
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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67
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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68
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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69
intermittence
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| n.间断；间歇 | |
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70
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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71
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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72
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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73
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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74
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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76
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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78
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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