Hidden Water
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Оглавление
Coolidge Dane. Hidden Water
CHAPTER I. THE MOUSE
CHAPTER II. THE MAN FROM CHERRYCOW
CHAPTER III. THE TRAIL OF THE SHEEP
CHAPTER IV. DON PABLO MORENO
CHAPTER V. HIDDEN WATER
CHAPTER VI. THE CROSSING
CHAPTER VII. HELL’S HIP POCKET
CHAPTER VIII. A YEAR’S MAIL
CHAPTER IX. MORONI
CHAPTER X “FEED MY SHEEP”
CHAPTER XI. JUMPED
CHAPTER XII. THE GARDEN IN THE DESERT
CHAPTER XIII. A SNOW-SCENE
CHAPTER XIV. FOREBODINGS
CHAPTER XV. THE CATASTROPHE
CHAPTER XVI. THE DEPARTURE
CHAPTER XVII. CHICO AND GRANDE
CHAPTER XVIII. BAD BLOOD
CHAPTER XIX. THE BIG DRUNK
CHAPTER XX. THE DROUGHT
CHAPTER XXI. THE FLOOD
CHAPTER XXII. PORTENTS OF WAR
CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST CROSSING
CHAPTER XXIV. THE END OF IT ALL
Отрывок из книги
After lashing the desert to a frazzle and finding the leaks in the Hotel Bender, the wind from Papaguería went howling out over the mesa, still big with rain for the Four Peaks country, and the sun came out gloriously from behind the clouds. Already the thirsty sands had sucked up the muddy pools of water, and the board walk which extended the length of the street, connecting saloon with saloon and ending with the New York Store, smoked with the steam of drying. Along the edge of the walk, drying out their boots in the sun, the casual residents of the town–many of them held up there by the storm–sat in pairs and groups, talking or smoking in friendly silence. A little apart from the rest, for such as he are a long time making friends in Arizona, Rufus Hardy sat leaning against a post, gazing gloomily out across the desert. For a quiet, retiring young man, interested in good literature and bearing malice toward no one, his day in the Bender barroom had been eventful out of all proportion to his deserts and wishes, and he was deep in somber meditation when the door opened and Judge Ware stepped out into the sunshine.
In outward appearance the judge looked more like a large fresh-faced boy in glasses than one of San Francisco’s eminent jurists, and the similarity was enhanced by the troubled and deprecating glances with which he regarded his foreman, who towered above him like a mentor. There was a momentary conference between them at the doorway, and then, as Creede stumped away down the board walk, the judge turned and reluctantly approached Hardy.
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“Yourn?” he inquired, surveying it with the keen concentrated gaze which stamps every point on a cowboy’s memory for life.
“Sure,” returned Hardy, patting his pony carefully upon the shoulder.
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