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The Lone Star Ranger-Part21_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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not see. Feeling around for a place big enough to stretch out

on, he lay down. For the time being he was as safe there as he



would have been beyond in the Rim Rock. He was tired, though

not exhausted, and in spite of the throbbing pain in his arm he



dropped at once into sleep.

CHAPTER XII



Some time during the night Duane awoke. A stillness seemingly

so thick and heavy as to have substance blanketed the black



willow brake. He could not see a star or a branch or tree-trunk

or even his hand before his eyes. He lay there waiting,



listening, sure that he had been awakened by an unusual sound.

Ordinary noises of the night in the wilderness never disturbed



his rest. His faculties, like those of old fugitives and hunted

creatures, had become trained to a marvelous keenness. A long



low breath of slow wind moaned through the willows, passed

away; some stealthy, soft-footed beast trotted by him in the



darkness; there was a rustling among dry leaves; a fox barked

lonesomely in the distance. But none of these sounds had broken



his slumber.

Suddenly, piercing the stillness, came a bay of a bloodhound.



Quickly Duane sat up, chilled to his marrow. The action made

him aware of his crippled arm. Then came other bays, lower,



more distant. Silence enfolded him again, all the more

oppressive and menacing in his suspense. Bloodhounds had been



put on his trail, and the leader was not far away. All his life

Duane had been familiar with bloodhounds; and he knew that if



the pack surrounded him in this impenetrable darkness he would

be held at bay or dragged down as wolves dragged a stag. Rising



to his feet, prepared to flee as best he could, he waited to be

sure of the direction he should take.



The leader of the hounds broke into cry again, a deep,

full-toned, ringing bay, strange, ominous, terribly significant



in its power. It caused a cold sweat to ooze out all over

Duane's body. He turned from it, and with his uninjured arm



outstretched to feel for the willows he groped his way along.

As it was impossible to pick out the narrow passages, he had to



slip and squeeze and plunge between the yielding stems. He made

such a crashing that he no longer heard the baying of the



hounds. He had no hope to elude them. He meant to climb the

first cottonwood that he stumbled upon in his blind flight. But



it appeared he never was going to be lucky enough to run

against one. Often he fell, sometimes flat, at others upheld by



the willows. What made the work so hard was the fact that he

had only one arm to open a clump of close-growing stems and his



feet would catch or tangle in the narrow crotches, holding him

fast. He had to struggle desperately. It was as if the willows



were clutching hands, his enemies, fiendishly impeding his

progress. He tore his clothes on sharp branches and his flesh



suffered many a prick. But in a terrible earnestness he kept on

until he brought up hard against a cottonwood tree.



There he leaned and rested. He found himself as nearly

exhausted as he had ever been, wet with sweat, his hands torn



and burning, his breast laboring, his legs stinging from

innumerable bruises. While he leaned there to catch his breath



he listened for the pursuing hounds. For a long time there was

no sound from them. This, however, did not deceive him into any



hopefulness. There were bloodhounds that bayed often on a

trail, and others that ran mostly silent. The former were more



valuable to their owner and the latter more dangerous to the

fugitive. Presently Duane's ears were filled by a chorus of



short ringing yelps. The pack had found where he had slept, and

now the trail was hot. Satisfied that they would soon overtake



him, Duane set about climbing the cottonwood, which in his

condition was difficult of ascent.



It happened to be a fairly large tree with a fork about fifteen

feet up, and branches thereafter in succession. Duane climbed



until he got above the enshrouding belt of blackness. A pale

gray mist hung above the brake, and through it shone a line of



dim lights. Duane decided these were bonfires made along the

bluff to render his escape more difficult on that side. Away



round in the direction he thought was north he imagined he saw

more fires, but, as the mist was thick, he could not be sure.



While he sat there pondering the matter, listening for the

hounds, the mist and the gloom on one side lightened; and this






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