"BretHarte-LegendsAndTales" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harte Bret)

is related that the good Father Jose Maria of the Mission Dolores
had been twice attacked by this phantom sportsman; that once, on
returning from San Francisco, and panting with exertion from
climbing the hill, he was startled by a stentorian cry of "There
she blows!" quickly followed by a hurtling harpoon, which buried
itself in the sand beside him; that on another occasion he narrowly
escaped destruction, his serapa having been transfixed by the
diabolical harpoon and dragged away in triumph. Popular opinion
seems to have been divided as to the reason for the devil's
particular attention to Father Jose, some asserting that the
extreme piety of the Padre excited the Evil One's animosity, and
others that his adipose tendency simply rendered him, from a
professional view-point, a profitable capture.

Had Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at this apparition as a
heretical innovation, there was still the story of Concepcion, the
Demon Vaquero, whose terrible riata was fully as potent as the
whaler's harpoon. Concepcion, when in the flesh, had been a
celebrated herder of cattle and wild horses, and was reported to
have chased the devil in the shape of a fleet pinto colt all the
way from San Luis Obispo to San Francisco, vowing not to give up
the chase until he had overtaken the disguised Arch-Enemy. This
the devil prevented by resuming his own shape, but kept the
unfortunate vaquero to the fulfilment of his rash vow; and
Concepcion still scoured the coast on a phantom steed, beguiling
the monotony of his eternal pursuit by lassoing travellers,
dragging them at the heels of his unbroken mustang until they were
eventually picked up, half-strangled, by the roadside. The Padre
listened attentively for the tramp of this terrible rider. But no
footfall broke the stillness of the night; even the hoofs of his
own mule sank noiselessly in the shifting sand. Now and then a
rabbit bounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into the bushes. The
melancholy call of plover from the adjoining marshes of Mission
Creek came to him so faintly and fitfully that it seemed almost a
recollection of the past rather than a reality of the present.

To add to his discomposure one of those heavy sea-fogs peculiar to
the locality began to drift across the hills and presently
encompassed him. While endeavoring to evade its cold embraces,
Padre Vicentio incautiously drove his heavy spurs into the flanks
of his mule as that puzzled animal was hesitating on the brink of a
steep declivity. Whether the poor beast was indignant at this
novel outrage, or had been for some time reflecting on the evils of
being priest-ridden, has not transpired; enough that he suddenly
threw up his heels, pitching the reverend man over his head, and,
having accomplished this feat, coolly dropped on his knees and
tumbled after his rider.

Over and over went the Padre, closely followed by his faithless
mule. Luckily the little hollow which received the pair was of