The Secret Of Macarger's Gulch

by Ambrose Bierce

　　

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Northwestwardly from Indian Hill, about nine miles as the crow flies, isMacarger's Gulch. It is not much of a gulch -- a mere depression betweentwo wooded ridges of inconsiderable height. From its mouth up to itshead -- for gulches, like rivers, have an anatomy of their own -- thedistance does not exceed two miles, and the width at bottom is at onlyone place more than a dozen yards; for most of the distance on eitherside of the little brook which drains it in winter, and goes dry in theearly spring, there is no level ground at all; the steep slopes of thehills, covered with an almost inpenetrable growth of manzanita andchemisal, are parted by nothing but the width of the watercourse. No onebut an occasional enterprising hunter of the vicinity ever goes intoMacarger's Gulch, and five miles away it is unknown, even by name.Within that distance in any direction are far more conspicuoustopographical features without names, and one might try in vain toascertain by local inquiry the origin of the name of this one.About midway between the head and the mouth of Macarger's Gulch,the hill on the right as you ascend is cloven by another gulch, a shortdry one, and at the junction of the two is a level space of two or threeacres, and there a few years ago stood an old board house containing onesmall room. How the component parts of the house, few and simple as theywere, had been assembled at that almost inaccessible point is a problemin the solution of which there would be greater satisfaction thanadvantage. Possibly the creek bed is a reformed road. It is certain thatthe gulch was at one time pretty thoroughly prospected by miners, whomust have had some means of getting in with at least pack animalscarrying tools and supplies; their profits, apparently, were not such aswould have justified any considerable outlay to connect Macarger's Gulchwith any centre of civilization enjoying the distinction of a sawmill.The house, however, was there, most of it. It lacked a door and a windowframe, and the chimney of mud and stones had fallen into an unlovelyheap, overgrown with rank weeds. Such humble furniture as there may oncehave been and much of the lower weather-boarding, had served as fuel inthe camp fires of hunters; as had also, probably, the kerbing of an oldwell, which at the time I write of existed in the form of a rather widebut not very deep depression near by.One afternoon in the summer of 1874, I passed up Macarger's Gulchfrom the narrow valley into which it opens, by following the dry bed ofthe brook. I was quail-shooting and had made a bag of about a dozenbirds by the time I had reached the house described, of whose existenceI was until then unaware. After rather carelessly inspecting the ruin Iresumed my sport, and having fairly good success prolonged it until nearsunset, when it occurred to me that I was a long way from any humanhabitation -- too far to reach one by nightfall. But in my game bag wasfood, and the old house would afford shelter, if shelter were needed ona warm and dewless night in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, whereone may sleep in comfort on the pine needles, without covering. I amfond of solitude and love the night, so my resolution to 'camp out' wassoon taken, and by the time that it was dark I had made my bed of boughsand grasses in a corner of the room and was roasting a quail at a firethat I had kindled on the hearth. The smoke escaped out of the ruinedchimney, the light illuminated the room with a kindly glow, and as I atemy simple meal of plain bird and drank the remains of a bottle of redwine which had served me all the afternoon in place of the water, whichthe region did not supply, I experienced a sense of comfort which betterfare and accommodations do not always give.Nevertheless, there was something lacking. I had a sense ofcomfort, but not of security. I detected myself staring more frequentlyat the open doorway and blank window than I could find warrant fordoing. Outside these apertures all was black, and I was unable torepress a certain feeling of apprehension as my fancy pictured the outerworld and filled it with unfriendly entities, natural and supernatural-- chief among which, in their respective classes were the grizzly bear,which I knew was occasionally still seen in that region, and the ghost,which I had reason to think was not. Unfortunately, our feelings do notalways respect the law of probabilities, and to me that evening, thepossible and the impossible were equally disquieting.Every one who has had experience in the matter must have observedthat one confronts the actual and imaginary perils of the night with farless apprehension in the open air than in a house with an open doorway.I felt this now as I lay on my leafy couch in a corner of the room nextto the chimney and permitted my fire to die out. So strong became mysense of the presence of something malign and menacing in the place,that I found myself almost unable to withdraw my eyes from the opening,as in the deepening darkness it became more and more indistinct. Andwhen the last little flame flickered and went out I grasped the shotgunwhich I had laid at my side and actually turned the muzzle in thedirection of the now invisible entrance, my thumb on one of the hammers,ready to cock the piece, my breath suspended, my muscles rigid andtense. But later I laid down the weapon with a sense of shame andmortification. What did I fear, and why? -- I, to whom the night had beena more familiar face than that of man --I, in whom that element of hereditary superstition from which none of usis altogether free had given to solitude and darkness and silence only amore alluring interest and charm! I was unable to comprehend my folly,and losing in the conjecture the thing conjectured of, I fell asleep.And then I dreamed.I was in a great city in a foreign land -- a city whose people wereof my own race, with minor differences of speech and costume; yetprecisely what these were I could not say; my sense of them wasindistinct. The city was dominated by a great castle upon an overlookingheight whose name I knew, but could not speak. I walked through manystreets, some broad and straight with high, modern buildings, somenarrow, gloomy, and tortuous, between the gables of quaint old houseswhose overhanging stories, elaborately ornamented with carvings in woodand stone, almost met above my head.I sought some one whom I had never seen, yet knew that I shouldrecognize when found. My quest was not aimless and fortuitous; it had adefinite method. I turned from one street into another withouthesitation and threaded a maze of intricate passages, devoid of the fearof losing my way.Presently I stopped before a low door in a plain stone house whichmight have been the dwelling of an artisan of the better sort, andwithout announcing myself, entered. The room, rather sparely furnished,and lighted by a single window with small diamond-shaped panes, had buttwo occupants: a man and a woman. They took no notice of my intrusion, acircumstance which, in the manner of dreams, appeared entirely natural.They were not conversing; they sat apart, unoccupied and sullen.The woman was young and rather stout, with fine large eyes and acertain grave beauty; my memory of her expression is exceedingly vivid,but in dreams one does not observe the details of faces. About hershoulders was a plaid shawl. The man was older, dark, with an evil facemade more forbidding by a long scar extending from near the left templediagonally downward into the black moustache; though in my dreams itseemed rather to haunt the face as a thing apart -- I can express it nootherwise -- than to belong to it. The moment that I found the man andwoman I knew them to be husband and wife.What followed, I remember indistinctly; all was confused andinconsistent -- made so, I think, by gleams of consciousness. It was asif two pictures, the scene of my dream, and my actual surroundings, hadbeen blended, one overlying the other, until the former, graduallyfading, disappeared, and I was broad awake in the deserted cabin,entirely and tranquilly conscious of my situation.My foolish fear was gone, and opening my eyes I saw that my fire,not altogether burned out, had revived by the falling of a stick and wasagain lighting the room. I had probably slept only a few minutes, but mycommonplace dream had somehow so strongly impressed me that I was nolonger drowsy; and after a little while I rose, pushed the embers of myfire together, and lighting my pipe proceeded in a rather ludicrouslymethodical way to meditate upon my vision.It would have puzzled me then to say in what respect it was worthattention. In the first moment of serious thought that I gave to thematter I recognized the city of my dream as Edinburgh, where I had neverbeen; so if the dream was a memory it was a memory of pictures anddescription. The recognition somehow deeply impressed me; it was as ifsomething in my mind insisted rebelliously against will and reason onthe importance of all this. And that faculty, whatever it was, assertedalso a control of my speech. 'Surely,' I said aloud, quiteinvoluntarily, 'the MacGregors must have come here from Edinburgh.'At the moment, neither the substance of this remark nor the fact ofmy making it surprised me in the least; it seemed entirely natural thatI should know the name of my dreamfolk and something of their history.But the absurdity of it all soon dawned upon me: I laughed aloud,knocked the ashes from my pipe and again stretched myself upon my bed ofboughs and grass, where I lay staring absently into my failing fire,with no further thought of either my dream or my surroundings. Suddenlythe single remaining flame crouched for a moment, then, springingupward, lifted itself clear of its embers and expired in air. Thedarkness was absolute.At that instant -- almost, it seemed, before the gleam of the blazehad faded from my eyes -- there was a dull, dead sound, as of some heavybody falling upon the floor, which shook beneath me as I lay. I sprangto a sitting posture and groped at my side for my gun; my notion wasthat some wild beast had leaped in through the open window. While theflimsy structure was still shaking from the impact I heard the sound ofblows, the scuffling of feet upon the floor, and then -- it seemed tocome from almost within reach of my hand, the sharp shrieking of a womanin mortal agony. So horrible a cry I had never heard nor conceived; itutterly unnerved me; I was conscious for a moment of nothing but my ownterror! Fortunately my hand now found the weapon of which it was insearch, and the familiar touch somewhat restored me. I leaped to myfeet, straining my eyes to pierce the darkness. The violent sounds hadceased, but more terrible than these, I heard, at what seemed longintervals, the faint intermittent gasping of some living, dying thing!As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of the coals in thefireplace, I saw first the shapes of the door and window looking blackerthan the black of the walls. Next, the distinction between wall andfloor became discernible, and at last I was sensible to the form andfull expanse of the floor from end to end and side to side. Nothing wasvisible and the silence was unbroken.With a hand that shook a little, the other still grasping my gun, Irestored my fire and made a critical examination of the place. There wasnowhere any sign that the cabin had been entered. My own tracks werevisible in the dust covering the floor, but there were no others. Irelit my pipe, provided fresh fuel by ripping a thin board or two fromthe inside of the house -- I did not care to go into the darkness out ofdoors -- and passed the rest of the night smoking and thinking, andfeeding my fire; not for added years of life would I have permitted thatlittle flame to expire again.Some years afterward I met in Sacramento a man named Morgan, towhom I had a note of introduction from a friend in San Francisco. Diningwith him one evening at his home I observed various 'trophies' upon thewall, indicating that he was fond of shooting. It turned out that hewas, and in relating some of his feats he mentioned having been in theregion of my adventure.'Mr. Morgan,' I asked abruptly, 'do you know a place up therecalled Macarger's Gulch? ''I have good reason to,' he replied; 'it was I who gave to thenewspapers, last year, the accounts of the finding of the skeleton there."I had not heard of it; the accounts had been published, itappeared, while I was absent in the East.'By the way,' said Morgan, 'the name of the gulch is a corruption;it should have been called "MacGregor's." My dear,' he added, speakingto his wife, 'Mr. Elderson has upset his wine.'That was hardly accurate -- I had simply dropped it, glass and all.'There was an old shanty once in the gulch,' Morgan resumed whenthe ruin wrought by my awkwardness had been repaired, 'but justpreviously to my visit it had been blown down, or rather blown away, forits debris was scattered all about, the very floor being parted, plankfrom plank. Between two of the sleepers still in position I and mycompanion observed the remnant of a plaid shawl, and examining it foundthat it was wrapped about the shoulders of the body of a woman; ofcourse but little remained besides the bones, partly covered withfragments of clothing, and brown dry skin. But we will spare Mrs.Morgan,' he added with a smile. The lady had indeed exhibited signs ofdisgust rather than sympathy.'It is necessary to say, however,' he went on, 'that the skull wasfractured in several places, as by blows of some blunt instrument; andthat instrument itself -- a pick-handle, still stained with blood -- layunder the boards near by.'Mr. Morgan turned to his wife. 'Pardon me, my dear,' he said withaffected solemnity, 'for mentioning these disagreeable particulars, thenatural though regrettable incidents of a conjugal quarrel -- resulting,doubtless, from the luckless wife's insubordination.''I ought to be able to overlook it,' the lady replied withcomposure; 'you have so many times asked me to in those very words.'I thought he seemed rather glad to go on with his story.'From these and other circumstances,' he said, 'the coroner's juryfound that the deceased, Janet MacGregor, came to her death from blowsinflicted by some person to the jury unknown; but it was added that theevidence pointed strongly to her husband, Thomas MacGregor, as theguilty person. But Thomas MacGregor has never been found nor heard of.It was learned that the couple came from Edinburgh, but not -- my dear,do you not observe that Mr. Elderson's bone-plate has water in it?'I had deposited a chicken bone in my finger bowl.'In a little cupboard I found a photograph of MacGregor, but it didnot lead to his capture.''Will you let me see it?' I said.The picture showed a dark man with an evil face made moreforbidding by a long scar extending from near the temple diagonallydownward into the black moustache.'By the way, Mr. Elderson,' said my affable host, 'may I know whyyou asked about "Macarger's Gulch"?''I lost a mule near there once,' I replied, 'and the mischance has-- has quite -- upset me.''My dear,' said Mr. Morgan, with the mechanical intonation of aninterpreter translating, 'the loss of Mr. Elderson's mule has pepperedhis coffee.'

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