THE STRANGER

THE STRANGER
by Ambrose Bierce

A MAN stepped out of the darkness into the little illuminated circle
about our failing camp-fire and seated himself upon a rock.
'You are not the first to explore this region,' he said gravely.
Nobody controverted his statement; he was him- self proof of its
truth, for he was not of our party and must have been somewhere near
when we camped. Moreover, he must have companions not far away; it was
not a place where one would be living or trav- elling alone. For more
than a week we had seen, be- sides ourselves and our animals, only such
living things as rattlesnakes and horned toads. In an Ari- zona desert
one does not long coexist with only such creatures as these: one must
have pack animals, sup- plies, arms--'an outfit.' And all these imply
com- rades. It was perhaps a doubt as to what manner of men this
unceremonious stranger's comrades might be, together with something in
his words in- terpretable as a challenge that caused every man of our
half-dozen 'gentlemen adventurers' to rise to a sitting posture and lay
his hand upon a weapon --an act signifying, in that time and place, a
policy of expectation. The stranger gave the matter no attention and
began again to speak in the same deliberate, uninflected monotone in
which he had delivered his first sentence:
'Thirty years ago Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W. Kent, and
Berry Davis, all of Tucson, crossed the Santa Catalina mountains and
travelled due west, as nearly as the configuration of the coun- try
permitted. We were prospecting and it was our intention, if we found
nothing, to push through to the Gila river at some point near Big Bend,
where we understood there was a settlement. We had a good outfit, but no
guide--just Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W. Kent, and Berry
Davis.'
The man repeated the names slowly and distinctly, as if to fix them
in the memories of his audience, every member of which was now
attentively observ- ing him, but with a slackened apprehension regard-
ing his possible companions somewhere in the dark- ness that seemed to
enclose us like a black wall; in the manner of this volunteer historian
was no sug- gestion of an unfriendly purpose. His act was rather that of
a harmless lunatic than an enemy. We were not so new to the country as
not to know that the solitary life of many a plainsman had a tendency to
develop eccentricities of conduct and character not always easily
distinguishable from mental aber- ration. A man is like a tree: in a
forest of his fellows he will grow as straight as his generic and
individual nature permits; alone in the open, he yields to the deforming
stresses and tortions that environ him. Some such thoughts were in my
mind as I watched the man from the shadow of my hat, pulled low to shut
out the firelight. A witless fellow, no doubt, but what could he be
doing there in the heart of a desert?
Having undertaken to tell this story, I wish that I could describe
the man's appearance; that would be a natural thing to do.
Unfortunately, and some- what strangely, I find myself unable to do so
with any degree of confidence, for afterward no two of us agreed as to
what he wore and how he looked; and when I try to set down my own
impressions they elude me. Anyone can tell some kind of story; narration
is one of the elemental powers of the race. But the talent for
description is a gift.
Nobody having broken silence the visitor went on to say:
'This country was not then what it is now. There was not a ranch
between the Gila and the Gulf. There was a little game here and there in
the moun- tains, and near the infrequent water-holes grass enough to
keep our animals from starvation. If we should be so fortunate as to
encounter no Indians we might get through. But within a week the purpose
of the expedition had altered from discovery of wealth to preservation
of life. We had gone too far to go back, for what was ahead could be no
worse than what was behind; so we pushed on, riding by night to avoid
Indians and the intolerable heat, and con- cealing ourselves by day as
best we could. Some- times, having exhausted our supply of wild meat and
emptied our casks, we were days without food or drink; then a water-hole
or a shallow pool in the bottom of an arroyo so restored our strength
and sanity that we were able to shoot some of the wild animals that
sought it also. Sometimes it was a bear, sometimes an antelope, a
coyote, a cougar-- that was as God pleased; all were food.
'One morning as we skirted a mountain range, seeking a practicable
pass, we were attacked by a band of Apaches who had followed our trail
up a gulch--it is not far from here. Knowing that they outnumbered us
ten to one, they took none of their usual cowardly precautions, but
dashed upon us at a gallop, firing and yelling. Fighting was out of the
question: we urged our feeble animals up the gulch as far as there was
footing for a hoof, then threw ourselves out of our saddles and took to
the chaparral on one of the slopes, abandoning our en- tire outfit to
the enemy. But we retained our rifles, every man--Ramon Gallegos,
William Shaw, George W. Kent, and Berry Davis.'
'Same old crowd,' said the humorist of our party. He was an Eastern
man, unfamiliar with the decent observances of social intercourse. A
gesture of dis- approval from our leader silenced him, and the stranger
proceeded with his tale:
'The savages dismounted also, and some of them ran up the gulch
beyond the point at which we had left it, cutting off further retreat in
that direction and forcing us on up the side. Unfortunately the chapar-
ral extended only a short distance up the slope, and as we came into the
open ground above we took the fire of a dozen rifles; but Apaches shoot
badly when in a hurry, and God so willed it that none of us fell. Twenty
yards up the slope, beyond the edge of the brush, were vertical cliffs,
in which, directly in front of us, was a narrow opening. Into that we
ran, finding ourselves in a cavern about as large as an ordinary room in
a house. Here for a time we were safe: a single man with a repeating
rifle could defend the entrance against all the Apaches in the land. But
against hunger and thirst we had no defence. Courage we still had, but
hope was a memory.
'Not one of those Indians did we afterward see, but by the smoke and
glare of their fires in the gulch we knew that by day and by night they
watched with ready rifles in the edge of the bush--knew that if we made
a sortie not a man of us would live to take three steps into the open.
For three days, watch- ing in turn, we held out before our suffering
became insupportable. Then--It was the morning of the fourth day--Ramon
Gallegos said:
'"Senores, I know not well of the good God and what please Him. I
have live without religion, and I am not acquaint with that of you.
Pardon, senores, if I shock you, but for me the time is come to beat the
game of the Apache."
'He knelt upon the rock floor of the cave and pressed his pistol
against his temple. "Madre de Dios," he said, "comes now the soul of
Ramon Gallegos."
'And so he left us--William Shaw, George W. Kent, and Berry Davis.
'I was the leader: it was for me to speak.
'"He was a brave man," I said--"he knew when to die, and how. It is
foolish to go mad from thirst and fall by Apache bullets, or be skinned
alive--it is in bad taste. Let us join Ramon Gallegos."
'"That is right," said William Shaw.
'"That is right," said George W. Kent.
'I straightened the limbs of Ramon Gallegos and put a handkerchief
over his face. Then William Shaw said: "I should like to look like
that--a little while."
'And George W. Kent said that he felt that way, too.
'"It shall be so," I said: "the red devils will wait a week. William
Shaw and George W. Kent, draw and kneel."
'They did so and I stood before them.
'" Almighty God, our Father," said I.
'"Almighty God, our Father," said William Shaw.
'"Almighty God, our Father," said George W. Kent.
'"Forgive us our sins," said I.
'"Forgive us our sins," said they.
'"And receive our souls."
'"And receive our souls."
'"Amen!"
'"Amen!"
'I laid them beside Ramon Gallegos and covered their faces.'
There was a quick commotion on the opposite side of the camp-fire:
one of our party had sprung to his feet, pistol in hand.
'And you!' he shouted--'you dared to escape? --you dare to be alive?
You cowardly hound, I'll send you to join them if I hang for it!'
But with the leap of a panther the captain was upon him, grasping
his wrist. 'Hold it in, Sam Yountsey, hold it in!'
We were now all upon our feet--except the stranger, who sat
motionless and apparently inat- tentive. Some one seized Yountsey's
other arm.
'Captain,' I said, 'there is something wrong here. This fellow is
either a lunatic or merely a liar--just a plain, everyday liar whom
Yountsey has no call to kill. If this man was of that party it had five
members, one of whom--probably himself--he has not named.'
'Yes,' said the captain, releasing the insur- gent, who sat down,
'there is something--unusual. Years ago four dead bodies of white men,
scalped and shamefully mutilated, were found about the mouth of that
cave. They are buried there; I have seen the graves--we shall all see
them to- morrow.'
The stranger rose, standing tall in the light of the expiring fire,
which in our breathless attention to his story we had neglected to keep
going.
'There were four,' he said--'Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, George W.
Kent, and Berry Davis.'
With this reiterated roll-call of the dead he walked into the
darkness and we saw him no more. At that moment one of our party, who
had been on guard, strode in among us, rifle in hand and somewhat
excited.
'Captain,' he said, 'for the last half-hour three men have been
standing out there on the mesa.' He pointed in the direction taken by
the stranger. 'I could see them distinctly, for the moon is up, but as
they had no guns and I had them covered with mine I thought it was their
move. They have made none, but damn it! they have got on to my nerves.'
'Go back to your post, and stay till you see them again,' said the
captain. 'The rest of you lie down again, or I'll kick you all into the
fire.'
The sentinel obediently withdrew, swearing, and did not return. As
we were arranging our blankets the fiery Yountsey said: 'I beg your
pardon, Cap- tain, but who the devil do you take them to be? '
'Ramon Gallegos, William Shaw, and George W. Kent.'
'But how about Berry Davis? I ought to have shot him.'
'Quite needless; you couldn't have made him any deader. Go to
sleep.'


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