Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle RanchVachell, Horace Annesley
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Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch
Vachell, Horace Annesley
Ranching -- California -- Fiction; Short stories, English; Western stories
It was now so dark that I could barely distinguish the outlines of our
guide, who walked ahead of me. Suddenly he stopped and asked me if I
had any matches. I handed him my box, which he dropped, and the
matches were scattered about in the mud at our feet. He gave me back
my box, and asked Ajax for his matches. I dare say older and wiser men
would have apprehended mischief, but we were still in our salad days.
Ajax gave up his box without a protest; the man struck a match, after
some fumbling lit a piece of candle, and returned to my brother his
box. It was empty--for he had cleverly transferred the matches to his
own pocket--but we did not know that then. By the light of the candle
I was able to take stock of my surroundings. We were facing a stout
door: a door that without doubt had been constructed for purposes of
defence, and upon the centre of this our guide tapped softly--three
times. It opened at once, revealing the big body of a Celestial,
evidently the Cerberus of the establishment. Upon his fat impassive
face lay the seal of an unctuous secrecy, nothing more. Out of his
obliquely-set eyes he regarded us indifferently, but he nodded to our
guide, who returned the salutation with a sly laugh. For some
inexplicable reason that laugh fired my suspicions. It was--so to
speak--an open sesame to a chamber of horrors, the more horrible
because intangible and indescribable. Ajax said afterwards that he was
similarly affected. The contagion of fear is a very remarkable thing,
and one little understood by the physiologists. I remember I put my
hand into my pocket, because it began to tremble, and I was ashamed of
it. And then, as I still stared at the fat Chinaman, his smooth mask
seemed to drop from his face, and treachery, cunning, greed, hatred of
the "white devil" were revealed to me.
I was now convinced we had come on a fool's errand that was like to
end evilly for us, but, being a fool, I held my peace and said nothing
to Ajax, who confessed later that if I had spoken he would have
seconded a motion to retreat. We advanced, sensible that we were being
trapped: a psychological fact not without interest.
Opposite the door through which we had just passed was another door as
stout as the first. The Chinaman unlocked this with a small key, and
allowed us to enter, the guide with the candle leading the way. And
then, in a jiffy, before we had time to glance round us, the candle
was extinguished; the door was closed; we heard the click of a patent
lock; and we knew that we were alone and in darkness.
The first thing that Ajax said, and his voice was not pleasant to
hear, was: "This serves us right. Of all the confounded fools who
meddle with what does not concern them, we are the greatest."
Then I heard him fumbling for his matchbox, and then, when he
discovered that it was empty, he made some more remarks not flattering
to himself or me. I was more frightened than angry; with him rage and
disgust were paramount.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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