American fiction -- 19th century; California -- Fiction; Western stories
They spurred forward in silence. It was not long before the wayside
trees began to dimly show spaces between them, and the ferns to give
way to lower, thick-set shrubs, which in turn yielded to a velvety
moss, with long quiet intervals of netted and tangled grasses. The
regular fall of the horses' feet became a mere rhythmic throbbing.
Then suddenly a single hoof rang out sharply on stone, and the first
speaker reined in slightly.
"Thank the Lord we're on the ridge now! and the rest is easy. Tell you
what, though, boys, now we're all right, I don't mind saying that I
didn't take no stock in that blamed corpse light down there. If there
ever was a will-o'-the-wisp on a square up mountain, that was one. It
wasn't no window! Some of ye thought ye saw a face too--eh?"
"Yes, and a rather pretty one," said the pleasant voice meditatively.
"That's the way they'd build that sort of thing, of course. It's lucky
ye had to satisfy yourself with looking. Gosh! I feel creepy yet,
thinking of it! What are ye looking back for now like Lot's wife?
Blamed if I don't think that face bewitched ye."
"I was only thinking about that fire you started," returned the other
quietly. "I don't see it now."
"Well--if you did?"
"I was wondering whether it could reach that hollow."
"I reckon that hollow could take care of any casual nat'rel fire that
came boomin' along, and go two better every time! Why, I don't believe
there was any fire; it was all a piece of that infernal ignis fatuus
phantasmagoriana that was played upon us down there!"
With the laugh that followed they started forward again, relapsing into
the silence of tired men at the end of a long journey. Even their few
remarks were interjectional, or reminiscent of topics whose freshness
had been exhausted with the day. The gaining light which seemed to
come from the ground about them rather than from the still, overcast
sky above, defined their individuality more distinctly. The man who
had first spoken, and who seemed to be their leader, wore the virgin
unshaven beard, mustache, and flowing hair of the Californian pioneer,
and might have been the eldest; the second speaker was close shaven,
thin, and energetic; the third, with the pleasant voice, in height,
litheness, and suppleness of figure appeared to be the youngest of the
party. The trail had now become a grayish streak along the level
table-land they were following, which also had the singular effect of
appearing lighter than the surrounding landscape, yet of plunging into
utter darkness on either side of its precipitous walls. Nevertheless,
at the end of an hour the leader rose in his stirrups with a sigh of
satisfaction.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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