Adventure stories; Fiction; Mystery fiction; Short stories
I have often heard my father dwell upon the features of that ride: rock,
cliff, and barren moor alternated; the streams were very far between; and
neither beast nor bird disturbed the solitude. On the fortieth day they
had already run so short of food that it was judged advisable to call a
halt and scatter upon all sides to hunt. A great fire was built, that
its smoke might serve to rally them; and each man of the party mounted
and struck off at a venture into the surrounding desert.
My father rode for many hours with a steep range of cliffs upon the one
hand, very black and horrible; and upon the other an unwatered vale
dotted with boulders like the site of some subverted city. At length he
found the slot of a great animal, and from the claw-marks and the hair
among the brush, judged that he was on the track of a cinnamon bear of
most unusual size. He quickened the pace of his steed, and still
following the quarry, came at last to the division of two watersheds. On
the far side the country was exceeding intricate and difficult, heaped
with boulders, and dotted here and there with a few pines, which seemed
to indicate the neighbourhood of water. Here, then, he picketed his
horse, and relying on his trusty rifle, advanced alone into that
wilderness.
Presently, in the great silence that reigned, he was aware of the sound
of running water to his right; and leaning in that direction, was
rewarded by a scene of natural wonder and human pathos strangely
intermixed. The stream ran at the bottom of a narrow and winding
passage, whose wall-like sides of rock were sometimes for miles together
unscalable by man. The water, when the stream was swelled with rains,
must have filled it from side to side; the sun’s rays only plumbed it in
the hour of noon; the wind, in that narrow and damp funnel, blew
tempestuously. And yet, in the bottom of this den, immediately below my
father’s eyes as he leaned over the margin of the cliff, a party of some
half a hundred men, women, and children lay scattered uneasily among the
rocks. They lay some upon their backs, some prone, and not one stirring;
their upturned faces seemed all of an extraordinary paleness and
emaciation; and from time to time, above the washing of the stream, a
faint sound of moaning mounted to my father’s ears.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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