Can Such Things Be [80]
par- ticles of mica were visible in the earth about it-- vestiges of its decomposition. This stone had ap- parently marked the grave out of which the tree had sprung ages ago. The tree's exacting roots had robbed the grave and made the stone a prisoner. A sudden wind pushed some dry leaves and twigs from the uppermost face of the stone; I saw the low- relief letters of an inscription and bent to read it. God in heaven! my name in full!--the date of my birth!--the date of my death! A level shaft of light illuminated the whole side of the tree as I sprang to my feet in terror. The sun was rising in the rosy east. I stood between the tree and his broad red disk--no shadow darkened the trunk! A chorus of howling wolves saluted the dawn. I saw them sitting on their haunches, singly and in groups, on the summits of irregular mounds and tumuli filling a half of my desert prospect and ex- tending to the horizon. And then I knew that these were ruins of the ancient and famous city of Carcosa. Such are the facts imparted to the medium Bay- rolles by the spirit Hoseib Alar Robardin.
THE STRANGER
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
THE STRANGER
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