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e Project Gutenberg EBook of A Son of the Gods, and A Horseman
e Sky, by
brose Bierce
is eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
most no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away o
-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includeth this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
tle: A Son of the Gods, and A Horseman in the Sky
thor: Ambrose Bierce
lease Date: June 4, 2009 [EBook #5661]
nguage: English
* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SON OF THE GODS ***
oduced by David Schwan, and David Widger
A SON OF THE GODS
and
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A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY
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By Ambrose Bierce
Including an Introduction by W. C.Morrow
Western Classics No. Four
The Photogravure Frontispiece
After A Painting by Will Jenkins
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The Introduction
A SON OF THE GODS
A HORSEMAN IN THESKY
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The Introduction
illiant and magnetic as are these two studies by Ambrose Bierc
d especially significant as coming from one who was a boy soldithe Civil War, they merely reflect one side of his original and man
ceted genius. Poet, critic, satirist, fun-maker, incomparable writer
bles and masterly prose sketches, a seer of startling insight,
asoner mercilessly logical, with the delicate wit and keenness of a
ing or an Addison, the dramatic quality of a Hugo,—all of these, an
ll in the prime of his powers; yet so restricted has been his outpd so little exploited that only the judicious few have bee
pressed.
though an American, he formed his bent years ago in Londo
here he was associated with the younger Hood on Fun. There h
d the foundation for that reputation which he today enjoys: th
stinction of being the last of the scholarly satirists. With that trainincame to San Francisco, where, in an environment equally a
nial, his talent grew and mellowed through the years. Then he wa
mmoned to New York to assist a newspaper fight against a gre
lroad, since the conclusion of which brilliant campaign easte
urnalism and magazine work have claimed his attention.
wo volumes, "The Fiend's Delight" and "Cobwebs from an Emp
kull" titles that would damn modern books—were collection
blished years ago from his work on London Fun. Their appearanc
ade him at once the chief wit and humorist of England, an
mbined with his satirical work on Fun, led to his engagement
ends of the exiled Eugénie to conduct a periodical against h
emies, who purposed to make her refuge in England untenable eans of newspaper attacks. It is easy to imagine the zest with whi
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e chivalrous Bierce plunged into preparations for the fight. But th
uggle never came; it was sufficient to learn that Bierce would be th
chmond; the attack upon the stricken ex-empress was abandoned
hen he was urged in San Francisco, years afterward, to write mo
the inimitable things that filled those two volumes, he said that
as only fun, a boy's work. Only fun! There has never been sulicious fun since the beginning of literature, and there is nothin
tter than fun. Yet it held his own peculiar quality, which is not that
merican fun,—quality of a brilliant intellectuality: the keenness of
pier, a teasing subtlety, a contempt for pharisaism an
ueamishness, and above all a fine philosophy. While he has nev
st his sense of the whimsical, the grotesque, the unusual, he—
fortunately, perhaps—came oftener to give it the form of pure w
ther than of cajoling humor. Few Americans know him as
morist, because his humor is not built on the broad, rough lines th
e typically American. It belongs to an older civilization, yet it is jolli
an the English and bolder than the French.
all times his incomparable wit and satire has appealed rather e cultured, and even the emotional quality of his fiction is frequen
profound and unusual as to be fully enjoyed only by the intellectua
trammelled. His writing was never for those who could only rea
d feel, not think.
nother factor against his wider acceptance has been th
requency and fragmentary character of his work, particularly htire. No sustained fort in that field has come from him. His sati
as born largely of a transient stimulus, and was evanescent. Eve
s short stories are, generally, but blinding flashes of a moment in
e. He laughingly ascribes the meagerness of his output
dolence; but there may be a deeper reason, of which he
conscious. What is more dampening than a seeming lack preciation? "Tales of Soldiers and Civilians" had a disheartenin
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arch for an established publisher, and finally was brought out by a
miring merchant of San Francisco. It attracted so much critic
ention that its re-publication was soon undertaken by a regul
use.
ad Bierce never produced anything but these prose tales, his rig
a place high in American letters would nevertheless be secure, anall his work, serious or otherwise, here is his greatest claim
pular and permanent recognition. No stories for which the Civil W
s furnished such dramatic setting surpass these masterpieces
ort fiction, either in power of description, subtlety of touch or litera
ish. It is deeply to be regretted that he has not given us more su
ose.
. C. Morrow.
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A SON OF THE GODS
breezy day and a sunny landscape. An open country to right and le
d forward; behind, a wood. In the edge of this wood, facing then but not venturing into it, long lines of troops halted. The wood
ve with them, and full of confused noises: the occasional rattle
heels as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover th
vance; the hum and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound
numerable feet in the dry leaves that strew the interspaces amon
e trees; hoarse commands of officers. Detached groups rsemen are well in front—not altogether exposed—many of the
ently regarding the crest of a hill a mile away in the direction of th
errupted advance. For this powerful army, moving in battle ord
rough a forest, has met with a formidable obstacle—the ope
untry. The crest of that gentle hill a mile away has a sinister look
ys, Beware! Along it runs a stone wall extending to left and righteat distance. Behind the wall is a hedge; behind the hedge a
en the tops of trees in rather straggling order. Among the trees—
hat? It is necessary to know.
esterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fightin
mewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional kee
ttlings of musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy's, wldom knew, attesting some temporary advantage. This morning
ybreak the enemy was gone. We have moved forward across h
rthworks, across which we have so often vainly attempted to mov
fore, through the debris of his abandoned camps, among th
aves of his fallen, into the woods beyond.
ow curiously we regarded everything! How odd it all seemeothing appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects—a
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d saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen everything relate
mething of the mysterious personality of those strange men wh
d been killing us. The soldier never becomes wholly familiar w
e conception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot dive
mself of the feeling that they are another order of beings, differen
nditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth. Th
mallest vestiges of them rivet his attention and engage his interee thinks of them as inaccessible; and, catching an unexpecte
mpse of them, they appear farther away, and therefore larger, tha
ey really are—like objects in a fog. He is somewhat in awe of them
om the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks
rses and wheels—the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass
aten down by the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this wa
thousands; they have not withdrawn by the country roads. This
gnificant—it is the difference between retiring and retreating.
at group of horsemen is our commander, his staff, and escort. H
facing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes w
th hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seemdignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers th
ass and says a few words to those about him. Two or three aide
tach themselves from the group and canter away into the wood
ong the lines in each direction. We did not hear his words, but w
ew them: "Tell General X. to send forward the skirmish line." Thos
us who have been out of place resume our positions; the me
sting at ease straighten themselves, and the ranks are reforme
thout a command. Some of us staff officers dismount and look
r saddle-girths; those already on the ground remount.
alloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes
ung officer on a snow-white horse. His saddle-blanket is scarle
hat a fool! No one who has ever been in battle but remembers hoturally every rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one b
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s observed how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. That suc
lors are fashionable in military life must be accepted as the mo
tonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. They would see
have been devised to increase the death-rate.
is young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. He is all aglea
th bullion, a blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War. A wave orisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. But ho
ndsome he is! With what careless grace he sits his horse!
e reins up within a respectful distance of the corps commander an
lutes. The old soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows him.
ef colloquy between them is going on; the young man seems to b
eferring some request which the elder one is indisposed to grant us ride a little nearer. Ah! too late—it is ended. The young offic
lutes again, wheels his horse, and rides straight toward the crest
e hill. He is deadly pale.
thin line of skirmishers, the men deployed at six paces or so apa
w pushes from the wood into the open. The commander speaks
s bugler, who claps his instrument to his lips. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la! Th
irmishers halt in their tracks.
eantime the young horseman has advanced a hundred yards. He
ing at a walk, straight up the long slope, with never a turn of th
ad. How glorious! Gods! what would we not give to be in his plac
with his soul! He does not draw his sabre; his right hand hangsily at his side. The breeze catches the plume in his hat and flutte
smartly. The sunshine rests upon his shoulder-straps, lovingly, like
sible benediction. Straight on he rides. Ten thousand pairs of eye
e fixed upon him with an intensity that he can hardly fail to feel; te
ousand hearts keep quick time to the inaudible hoof-beats of h
owy steed. He is not alone—he draws all souls after him; we a
t "dead men all." But we remember that we laughed! On and o
aight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides. Not a look backward. Oh
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would but turn—if he could but see the love, the adoration, th
onement!
ot a word is spoken; the populous depths of the forest still murm
th their unseen and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe there
ence absolute. The burly commander is an equestrian statue
mself. The mounted staff officers, their field-glasses up, aotionless all. The line of battle in the edge of the wood stands at
w kind of "attention," each man in the attitude in which he wa
ught by the consciousness of what is going on. All these hardene
d impenitent man-killers, to whom death in its awfulest forms is
ct familiar to their every-day observation; who sleep on hi
mbling with the thunder of great guns, dine in the midst
eaming missiles, and play at cards among the dead faces of the
arest friends,—all are watching with suspended breath and beatin
arts the outcome of an act involving the life of one man. Such is th
agnetism of courage and devotion.
now you should turn your head you would see a simultaneou
ovement among the spectators a start, as if they had received aectric shock—and looking forward again to the now dista
rseman you would see that he has in that instant altered h
ection and is riding at an angle to his former course. Th
ectators suppose the sudden deflection to be caused by a sho
rhaps a wound; but take this field-glass and you will observe that h
riding toward a break in the wall and hedge. He means, if not kille
ride through and overlook the country beyond.
ou are not to forget the nature of this man's act; it is not permitted
u to think of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the other hand,
edless sacrifice of self. If the enemy has not retreated, he is in forc
that ridge. The investigator will encounter nothing less than a line
ttle; there is no need of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to givarning of our approach; our attacking lines will be visib
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nspicuous, exposed to an artillery fire that will shave the ground th
oment they break from cover, and for half the distance to a sheet
e bullets in which nothing can live. In short, if the enemy is there
ould be madness to attack him in front; he must be maneuvered o
the immemorial plan of threatening his line of communication, a
cessary to his existence as to the diver at the bottom of the sea h
-tube. But how ascertain if the enemy is there? There is but onay: somebody must go and see. The natural and customary thing
is to send forward a line of skirmishers. But in this case they w
swer in the affirmative with all their lives; the enemy, crouching
uble ranks behind the stone wall and in cover of the hedge, will wa
til it is possible to count each assailant's teeth. At the first volley
lf of the questioning line will fall, the other half before it cacomplish the predestined retreat. What a price to pay for gratifie
riosity! At what a dear rate an army must sometimes purchas
owledge! "Let me pay all," says this gallant man—this milita
hrist!
ere is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clea
ue, he might prefer capture to death. So long as he advances, the will not fire,—why should it? He can safely ride into the host
nks and become a prisoner of war. But this would defeat his objec
would not answer our question; it is necessary either that he retu
harmed or be shot to death before our eyes. Only so shall we kno
w to act. If captured—why, that might have been done by a ha
zen stragglers.
ow begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man an
army. Our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the cres
ddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it. H
s caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all. Some slig
vantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line.
were here, he could tell us in words. But that is now hopeless; hust make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him,
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mpelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly
ssible—which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do. N
rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those maske
d shotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperativ
ty of forbearance. Besides, there has been time enough to forb
em all to fire. True, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be n
eat disclosure. But firing is infectious—and see how rapidly hoves, with never a pause except as he whirls his horse about
ke a new direction, never directly backward toward us, nev
ectly forward toward his executioners. All this is visible through th
ass; it seems occurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enem
hose presence, whose thoughts, whose motives we infer. To th
aided eye there is nothing but a black figure on a white horscing slow zigzags against the slope of a distant hill—so slowly th
em almost to creep.
ow—the glass again—he has tired of his failure, or sees his erro
has gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if
ke it at a leap, hedge and all! One moment only and he wheels rig
out and is speeding like the wind straight down the slope—towas friends, toward his death! Instantly the wall is topped with a fierc
l of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to, right and left. Th
as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of the rifle
aches us, he is down. No, he recovers his seat; he has but pulle
s horse upon its haunches. They are up and away! A tremendou
eer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of oelings. And the horse and its rider? Yes, they are up and awa
way, indeed—they are making directly to our left, parallel to the no
eadily blazing and smoking wall. The rattle of the musketry
ntinuous, and every bullet's target is that courageous heart.
uddenly a great bank of white smoke pushes upward from behin
e wall. Another and another—a dozen roll up before the thunder e explosions and the humming of the missiles reach our ears, an
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e missiles themselves come bounding through clouds of dust in
r covert, knocking over here and there a man and causing
mporary distraction, a passing thought of self.
e dust drifts away. Incredible!—that enchanted horse and rid
ve passed a ravine and are climbing another slope to unv
other conspiracy of silence, to thwart the will of another armed hosnother moment and that crest too is in eruption. The horse rears an
ikes the air with its forefeet. They are down at last. But look again
e man has detached himself from the dead animal. He stands ere
otionless, holding his sabre in his right hand straight above h
ad. His face is toward us. Now he lowers his hand to a level with h
ce and moves it outward, the blade of the sabre describing
wnward curve. It is a sign to us, to the world, to posterity. It is
ro's salute to death and history.
gain the spell is broken; our men attempt to cheer; they are chokin
th emotion; they utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch the
eapons and press tumultuously forward into the open. Th
irmishers, without orders, against orders, are going forward aten run, like hounds unleashed. Our cannon speak and the enemy
w open in full chorus; to right and left as far as we can see, th
stant crest, seeming now so near, erects its towers of cloud, and t
eat shot pitch roaring down among our moving masses. Flag aft
g of ours emerges from the wood, line after line sweeps fort
tching the sunlight on its burnished arms. The rear battalions alon
e in obedience; they preserve their proper distance from th
surgent front.
e commander has not moved. He now removes his field-glass fro
s eyes and glances to the right and left. He sees the human curre
wing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide wave
rted by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking. Agadirects his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and aw
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est. He addresses a calm word to his bugler. Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la
e injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. It is repeate
all the bugles of all the subordinate commanders; the sha
etallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance, an
netrate the sound of the cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colo
ove slowly back, the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearin
eir wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.
h, those many, many needless dead! That great soul whos
autiful body is lying over yonder, so conspicuous against the se
lside—could it not have been spared the bitter consciousness of
in devotion? Would one exception have marred too much th
iless perfection of the divine, eternal plan?
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A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY
ne sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861, a soldier lay in
ump of laurel by the side of a road in Western Virginia. He lay at fngth, upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his hea
on the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped h
e. But for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and
ght rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of his be
might have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post
ty. But if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, that beine just and legal penalty of his crime.
e clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a roa
hich, after, ascending, southward, a steep acclivity to that poin
rned sharply to the west, running along the summit for perhaps on
ndred yards. There it turned southward again and went zigzaggin
wnward through the forest. At the salient of that second angle walarge flat rock, jutting out northward, overlooking the deep vall
m which the road ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a ston
opped from its outer edge would have fallen sheer downward on
ousand feet to the tops of the pines. The angle where the soldier l
as on another spur of the same cliff. Had he been awake, he wou
ve commanded a view, not only of the short arm of the road and thting rock, but of the entire profile of the cliff below it. It might w
ve made him giddy to look.
e country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of th
lley to the northward, where there was a small natural meadow
rough which flowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley's ri
is open ground looked hardly larger than an ordinary dooryard, bas really several acres in extent. Its green was more vivid than th
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the inclosing forest. Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs simil
those upon which we are supposed to stand in our survey of th
vage scene, and through which the road had some how made
mb to the summit. The configuration of the valley, indeed, was suc
at from this point of observation it seemed entirely shut in, and on
uld not but have wondered how the road which found a way out o
d found a way into it, and whence came and whither went thaters of the stream that parted the meadow two thousand fe
low.
o country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theater of wa
ncealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap, in whi
lf a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved
my to submission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. They ha
arched all the previous day and night, and were resting. At nightf
ey would take to the road again, climb to the place where the
faithful sentinel now slept, and, descending the other slope of th
ge, fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. Their hop
as to surprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of failur
eir position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they sureould, should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of th
ovement.
e sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young Virginia
med Carter Druse. He was the son of wealthy parents, an on
ild, and had known such ease and cultivation and high living
ealth and taste were able to command in the mountain country
estern Virginia. His home was but a few miles from where he no
y. One morning he had risen from the breakfast table and sa
ietly but gravely: "Father, a Union regiment has arrived at Grafton
m going to join it."
e father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment ence, and replied: "Well, go, sir, and, whatever may occur, do wh
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u conceive to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, mu
t on without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we w
eak further of the matter. Your mother, as the physician ha
ormed you, is in a most critical condition; at the best, she cannot b
th us longer than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would b
tter not to disturb her."
o Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned th
lute with a stately courtesy which masked a breaking heart, left th
me of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courag
deeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to h
lows and his officers; and it was to these qualities and to som
owledge of the country that he owed his selection for his prese
rilous duty at the extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had be
onger than resolution, and he had fallen asleep. What good or ba
gel came in a dream to rouse him from his state of crime, who sh
y? Without a movement, without a sound, in the profound silenc
d the languor of the late afternoon, some invisible messenger
e touched with unsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness—
hispered into the ear of his spirit the mysterious awakening wohich no human lips ever have spoken, no human memory ever ha
called. He quietly raised his forehead from his arm and looke
tween the masking stems of the laurels, instinctively closing h
ht hand about the stock of his rifle.
s first feeling was a keen artistic delight. On a colossal pedesta
e cliff,—motionless at the extreme edge of the capping rock an
arply outlined against the sky,—was an equestrian statue
pressive dignity. The figure of the man sat the figure of the hors
aight and soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian god carted
e marble which limits the suggestion of activity. The gray costum
rmonized with its aerial background; the metal of accoutrement an
parison was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animain had no points of high light. A carbine, strikingly foreshortened, la
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ross the pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right han
asping it at the "grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, wa
visible. In silhouette against the sky, the profile of the horse was c
th the sharpness of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air
e confronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider, turned sligh
way, showed only an outline of temple and beard; he was lookin
wnward to the bottom of the valley. Magnified by its lift against thy and by the soldier's testifying sense of the formidableness of
ar enemy, the group appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.
or an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he ha
ept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of a
ared upon that commanding eminence to commemorate the deed
an heroic past of which he had been an inglorious part. The feelin
as dispelled by a slight movement of the group: the horse, witho
oving its feet, had drawn its body slightly backward from the verg
e man remained immobile as before. Broad awake and keenly ali
the significance of the situation, Druse now brought the butt of h
e against his cheek by cautiously pushing the barrel forwa
rough the bushes, cocked the piece, and, glancing through thghts, covered a vital spot of the horseman's breast. A touch upo
e trigger and all would have been well with Carter Druse. At th
stant the horseman turned his head and looked in the direction
s concealed foeman—seemed to look into his very face, into h
es, into his brave, compassionate heart.
it, then, so terrible to kill an enemy in war—an enemy who h
rprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades—a
emy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for
mbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turne
nt, and saw the statuesque group before him as black figure
ing, falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. H
nd fell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until hce rested on the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentlema
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d hardy soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.
was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from eart
s hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought th
gger; mind, heart and eyes were clear, conscience and reaso
und. He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him wou
t send him dashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of thldier was plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush—witho
arning, without a moment's spiritual preparation, with never so mu
an unspoken prayer, he must be sent to his account. But no—the
a hope; he may have discovered nothing; perhaps he is b
miring the sublimity of the landscape. If permitted, he may turn an
e carelessly away in the direction whence he came. Surely it will b
ssible to judge at the instant of his withdrawing whether he knows
ay well be that his fixity of attention—-Druse turned his head an
oked through the deeps of air downward as from the surface of th
ttom of a translucent sea. He saw creeping across the gree
eadow a sinuous line of figures of men and horses—some fooli
mmander was permitting the soldiers of his escort to water the
asts in the open, in plain view from a hundred summits!
use withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upo
e group of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through th
ghts of his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In h
emory, as if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of h
her at their parting: "Whatever may occur, do what you conceive
your duty." He was calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigid
osed; his nerves were as tranquil as a sleeping babe's—not
mor affected any muscle of his body; his breathing, until suspende
the act of taking aim, was regular and slow. Duty had conquere
e spirit had said to the body: "Peace, be still." He fired.
n officer of the Federal force, who, in a spirit of adventure or in queknowledge, had left the hidden bivouac in the valley, and, wi
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mless feet, had made his way to the lower edge of a small ope
ace near the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to ga
pushing his exploration further. At a distance of a quarter-mi
fore him, but apparently at a stone's throw, rose from its fringe
nes the gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height abov
m that it made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a shar
gged line against the sky. At some distance away to his right esented a clean, vertical profile against a background of blue sky
point half the way down, and of distant hills hardly less blue, thenc
the tops of the trees at its base. Lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitud
its summit, the officer saw an astonishing sight—a man o
rseback riding down into the valley through the air!
raight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in th
ddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from to
petuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streame
ward, waving like a plume. His hands were concealed in the clou
the horse's lifted mane. The animal's body was as level as if eve
of-stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those
wild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all thgs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. B
s was a flight!
led with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman
e sky-half believing himself the chosen scribe of some ne
ocalypse, the officer was overcome by the intensity of h
motions; his legs failed him and he fell. Almost at the same insta
heard a crashing sound in the trees—a sound that died without a
ho—and all was still.
e officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar sensation of a
raded shin recalled his dazed faculties. Pulling himself together, h
n obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its fooereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he natura
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led. In the fleeting instant of his vision his imagination had been s
ought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of th
arvelous performance that it did not occur to him that the line
arch of aerial cavalry is directly downward, and that he could find t
jects of his search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-hour later h
turned to camp.
is officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredib
th. He said nothing of what he had seen. But when the command
ked him if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to th
pedition, he answered:
es, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from th
uthward."
e commander, knowing better, smiled.
ter firing his shot, Private Carter Druse reloaded his rifle an
sumed his watch. Ten minutes had hardly passed when a Feder
rgeant crept cautiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neith
rned his head nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign cognition.
id you fire?" the sergeant whispered.
t what?"
horse. It was standing on yonder rock-pretty far out. You see it longer there. It went over the cliff."
e man's face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotio
aving answered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. Th
rgeant did not understand.
ee here, Druse," he said, after a moment's silence, "it's no usaking a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anybody on th
rse?"
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es."
Well?"
y father."
e sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "Good God!" he sai
Here ends No. Four of the Western
Classics containing A Son of the Gods
and A Horseman in the Sky by
Ambrose Bierce with an introduction by
W. C. Morrow and a photogravurefrontispiece after a painting by Will
Jenkins. Of this first edition one
thousand copies have been issued
printed on Frabriano handmade paper
the typography designed by J. H. Nash
published by Paul Elder and Companyand done into a book for them at the
Tomoye Press in the city of New York
MCMVII
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