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    Moxon's Master - and other Tales of Murder Most Foul
    Moxon's Master - and other Tales of Murder Most Foul
    Moxon's Master - and other Tales of Murder Most Foul
    Ebook111 pages1 hour

    Moxon's Master - and other Tales of Murder Most Foul

    By Ambrose Bierce

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    About this ebook

    Ambrose Bierce has a reputation as one of the darker short story writers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Here are collected his finest tales of murder, revenge and horror.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateMar 31, 2016
    ISBN9781473360365
    Moxon's Master - and other Tales of Murder Most Foul
    Author

    Ambrose Bierce

    Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914) was an American novelist and short story writer. Born in Meigs County, Ohio, Bierce was raised Indiana in a poor family who treasured literature and extolled the value of education. Despite this, he left school at 15 to work as a printer’s apprentice, otherwise known as a “devil”, for the Northern Indianan, an abolitionist newspaper. At the outbreak of the American Civil War, he enlisted in the Union infantry and was present at some of the conflict’s most harrowing events, including the Battle of Shiloh in 1862. During the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain in 1864, Bierce—by then a lieutenant—suffered a serious brain injury and was discharged the following year. After a brief re-enlistment, he resigned from the Army and settled in San Francisco, where he worked for years as a newspaper editor and crime reporter. In addition to his career in journalism, Bierce wrote a series of realist stories including “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” and “Chickamauga,” which depict the brutalities of warfare while emphasizing the psychological implications of violence. In 1906, he published The Devil’s Dictionary, a satirical dictionary compiled from numerous installments written over several decades for newspapers and magazines. In 1913, he accompanied Pancho Villa’s army as an observer of the Mexican Revolution and disappeared without a trace at the age of 71.

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      Book preview

      Moxon's Master - and other Tales of Murder Most Foul - Ambrose Bierce

      Moxon’s Master and other Tales of Murder Most Foul

      By

      Ambrose Bierce

      Copyright © 2016 Read Books Ltd.

      This book is copyright and may not be

      reproduced or copied in any way without

      the express permission of the publisher in writing

      British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      Contents

      Ambrose Bierce

      The Haunted Valley

      I - How Trees Are Felled In China

      II - Who Drives Sane Oxen Should Himself Be Sane

      An Imperfect Conflagration

      The City of the Gone Away

      My Favourite Murder

      One of Twins

      Oil of Dog

      The Death of Halpin Frayser

      I

      II

      III

      IV

      The Secret of Macarger’s Gulch

      Moxon’s Master

      Staley Fleming’s Hallucination

      One Summer Night

      Ambrose Bierce

      Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce was born in Meigs County, Ohio, United States in 1842. He was the tenth of thirteen children, and left home aged fifteen to become a ‘printer’s devil’ (a printing apprentice) at a small Ohio newspaper. Bierce fought in the American Civil War, working as a topographical engineer and even reaching the rank of brevet major before resigning from the Army to settle in San Francisco. During the 1870s and 1880s, he worked on a variety of newspapers, even spending three years in England, and famously helped quash a bill which would have put the cost of the First Transcontinental Railroad on the American people instead of the railroad companies.

      Through his newspaper output – including one of the first regular columns in William Randolph Hearst’s newspaper, the San Francisco Examiner – Bierce developed a famous reputation for searing criticism and acerbic wit, even earning the nickname ‘Bitter Bierce’. His satirical reference book, The Devil’s Dictionary, which lampooned cant and political doublespeak – Corporation (n.) An ingenious device for obtaining profit without individual responsibility

      – remains widely read today. However, Bierce is critically best remembered for his fiction. Indeed, many of his short stories – such as ‘An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge’, ‘The Boarded Window’, ‘Killed at Resaca’ and ‘Chickamauga’, all of which are penned in ‘Pure English’ – are held among the best of the 19th century. Bierce’s writings are also generally regarded as some of the best war writings of all time.

      Bierce’s death was a mysterious one, which continues to intrigue people to this day: In October 1913, aged 71, Bierce left Washington, D.C., for a tour of his old Civil War battlefields. He got as far as the Mexican city of Chihuahua, where he wrote a letter to a close friend, dated 26th December, 1913, in which he said I leave here tomorrow for an unknown destination. After this he vanished, becoming one of the most famous disappearances in American literary history.

      The Haunted Valley

      I - HOW TREES ARE FELLED IN CHINA

      A half-mile north from Jo. Dunfer’s, on the road from Hutton’s to Mexican Hill, the highway dips into a sunless ravine which opens out on either hand in a half-confidential manner, as if it had a secret to impart at some more convenient season. I never used to ride through it without looking first to the one side and then to the other, to see if the time had arrived for the revelation. If I saw nothing - and I never did see anything - there was no feeling of disappointment, for I knew the disclosure was merely withheld temporarily for some good reason which I had no right to question. That I should one day be taken into full confidence I no more doubted than I doubted the existence of Jo. Dunfer himself, through whose premises the ravine ran.

      It was said that Jo. had once undertaken to erect a cabin in some remote part of it, but for some reason had abandoned the enterprise and constructed his present hermaphrodite habitation, half residence and half groggery, at the roadside, upon an extreme corner of his estate; as far away as possible, as if on purpose to show how radically he had changed his mind.

      This Jo. Dunfer - or, as he was familiarly known in the neighborhood, Whisky Jo. - was a very important personage in those parts. He was apparently about forty years of age, a long, shock-headed fellow, with a corded face, a gnarled arm and a knotty hand like a bunch of prison-keys. He was a hairy man, with a stoop in his walk, like that of one who is about to spring upon something and rend it.

      Next to the peculiarity to which he owed his local appellation, Mr. Dunfer’s most obvious characteristic was a deep-seated antipathy to the Chinese. I saw him once in a towering rage because one of his herdsmen had permitted a travel-heated Asian to slake his thirst at the horse-trough in front of the saloon end of Jo.’s establishment. I ventured faintly to remonstrate with Jo. for his unchristian spirit, but he merely explained that there was nothing about Chinamen in the New Testament, and strode away to wreak his displeasure upon his dog, which also, I suppose, the inspired scribes had overlooked.

      Some days afterward, finding him sitting alone in his barroom, I cautiously approached the subject, when, greatly to my relief, the habitual austerity of his expression visibly softened into something that I took for condescension.

      You young Easterners, he said, are a mile-and-a-half too good for this country, and you don’t catch on to our play. People who don’t know a Chileño from a Kanaka can afford to hang out liberal ideas about Chinese immigration, but a fellow that has to fight for his bone with a lot of mongrel coolies hasn’t any time for foolishness.

      This long consumer, who had probably never done an honest day’s-work in his life, sprung the lid of a Chinese tobacco-box and with thumb and forefinger forked out a wad like a small haycock. Holding this reinforcement within supporting distance he fired away with renewed confidence.

      They’re a flight of devouring locusts, and they’re going for everything green in this God blest land, if you want to know.

      Here he pushed his reserve into the breach and when his gabble-gear was again disengaged resumed his uplifting discourse.

      I had one of them on this ranch five years ago, and I’ll tell you about it, so that you can see the nub of this whole question. I didn’t pan out particularly well those days - drank more whisky than was prescribed for me and didn’t seem to care for my duty as a patriotic American citizen; so I took that pagan in, as a kind of cook. But when I got religion over at the Hill and they talked of running me for the Legislature it was given to me to see the light. But what was I to do? If I gave him the go somebody else would take him, and mightn’t treat him white. What was I to do? What would any good Christian do, especially one new to the trade and full to the neck with the brotherhood of Man and the fatherhood of God?

      Jo. paused for a reply, with an expression of unstable satisfaction, as of one who has solved a problem by a distrusted method. Presently he rose and swallowed a glass of whisky from a full bottle on the counter, then resumed his story.

      "Besides, he didn’t count for much - didn’t know anything and gave himself airs. They all do that. I said him nay, but he muled it through on that line while he lasted; but after turning the other cheek seventy and seven times I doctored the dice so that he didn’t last forever. And I’m almighty glad I had the sand to do it.

      Jo.’s gladness, which somehow did not impress me, was duly and ostentatiously celebrated at the bottle.

      About five years ago I started in to stick up a shack. That was before this one was built, and I put it in another place. I set Ah Wee and a little cuss named Gopher to cutting the timber. Of course I didn’t expect Ah Wee to help much, for he had a face like a day in June and big black eyes - I guess maybe they were the damn’dest eyes in this neck o’ woods.

      While delivering this trenchant thrust at common sense Mr. Dunfer absently regarded a knot-hole in the thin board partition separating the bar from the living-room, as if that were one of the eyes whose size and color had incapacitated his servant for good service.

      Now you Eastern galoots won’t believe anything against the yellow devils, he suddenly flamed

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