Can Such Things Be?

flies, is Macarger’s Gulch. It is not much of a gulch — a mere

er, and goes dry in the early spring, there is no level ground at all; the steep slopes of the hills, covered with an almost impenetrable growth of manzanita and chemisal, are parted by nothing but the width of the water course. No one but an occasional enterprising hunter of the v

ld be greater satisfaction than advantage. Possibly the creek bed is a reformed road. It is certain that the gulch was at one time pretty thoroughly prospected by miners, who must have had some means of getting in with at least pack animals carrying tools and supplies; their profits, apparently, were not such as would have justified any considerable outlay to connect Macarger’s Gulch with any center of civilization enjoying the distinction of a sawmill. The

s a long way from any human habitation — too far to reach one by nightfall. But in my game bag was food, and the old house would afford shelter, if shelter were needed on a warm and dewless night in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, where one may sleep in comfort on the pine needles, without covering. I am fond of solitude and love the night, so my resolution to “camp out” was soon taken, and by the time that it was dark I had made my bed of boughs and gras

I was unable to repress a certain feeling of apprehension as my fancy pictured the outer world and filled it with unfriendly entities, natural and supernatural — chief among which, in their respective classes, were the grizzly bear, which I knew was

out. So strong became my sense of the presence of something malign and menacing in the place, that I found myself almost unable to withdraw my eyes from the opening, as in the deepening darkness it became more and more indistinct. And when the last little flame flickered and went out I grasped the shotgun which I had laid

more fam

hat of

to solitude and darkness and silence only a more alluring interest and charm! I was unable to comprehe

as indistinct. The city was dominated by a great castle upon an overlooking height whose name I knew, but could not speak. I walked through many streets, some broad and straight with high, moder

s not aimless and fortuitous; it had a definite method. I turned from one street into another wi

ntered. The room, rather sparely furnished, and lighted by a single window with small diamond-shaped panes, had but two occupants; a man and a woman. They took no

her shoulders was a plaid shawl. The man was older, dark, with an evil face made more forbidding by a long scar extending from near the left temple diagonally downward into the black mustache; thoug

as if two pictures, the scene of my dream, and my actual surroundings, had been blended, one overlying the other, until the forme

he room. I had probably slept only a few minutes, but my commonplace dream had somehow so strongly impressed me that I was no longer drowsy; and after a li

ver been; so if the dream was a memory it was a memory of pictures and description. The recognition somehow deeply impressed me; it was as if something in my mind insisted rebelliously against will and re

the absurdity of it all soon dawned upon me: I laughed aloud, knocked the ashes from my pipe and again stretched myself upon my bed of boughs and grass, where I lay staring absently into my failing fire, with no fu

limsy structure was still shaking from the impact I heard the sound of blows, the scuffling of feet upon the floor, and then — it seemed to come from almost within reach of my hand, the sharp shrieking of a woman in mortal agony. So horrible a cry I had never heard nor conceived; it utterly unnerved me; I was conscious for a moment of nothing but m

g blacker than the black of the walls. Next, the distinction between wall and floor became discernible, and at last I was sensib

n tracks were visible in the dust covering the floor, but there were no others. I relit my pipe, provided fresh fuel by ripping a thin board or two from the inside of the house — I did not care to

isco. Dining with him one evening at his home I observed various “trophies” upon the wall, indicating that he was fond of sh

y, “do you know a place up th

I who gave to the newspapers, last year, the

ts had been published, it appeare

tion; it should have been called ‘MacGregor’s.’ My dear,” he

te — I had simply drop

, the very floor being parted, plank from plank. Between two of the sleepers still in position I and my companion observed the remnant of a plaid shawl, and examining it found that it was wrapped about the shoulders of the body of a wom

n several places, as by blows of some blunt instrument; and that instrument it

for mentioning these disagreeable particulars, the natural though regrettable incidents

ady replied with composure; “you have so m

d rather glad to g

n to the jury unknown; but it was added that the evidence pointed strongly to her husband, Thomas MacGregor, as the guilty person. But Thomas MacGregor has never

a chicken bone i

photograph of MacGregor, but i

et me see i

more forbidding by a long scar extending from near th

y affable host, “may I know why yo

,” I replied, “and the mischan

ntonation of an interpreter translating, “the los