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Jo. Dunfer. Done for. | |
Author | Ambrose Bierce |
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Published |
1900
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Language | English |
Nationality | American |
Genre | Satire |
1900 Short Story
Jo. Dunfer. Done for.
Jo. Dunfer. Done for. is an English Satire short story by American writer Ambrose Bierce. It was first published in 1900.
Jo. Dunfer. Done for.
by Ambrose Bierce
I turned from it with indifference, and brushing away the leaves from the tablet of the dead pagan restored to light the mocking words which, fresh from their long neglect, seemed to have a certain pathos. My guide, too, appeared to take on an added seriousness as he read it, and I fancied that I could detect beneath his whimsical manner something of manliness, almost of dignity. But while I looked at him his former aspect, so subtly inhuman, so tantalizingly familiar, crept back into his big eyes, repellant and attractive. I resolved to make an end of the mystery if possible.
My friend, I said, pointing to the smaller grave, did Jo. Dunfer murder that Chinaman?
He was leaning against a tree and looking across the open space into the top of another, or into the blue sky beyond. He neither withdrew his eyes, nor altered his posture as he slowly replied:
No, sir; he justifiably homicided him.
Then he really did kill him.
Kill im? I should say he did, rather. Doesnt everybody know that? Didnt he stan up before the coroners jury and confess it? And didnt they find a verdict of Came to is death by a wholesome Christian sentiment workin in the Caucasian breast? An didnt the church at the Hill turn Wisky down for it? And didnt the sovereign people elect him Justice of the Peace to get even on the gospelers? I dont know where you were brought up.
But did Jo. do that because the Chinaman did not, or would not, learn to cut down trees like a white man?
Sure! – it stans so on the record, which makes it true an legal. My knowin better doesnt make any difference with legal truth; it wasnt my funeral and I wasnt invited to deliver an oration. But the fact is, Wisky was jealous o me – and the little wretch actually swelled out like a turkeycock and made a pretense of adjusting an imaginary neck-tie, noting the effect in the palm of his hand, held up before him to represent a mirror.
Jealous of you! I repeated with ill-mannered astonishment.
Thats what I said. Why not? – dont I look all right?
He assumed a mocking attitude of studied grace, and twitched the wrinkles out of his threadbare waistcoat. Then, suddenly dropping his voice to a low pitch of singular sweetness, he continued:
Wisky thought a lot o that Chink; nobody but me knew how e doted on im. Couldnt bear im out of is sight, the derned protoplasm! And wen e came down to this clear-in one day an found him an me neglectin our work – him asleep an me grapplin a tarantula out of is sleeve – Wisky laid hold of my axe and let us have it, good an hard! I dodged just then, for the spider bit me, but Ah Wee got it bad in the side an tumbled about like anything. Wisky was just weigh-in me out one wen e saw the spider fastened on my finger; then e knew hed made a jack ass of imself. He threw away the axe and got down on is knees alongside of Ah Wee, who gave a last little kick and opened is eyes – he had eyes like mine – an puttin up is hands drew down Wiskys ugly head and held it there wile e stayed. That wasnt long, for a tremblin ran through im and e gave a bit of a moan an beat the game.
During the progress of the story the narrator had become transfigured. The comic, or rather, the sardonic element was all out of him, and as he painted that strange scene it was with difficulty that I kept my composure. And this consummate actor had somehow so managed me that the sympathy due to his dramatis persone was given to himself. I stepped forward to grasp his hand, when suddenly a broad grin danced across his face and with a light, mocking laugh he continued:
Wen Wisky got is nut out o that e was a sight to see! All his fine clothes – he dressed mighty blindin those days – were spoiled everlastin! Is hair was towsled and his face – what I could see of it – was whiter than the ace of lilies. E stared once at me, and looked away as if I didnt count; an then there were shootin pains chasin one another from my bitten finger into my head, and it was Gopher to the dark. Thats why I wasnt at the inquest.
But why did you hold your tongue afterward? I asked.
Its that kind of tongue, he replied, and not another word would he say about it.
After that Wisky took to drinkin harder an harder, and was rabider an rabider anti-coolie, but I dont think e was ever particularly glad that e dispelled Ah Wee. He didnt put on so much dog about it wen we were alone as wen he had the ear of a derned Spectacular Extravaganza like you. E put up that headstone and gouged the inscription accordin to his varyin moods. It took im three weeks, workin between drinks. I gouged his in one day.
When did Jo. die? I asked rather absently. The answer took my breath:
Pretty soon after I looked at him through that knot-hole, wen you had put something in his wisky, you derned Borgia!
Recovering somewhat from my surprise at this astounding charge, I was half-minded to throttle the audacious accuser, but was restrained by a sudden conviction that came to me in the light of a revelation. I fixed a grave look upon him and asked, as calmly as I could: And when did you go luny?
Nine years ago! he shrieked, throwing out his clenched hands – nine years ago, wen that big brute killed the woman who loved him better than she did me! – me who had followed er from San Francisco, where e won er at draw poker! – me who had watched over er for years wen the scoundrel she belonged to was ashamed to acknowledge er and treat er white! – me who for her sake kept is cussed secret till it ate im up! – me who wen you poisoned the beast fulfilled is last request to lay im alongside er and give im a stone to the head of im! And Ive never since seen er grave till now, for I didnt want to meet im here.
Meet him? Why, Gopher, my poor fellow, he is dead!
Thats why Im afraid of im.
I followed the little wretch back to his wagon and wrung his hand at parting. It was now nightfall, and as I stood there at the roadside in the deepening gloom, watching the blank outlines of the receding wagon, a sound was borne to me on the evening wind – a sound as of a series of vigorous thumps – and a voice came out of the night:
Gee-up, there, you derned old Geranium.