The icy tones had ceased, and the crowd breathed a great sigh, as if it had been freed of a physical pain. But still no one seemed to know where to reach for the scruff of this weird situation. Finally there was some jostling on the outskirts of the crowd, and some men were seen to be pushing old Billie Simpson forward amid some protests. Simpson was on state occasions the voice of the town. Somewhere in his past he had been a Baptist preacher. He had fallen far, very far, and the only remnant of his former dignity was a fatal facility of speech when half drunk. Warpost used him on those state occasions when it became bitten with a desire to “do the thing up in style.” So the citizens pushed the blear-eyed old ruffian forward until he stood hemming and hawing in front of Larpent. It was evident at once that he was brutally sober, and hence wholly unfitted for whatever task had been planned for him. A dozen times he croaked like a frog, meanwhile wiping the back of his hand rapidly across his mouth. At last he managed to stammer:
“Mister Larpent—”
In some indescribable manner, Larpent made his attitude of respectful attention to be grossly contemptuous and insulting.
“Yes, Mister Simpson?”
“Er — now — Mister Larpent,” began the old man hoarsely, “we wanted to know — —” Then, obviously feeling that there was a detail which he had forgotten, he turned to the crowd and whispered, “Where is it?” Many men precipitately cleared themselves out of the way, and down this lane Larpent had an unobstructed view of the body of the man he had slain. Old Simpson again began to croak like a frog.
“Mister Larpent.”
“Yes, Mister Simpson.”
“Do you — er — do you — admit — —”
“Oh, certainly,” said the gambler, good-humoredly. “There can be no doubt of it, Mister Simpson, although, with your well-known ability to fog things, you may later possibly prove that you did it yourself. I shot him because he was too officious. Not quite enough men are shot on that account, Mister Simpson. As one fitted by nature to be consummately officious, I hope you will agree with me, Mister Simpson.”
Men were plucking old Simpson by the sleeve, and giving him directions. One could hear him say, “What? Yes. All right. What? All right.” In the end he turned hurriedly upon Larpent and blurted out:
“Well, I guess we’re goin’ to hang you.”
Larpent bowed. “I had a suspicion that you would,” he said, in a pleasant voice. “There has been an air of determination about the entire proceeding, Mister Simpson.”
There was an awkward moment.
“Well — well — well, come ahead — —”
Larpent courteously relieved a general embarrassment. “Why, of course. We must be moving. Clergy first, Mister Simpson. I’ll take my old friend, Bobbie Hether, on my right hand, and we’ll march soberly to the business, thus lending a certain dignity to this outing of real estate speculators.”
“Tom,” quavered Bob Hether, “for Gawd sake, keep your mouth shut.”
“He invokes the deity,” remarked Larpent, placidly. “But no; my last few minutes I am resolved to devote to inquiries as to the welfare of my friends. Now, you, for instance, my dear Bobbie, present today the lamentable appearance of a rattlesnake that has been four times killed and then left in the sun to rot. It is the effect of friendship upon a highly delicate system. You suffer? It is cruel. Never mind; you will feel better presently.”
III
Warpost had always risen superior to her lack of a tree by making use of a fixed wooden crane which appeared over a second story window on the front of Pigrim’s general store. This crane had a long tackle always ready for hoisting merchandise to the store’s loft. Larpent, coming in the midst of a slow-moving throng, cocked a bright bird-like eye at this crane.
“Mm — yes,” he said.
Men began to work frantically. They called each to each in voices strenuous but low. They were in a panic to have the thing finished. Larpent’s cold ironical survey drove them mad, and it entered the minds of some that it would be felicitous to hang him before he could talk more. But he occupied the time in pleasant discourse.
“I see that Smith Hanham is not here. Perhaps some undue tenderness of sentiment keeps him away. Such feelings are entirely unnecessary. Don’t you think so, Bobbie? Note the feverish industry with which the renegade parson works at the rope. You will never be hung, Simpson. You will be shot for fooling too near a petticoat which doesn’t belong to you — the same old habit which got you flung out of the church, you red-eyed old satyr. Ah, the Cross Trail coach approaches. What a situation.”
The crowd turned uneasily to follow his glance, and saw, truly enough, the dusty rickety old vehicle coming at the gallop of four lean horses. Ike Boston was driving the coach, and far away he had seen and defined the throng in front of Pigrim’s store. First calling out excited information to his passengers, who were all inside, he began to lash his horses and yell. As a result, he rattled wildly up to the scene just as they were arranging the rope around Larpent’s neck.
“Whoa,” said he to his horses.
The inhabitants of Warpost peered at the windows of the coach, and saw therein six pale, horror-stricken faces. The men at the rope stood hesitating. Larpent smiled blandly. There was a silence. At last a broken voice cried from the coach: “Driver! driver! What is it? What is it?”
Ike Boston spat between the wheel horses and mumbled that he s’posed anybody could see, less’n they were blind. The door of the coach opened, and out stepped a beautiful young lady. She was followed by two little girls, hand clasped in hand, and a white-haired old gentleman with a venerable and peaceful face. And the rough West stood in naked immorality before the eyes of the gentle East. The leatherfaced men of Warpost had never imagined such perfection of feminine charm, such radiance; and as the illumined eyes of the girl wandered doubtfully, fearfully, toward the man with the rope around his neck, a certain majority of practiced ruffians tried to look as if they were having nothing to do with the proceedings.
“Oh,” she said, in a low voice, “what are you going to do?”
At first none made reply, but ultimately a hero managed to break the harrowing stillness by stammering out, “Nothin’!” And then, as if aghast at his own prominence, he shied behind the shoulders of a big neighbor.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “But it’s wicked. Don’t you see how wicked it is? Papa, do say something to them.”
The clear, deliberate tones of Tom Larpent suddenly made every one stiffen. During the early part of the interruption he had seated himself upon the steps of Pigrim’s store, in which position he had maintained a slightly bored air. He now was standing with the rope around his neck and bowing. He looked handsome and distinguished and — a devil, a devil as cold as moonlight upon the ice.
“You are quite right, miss. They are going to hang me; but I can give you my word that the affair is perfectly regular. I killed a man this morning, and, you see, these people here, who look like a fine collection of premier scoundrels, are really engaged in forcing a real estate boom. In short, they are speculators, land barons, and not the children of infamy which you no doubt took them for at first.”
“O — oh!” she said, and shuddered.
Her father now spoke haughtily. “What has this man done? Why do you hang him without a trial, even if you have fair proofs?”
The crowd had been afraid to speak to the young lady, but a dozen voices answered her father. “Why, he admits it.” “Didn’t ye hear?” “There ain’t no doubt about it.” “No!” “He sez he did.”
The old man looked at the smiling gambler. “Do you admit that you committed murder?”
Larpent answered slowly. “For the first question in a temporary acquaintance that is a fairly strong beginning. Do you wish me to speak as man to man, or to one who has some kind of official authority to meddle in a thing that is none of his affair?”
“I — ah — I,” stuttered the other. “Ah — man to man.”
“Then,” said
Larpent, “I have to inform you that this morning, at about 10:30, a man was shot and killed in my gambling house. He was engaged in the exciting business of trying to grab some money out of which he claimed I had swindled him. The details are not interesting.”
The old gentleman waved his arm in a gesture of terror and despair, and tottered toward the coach; the young lady fainted; the two little girls wailed. Larpent sat on the steps with the rope around his neck.
IV
The chief function of Warpost was to prey upon the bands of cowboys who, when they were paid, rode gaily into town to look for sin. To this end there were in Warpost many thugs and thieves. There was treachery and obscenity and merciless greed in every direction. Even Mexico was levied upon to furnish a kind of ruffian which appears infrequently in the northern races. Warpost was not good; it was not tender; it was not chivalrous, but —
But —
There was a quality to the situation in front of Pilgrim’s store which made Warpost wish to stampede. There were the two children, their angelic faces turned toward the sky, weeping in the last anguish of fear; there was the beautiful form of the young lady prostrate in the dust of the road, with her trembling father bending over her; on the steps sat Larpent, waiting, with a derisive smile, while from time to time he turned his head in the rope to make a forked-tongued remark as to the character and bearing of some acquaintance. All the simplicity of a mere lynching was gone from this thing. Through some bewildering inner power of its own, it was carried out of the hands of its inaugurators, and was marching along like a great drama, and they were only spectators. To them it was ungovernable; they could do no more than stand on one foot and wonder.
Some were heartily sick of everything, and wished to run away. Some were so interested in the new aspect that they had forgotten why they had originally come to the front of Pigrim’s store. These were the poets. A large practical class wished to establish at once the identity of the newcomers. Who were they? Where did they come from? Where were they going to? It was truthfully argued that they were the parson for the new church at Crowdger’s Corner, with his family.
And a fourth class — a dark-browed, muttering class — wished to go at once to the root of all disturbance by killing Ike Boston for trundling up in his old omnibus, and dumping out upon their ordinary lynching party such a load of tears and inexperience and sentimental argument. In low tones they addressed vitriolic reproaches.
“But how’d I know?” he protested, almost with tears—”how’d I know ther’d be all this here kick-up?”
But Larpent suddenly created a great stir. He stood up, and his face was inspired with new, strong resolution.
“Look here, boys,” he said decisively, “you hang me tomorrow — or, anyhow, later on today. We can’t keep frightening the young lady and these two poor babies out of their wits. Ease off on the rope, Simpson, you blackguard. Frightening women and children is your game, but I’m not going to stand it. Ike Boston, take your passengers on to Crowdger’s Corner, and tell the young lady that, owing to her influence, the boys changed their minds about making me swing. Somebody lift the rope where it’s caught under my ear, will you? Boys, when you want me, you’ll find me in the Crystal Palace.”
His tone was so authoritative that some obeyed him at once, involuntarily; but, as a matter of fact, his plan met with general approval. Warpost heaved a great sigh of relief. Why had nobody thought earlier of so easy a way out of all these here tears?
V
Larpent went to the Crystal Palace, where he took his comfort like a gentleman, conversing with his friends and drinking. At nightfall two men rode into town, flung their bridles over a convenient post, and clanked into the Crystal Palace. Warpost knew them in a glance. Talk ceased, and there was a watchful squaring aback.
The foremost was Jack Potter, a famous town marshal of Yellow Sky, but now the sheriff of the county. The other was Scratchy Wilson, once a no less famous desperado. They were both two-handed men of terrific prowess and courage, but Warpost could hardly believe her eyes at view of this daring invasion. It was unprecedented.
Potter went straight to the bar, behind which frowned Bobbie Hether. “You know a man by the name of Larpent?”
“Supposin’ I do?” said Bobbie, sourly.
“Well, I want him. Is he in the saloon?”
“Maybe he is, an’ maybe he isn’t,” said Bobbie.
Potter went back among the glinting eyes of the citizens. “Gentlemen, I want a man named Larpent. Is he here?”
Warpost was sullen, but Larpent answered lazily for himself. “Why, you must mean me. My name is Larpent. What do you want?”
“I’ve got a warrant for your arrest.”
There was a movement all over the room as if a puff of wind had come. The swing of a hand would have brought on a murderous mêlée. But after an instant the rigidity was broken by Larpent’s laughter.
“Why, you’re sold, sheriff,” he cried. “I’ve got a previous engagement. The boys are going to hang me tonight.”
If Potter was surprised, he betrayed nothing. “The boys won’t hang you tonight, Larpent,” he said calmly, “because I’m goin’ to take you in to Yellow Sky.”
Larpent was looking at the warrant. “Only grand larceny,” he observed. “But still, you know, I’ve promised these people to appear at their performance.”
“You’re goin’ in with me,” said the impassive sheriff.
“You bet he is, sheriff,” cried an enthusiastic voice; and it belonged to Bobbie Hether. The barkeeper moved down inside his rail, and, inspired like a prophet, he began a harangue to the citizens of Warpost. “Now, look here, boys, that’s jest what we want, ain’t it? Here we were goin’ to hang Tom Larpent jest for the reputation of the town, like. ‘Long comes Sheriff Potter, the reg-u-lerly con-sti-tuted officer of the law, an’ he says, ‘No; the man’s mine.’ Now, we want to make the reputation of the town as a law-abidin’ place; so what do we say to Sheriff Potter? We says, ‘A-a-ll right, sheriff; you’re reg’lar; we ain’t; he’s your man.’ But supposin’ we go to fightin’ over it; then what becomes of the reputation of the town, which we was goin’ to swing Tom Larpent for?”
The immediate opposition to these views came from a source which a stranger might have difficulty in imagining. Men’s foreheads grew thick with lines of obstinacy and disapproval. They were perfectly willing to hang Larpent yesterday, today, or tomorrow as a detail in a set of circumstances at Warpost; but when some outsiders from the alien town of Yellow Sky came into the sacred precincts of Warpost, and proclaimed their intention of extracting a citizen for cause, any citizen for any cause, the stomach of Warpost was fed with a clan’s blood, and her children gathered under one invisible banner, prepared to fight as few people in few ages were enabled to fight for their points of view. There was a guttural murmuring.
“No; hold on!” screamed Bobbie, flinging up his hands. “He’ll come clear all right. Tom,” he appealed wildly to Larpent, “you never committed no Gawd-damn low-down grand larceny?”
“No,” said Larpent, coldly.
“But how was it? Can’t you tell us how it was?”
Larpent answered with plain reluctance. He waved his hand to indicate that it was all of little consequence.
“Well, he was a tenderfoot, and he played poker with me, and he couldn’t play quite good enough. But he thought he could: he could play extremely well, he thought. So he lost his money. I thought he’d squeal.”
“Boys,” begged Bobbie, “let the sheriff take him.”
Some answered at once, “Yes.” Others continued to mutter. The sheriff had held his hand because, like all quiet and honest men, he did not wish to perturb any progress toward a peaceful solution, but now he decided to take the scene by the nose and make it obey him.
“Gentlemen,” he said formally, “this man is comin’ with me. Larpent, get up and come along.”
This might have been the beginning, but it was practically the end. The two opinion
s in the minds of Warpost fought in the air and, like a snow-squall, discouraged all action. Amid general confusion Jack Potter and Scratchy Wilson moved to the door with their prisoner. The last thing seen by the men in the Crystal Palace was the bronze countenance of Jack Potter as he backed from the place.
A man, filled with belated thought, suddenly cried out: “Well, they’ll hang him fer this here shootin’ game anyhow.”
Bobbie Hether looked disdain upon the speaker.
“Will they? An’ where’ll they get their witnesses? From here, do y’ think? No; not a single one. All he’s up against is a case of grand larceny, and — even supposin’ he done it — what in hell does grand larceny amount to?”
MANACLED
In the First Act there had been a farm scene, wherein real horses had drunk real water out of real buckets, afterward dragging a real wagon off stage L. The audience was consumed with admiration of this play, and the great Theater Nouveau rang to its roof with the crowd’s plaudits.
The Second Act was now well advanced. The hero, cruelly victimized by his enemies, stood in prison garb, panting with rage, while two brutal warders fastened real handcuffs on his wrists and real anklets on his ankles. And the hovering villain sneered.
“ ’Tis well, Aubrey Pettingill,” said the prisoner. “You have so far succeeded; but, mark you, there will come a time—”
The villain retorted with a cutting allusion to the young lady whom the hero loved.
“Curse you,” cried the hero, and he made as if to spring upon this demon; but, as the pitying audience saw, he could only take steps four inches long.
Drowning the mocking laughter of the villain came cries from both the audience and the people in back of the wings. “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Throughout the great house resounded the roaring crashes of a throng of human beings moving in terror, and even above this noise could be heard the screams of women more shrill than whistles. The building hummed and shook; it was like a glade which holds some bellowing cataract of the mountains. Most of the people who were killed on the stairs still clutched their playbills in their hands as if they had resolved to save them at all costs.
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 161
