The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  “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; y
ou’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 opinions 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?”

  April, 1900

  [Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly, Vol. 49, pp. 606–618.]

  THE TRIAL, EXECUTION, AND BURIAL

  OF HOMER PHELPS*

  From time to time an enwearied pine bough let fall to the earth its load of melting snow, and the branch swung back glistening in the faint wintry sunlight. Down the gulch a brook clattered amid its ice with the sound of a perpetual breaking of glass. All the forest looked drenched and forlorn.

  The skyline was a ragged enclosure of gray cliffs and hemlocks and pines. If one had been miraculously set down in this gulch one could have imagined easily that the nearest human habitation was hundreds of miles away, if it were not for an old half-discernible wood-road that led toward the brook.

  “Halt! Who’s there?”

  This low and gruff cry suddenly dispelled the stillness which lay upon the lonely gulch, but the hush which followed it seemed even more profound. The hush endured for some seconds, and then the voice of the challenger was again raised, this time with a distinctly querulous note in it.

  “Halt! Who’s there? Why don’t you answer when I holler? Don’t you know you’re likely to get shot?”

  A second voice answered, “Oh, you knew who I was easy enough.”

  “That don’t make no diff’rence.” One of the Margate twins stepped from a thicket and confronted Homer Phelps on the old wood-road. The majestic scowl of official wrath was upon the brow of Reeves Margate, a long stick was held in the hollow of his arm as one would hold a rifle, and he strode grimly to the other boy. “That don’t make no diff’rence. You’ve got to answer when I holler, anyhow. Willie says so.”

  At the mention of the dread chieftain’s name the Phelps boy daunted a trifle, but he still sulkily murmured, “Well, you knew it was me.”

  He started on his way through the snow, but the twin sturdily blocked the path. “You can’t pass less’n you give the countersign.”

  “Huh?” said the Phelps boy. “Countersign?”

  “Yes—countersign,” sneered the twin, strong in his sense of virtue.

  But the Phelps boy became very angry. “Can’t I, hey? Can’t I, hey? I’ll show you whether I can or not! I’ll show you, Reeves Margate!”

  There was a short scuffle, and then arose the anguished clamor of the sentry: “Hey, fellers! Here’s a man tryin’ to run a-past the guard. Hey, fellers! Hey!”

  There was a great noise in the adjacent underbrush. The voice of Willie could be heard exhorting his followers to charge swiftly and bravely. Then they appeared—Willie Dalzel, Jimmie Trescott, the other Margate twin, and Dan Earl. The chieftain’s face was dark with wrath. “What’s the matter? Can’t you play it right? ’Ain’t you got any sense?” he asked the Phelps boy.

  The sentry was yelling out his grievance. “Now—he came along an’ I hollered at ’im, an’ he didn’t pay no ’tention, an’ when I ast ’im for the countersign, he wouldn’t say nothin’. That ain’t no way.”

  “Can’t you play it right?” asked the chief again, with gloomy scorn.

  “He knew it was me easy enough,” said the Phelps boy.

  “That ’ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” cried the chief, furiously. “That ’ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. If you’re goin’ to play, you’ve got to play it right. It ain’t no fun if you go spoilin’ the whole thing this way. Can’t you play it right?”

  “I forgot the countersign,” lied the culprit, weakly.

  Whereupon the remainder of the band yelled out, with one triumphant voice: “War to the knife! War to the knife! I remember it, Willie. Don’t I, Willie?”

  The leader was puzzled. Evidently he was trying to develop in his mind a plan for dealing correctly with this unusual incident. He felt, no doubt, that he must proceed according to the books, but unfortunately the books did not cover the point precisely. However, he finally said to Homer Phelps, “You are under arrest.” Then with a stentorian voice he shouted, “Seize him!”

  His loyal followers looked startled for a brief moment, but directly they began to move upon the Phelps boy. The latter clearly did not intend to be seized. He backed away, expostulating wildly. He even seemed somewhat frightened. “No, no; don’t you touch me, I tell you; don’t you dare touch me.”

  The others did not seem anxious to engage. They moved slowly, watching the desperate light in his eyes. The chieftain stood with folded arms, his face growing darker and darker with impatience. At length he burst out: “Oh, seize him, I tell you! Why don’t you seize him? Grab him by the leg, Dannie! Hurry up, all of you! Seize him, I keep a-sayin’!”

  Thus adjured, the Margate twins and Dan Earl made another pained effort, while Jimmie Trescott maneuvered to cut off a retreat. But, to tell the truth, there was a boyish law which held them back from laying hands of violence upon little Phelps under these conditions. Perhaps it was because they were only playing, whereas he was now undeniably serious. At any rate, they looked very sick of their occupation.

  “Don’t you dare!” snarled the Phelps boy, facing first one and then another; he was almost in tears—“don’t you dare touch me!”

  The chieftain was now hopping with exasperation. “Oh, seize him, can’t you? You’re no good at all!” Then he loosed his wrath upon the Phelps boy: “Stand still, Homer, can’t you? You’ve got to be sei
zed, you know. That ain’t the way. It ain’t any fun if you keep a-dodgin’ that way. Stand still, can’t you! You’ve got to be seized.”

  “I don’t want to be seized,” retorted the Phelps boy, obstinate and bitter.

  “But you’ve got to be seized!” yelled the maddened chief. “Don’t you see? That’s the way to play it.”

  The Phelps boy answered, promptly, “But I don’t want to play that way.”

  “But that’s the right way to play it. Don’t you see? You’ve got to play it the right way. You’ve got to be seized, an’ then we’ll hold a trial on you, an’—an’ all sorts of things.”

  But this prospect held no illusions for the Phelps boy. He continued doggedly to repeat, “I don’t want to play that way!”

  Of course in the end the chief stooped to beg and beseech this unreasonable lad. “Oh, come on, Homer! Don’t be so mean. You’re a-spoilin’ everything. We won’t hurt you any. Not the tintiest bit. It’s all just playin’. What’s the matter with you?”

  The different tone of the leader made an immediate impression upon the other. He showed some signs of the beginning of weakness. “Well,” he asked, “what you goin’ to do?”

  “Why, first we’re goin’ to put you in a dungeon, or tie you to a stake, or something like that—just pertend, you know,” added the chief, hurriedly. “An’ then we’ll hold a trial, awful solemn, but there won’t be anything what’ll hurt you. Not a thing.”

  And so the game was readjusted. The Phelps boy was marched off between Dan Earl and a Margate twin. The party proceeded to their camp, which was hidden some hundred feet back in the thickets. There was a miserable little hut with a pine-bark roof, which so frankly and constantly leaked that existence in the open air was always preferable. At present it was noisily dripping melted snow into the black moldy interior. In front of this hut a feeble fire was flickering through its unhappy career. Underfoot, the watery snow was of the color of lead.