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Moonlight on the Snow · The Monster and Other Stories

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Section six of The Monster and Other Stories by Stephen Crane, This LibriVox recordings,
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and the public Domain read by Ben Tucker. Moonlight on the snow one
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the town of war Post had an evil name. For three hundred miles in
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every direction, it radiated like the shine from some stupendous light. The citizens
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of the place had been for years grotesquely proud of their fame as a collection
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of hard shooting gentlemen who invariably got the men who came up against them.
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When a citizen went abroad in the land, he said, ah, from
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our post, and it was as if he had said, I am the
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devil himself. But ultimately it became known to war Post that the serene browed
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Angel of Peace was in the vicinity. The angel was full of projects,
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for taking comparatively useless bits of prairie and sawing them up into town lots,
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and making chaste and beautiful maps of his handiwork, which shook the souls of
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people who had never been in the west. He commonly traveled here and there
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in a light wagon, from the tail board of which he made orations which
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soared into the Empyrean regions of true hydrogen gas towns far and near listened to
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his voice and followed him, singing, until in all that territory you could
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not throw stone at a jack rabbit without hitting the sight of a projected mammoth
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hotel estimated cost fifteen thousand dollars. The stern and lonely bots were given titles
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like grim Veterans, awarded tawdry patents of nobility, Cedar Mountain, red Cliffs,
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look Out Peak, and from the east came both the sane and the
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insane, with hope, with courage, with hoarded savings, with cold decks,
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with bibles, with knives and boots, with humility and fear, with
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bland impudence. Most came with their own money. Some came with money gained
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during a moment of inattention on the part of somebody. In the east and
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high in the air was the serene browed Angel of Peace, with his endless
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gabble in his pretty maps. It was curious to walk out of an evening
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to the edge of a vast, silent sea of prairie, and to reflect
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that the Angel had parceled this infinity into building lots, but no change had
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come to war. Post war post sat with her reputation for bloodshed, pressed
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proudly to her bosom, and saw her mean neighbors leap into being as cities.
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She saw drunken old reprobates selling acres of red hot dust and becoming wealthy
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men of affairs who congratulated themselves on their shrewdness, and holding land which before
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the boom they would have sold for enough to buy a treat. All round
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in the straight flushed saloon, only nobody would have given it war posts saw
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dollars rolling into the coffers of a lot of contemptible men who couldn't shoot straight.
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She was amazed and indignant. She saw her standard of excellence, her
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creed, her reason for being great, all tumbling about her ears, and
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after the preliminary gasps, she sat down to think it out. The first
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man to voice a conclusion was Bob Heather, the popular bar keeper in Stevenson's
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Crystal Palace. Assuss here gunfodder business, he said, leaning on his bar,
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and with the gentle, serious eyes of a child, surveying a group
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of prominent citizens who had come in to drink at the expense of Tom Larpent,
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a gambler. They solemnly nodded assent. They stood in silence, holding
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their glasses and thinking. Larpent was chief factor in the life of the town.
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His gambling house was the biggest institution, and war post. Moreover,
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he had been educated somewhere, and his slow speech had a certain morderant quality
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which was apt to puzzle war post, and men heeded him for the reason
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that they were not always certain as to what he was saying. Yes,
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Bob, he drawled, I think you are right. The value of human
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life has to be established before they can be theaters, water works, street
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cars, women and bay bees. The other men were rather aghast at this
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cryptic speech, but somebody managed to snigger appreciatively, and the tension was eased.
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Smith Hennam, who world Roulette for Larpent, then gave his opinion,
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Well, when all this here coin is floating round, it appears to me
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we or to get our hooks on some of it. The little tin horns
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over a crowder's corner up to their next senate, and we ain't yet seen
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a centavo, not a centiveto that. Ain't right. It's all well to
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sit around taking money away from innocent cowpunchers, as long as there's nothing better.
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But when these here speculators come long, flashing rolls as big as water
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buckets, it's up to us to whirl in and get some of it.
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This became the view of the town, and since the main stipulation was virtue,
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war post resolved to be virtuous. A great meeting was held at which
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it was decreed that no man should kill another man under penalty of being at
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once hanged by the populace. All the influential citizens were present and asserted their
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determination to deal out a swift punishment which would take no note of an acquaintance
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or friendship with the guilty man. Bob Heather made a loud, long speech
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in which he declared that he, for one, would help hang his own
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brother if his own brother transgressed this law, which now for the good of
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the community must be forever held sacred. Everybody was enthusiastic, save a few
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Mexicans who did not quite understand. But as they were more than likely to
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be the victims of any affray in which they engaged, their silence was not
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considered ominous. At half past ten on the next morning, Larpent shot and
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killed a man who had accused him of cheating at a game. Larpent had
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then taken a chair by the window. Two Larpent grew tired of sitting in
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the chair by the window. He went to his bedroom, which opened off
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the gambling hall. On the table was a bottle of Rye whisky, of
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a brand which he specially and secretly imported from the East. He took a
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long drink. He changed his coat. After living his hands and brushing his
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hair, he sat down to read his hand, falling familiarly upon an old
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copy of Scot's Fair made of Perth. In time, he heard the slow
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trample of many men coming up the stairs. The sound certainly did not indicate
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haste. In fact, it declared all kinds of hesitation. The crowd poured
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into the gambling hall. There was low talk, a silence, more low
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talk. Ultimately, somebody rapped diffidently on the door of the bedroom. Come
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in, said Larpent. The door swung back in disclosed war post with a
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delegation of its best men in the front and at the rear, men who
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stood on their toes and craned their necks. There was no noise. Larpent
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looked up casually into the eyes of Bob Heather. So you've come up to
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the scratch all right, eh, Bobby, he asked kindly. I always
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wondering if you would weaken on the blood curdling speech you made yesterday. Heather
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first turned deadly pale, and then flushed beat red. His six shooter was
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in his hand, and it appeared for a moment as if his weak fingers
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would drop it to the floor. Oh, never mind, said Larpent,
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in the same tone of kindly patronage. The community must and shall hold this
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law forever sacred. And your own brother lives in Connecticut, doesn't he.
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He laid down his book and arose. He unbuckled his revolver belt and tossed
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it on the bed. A look of impatience had come suddenly upon his face.
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Well you don't want me to be a master of ceremonies at my own
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hanging do y? Why don't somebody say something or do something? You stand
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around like a lot of bottles. Where's your tree? For instance? You
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know there isn't a tree between here and the river. Damn little jack Rabbit
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Town hasn't even got a tree for its hanging. Hello, Coats, you
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live in crowdsy corner don't you well, you keep out o this thing,
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then the corner has had its boom. And this is a speculation in real
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estate, which is the business solely of the citizens. A warpst The behavior
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of the crowd became extraordinary. Men began to back away. I did not
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meet I. They were victims of an inexplicable influence. It was as if
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they had heard sinister laughter from a gloom. I know, said Larpent considerably,
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that this isn't as if you were going to hang a comparative stranger.
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In a sense, this is an intimate affair. I know full well you
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could go out and jerk a comparative stranger into Kingdom, come and make a
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sort of festal occasion of it. But when it comes to perform in the
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same office for an old friend, even the ferocious Bobby Heather stands around on
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one leg like a damned white livered coward. In short, my milk fed
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patriots, you seem fat headed enough to believe that I am going to hang
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myself if you wait long enough. But unfortunately I am going to allow you
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to conduct your own real estate speculations. It seems to me there should be
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enough men here who understand the value of corner lots in a safe and godly
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town, and hints should be anxious to hurry this business. The icy tones
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had ceased, and the crowd breathed a great sigh, as if it had
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been freed of a physical pain. But still no one seemed to know where
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to reach for the scruff of this weird situation. Finally, there was some
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jostling on the outskirts of the crowds, and some men were seen to be
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pushing old Billy's Simpson forward amid some protests. Simpson was, on state occasions
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the voice of the town. Somewhere in his past he had been a Baptist
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preacher. He had fallen far, very far, and the only remnant of
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his former dignity was a fatal facility of speech when half drunk war posts used
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him on those state occasions when it became bitten with a desire to do the
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thing up in style, So the citizens pushed the blear eyed old ruffian forward
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until he stood hemming and hawing in front of larpent. It was evident at
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once that he was brutally sober and hents wholly unfitted for whatever task had been
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be planned. For him. A dozen times he croaked like a frog,
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meanwhile wiping the back of his hand rapidly across his mouth. At last he
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managed to stammer, mister Larpin in some indescribable manner. Larpent made his attitude
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of respectable attention to be grossly contemptuous and insulting. Yes, mister Simpson.
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Er now, mister Larpin, began the old man hoarsely. We want to
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know. Then, obviously feeling there was a detail which he had forgotten,
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he turned to the crowd and whispered, where is it? Many men precipitately
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cleared themselves out of the way and down this lane. Larpent had an unobstructed
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view of the body of the man he had slain. Old Simpson again began
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to croak like a frog. Mister Larpin, Yes, mister Simpson, do
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you er? Do you admit it? Oh? Certainly, said the gambler,
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good humoredly. There can be no doubt of it, mister Simpson,
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although with your well known ability to fog things, you may later possibly prove
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that you did it yourself. I shot him because he was too officious.
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Not quite enough men are shot on that account. Mister Simpson, as one
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fitted by nature to be consummately officious. I hope you will agree with me,
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mister Simpson. Men were plucking Old Simpson by the sleeve and giving him
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directions. One could hear him say, what it all right? What all
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right? In the end, he turned hurriedly upon Larpent and blurted out,
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well, I guess we're going to hang you. Larpent bowed. I had
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a suspicion that you would, he said, in a pleasant voice. There
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has been an air of determination about the entire proceeding, mister Simpson. There
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was an awkward moment. Well, well, well, come ahead, Larpent
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courteously relieved a general embarrassment. Why, of course we must be moving clergy
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first, mister Simpson. I'll take my old friend Bobby Heather on my right
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hand, and will march soberly to the business, thus lending a certain dignity
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to this outing of real estate speculators. Tom quavered Bob Heather, for God's
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sake, keep your mouth shut, he invokes the deity, remarked Larpent placidly.
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But no, my last few minutes, I am resolved to devote to
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enquiries as to the welfare of my friends. Now you, for instance,
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my dear Bobby, present to day, the lamentable appearance of a rattlesnake that
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has been four times killed and then left in the sun to rot. It
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is the effect of friendship upon a highly delicate system. You suffer, it
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is cruel. Never mind, you will feel better Presently. Three Warpost had
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always risen superior to her lack of a tree by making use of a fixed
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wooden crane which appeared over a second story window on the front of Pigram's General
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store. This scrane had a long time backle, always ready for hoisting merchandise
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to the stor's loft. Larpent, coming in the midst of a slow moving
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throng, cocked a bright bird like eye at this crane. M yes,
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he said. Men began to work frantically. They called each to each in
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voices strenuous but low. They were in a panic to have this thing finished.
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Larpin's cold, ironical survey drove them mad, and it entered the minds
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of some that it would be felicitous to hang him before he could talk more.
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But he occupied the time in pleasant discourse. I see that Smith Hanham
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is not here. Perhaps some undue tenderness of sentiment keeps him away. Such
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feelings are entirely unnecessary, don't you think so, Bobby? Note the feverish
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industry with which the renegade parson works at the rope. You will never be
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hung, Simpson. You will be shot for fooling too near a petticoat which
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doesn't belong to you, the same old habit which got you flung out of
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the church, you red eyed old satyr. Ah. The cross trail coach
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approaches. What a situation. The crowd turned uneasily to follow his glance and
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saw, truly enough, the dusty, rickety old vehicle coming at the gallop
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of four lean horses. Ike Boston was driving the coach, and far away
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he had seen and defined the throng in front of Pigrim's store. First,
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calling out excited information to his passengers, who were all inside, he began
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to lash his horses and yell. As a result, he rattled wildly up
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to the scene, just as they were arranging the rope around Larpin's neck,
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who said he to his horses. The inhabitants of Warpost peered at the windows
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of the coach and saw therein six pale, horror stricken faces. The men
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at the rope stood hesitating Larpent smiled blandly. There was a silence. At
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last, a broken voice cried out from the coach driver. Driver, what
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is it? What is it? Ike Boston spat between the wheel horses and
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mumbled that he supposed anybody could see lesson they were blind. The door the
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coach opened, and outstepped a beautiful young lady. She was followed by two
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lie girl's hand clasped in hand, and a white haired old gentleman with a
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venerable and peaceful face. And the rough West stood in naked immorality before the
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eyes of the gentle East. The leather faced men of Warpost had never imagined
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such perfection of feminine charm, such radiance. And as the illumined eyes of
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the girl wandered doubtfully, fearfully toward the man with the rope around his neck,
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a certain majority of practiced Ruffians tried to look as if they were having
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nothing to do with the proceedings. Oh, she said, in a low
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voice, what are you going to do? At first none made reply,
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but ultimately a hero managed to break the harrowing stillness by stammering out nothin,
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And then, as if aghast at his own prominence, he shied behind the
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shoulders of a big neighbor. Oh, I know, she said, but
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it's wicked. Don't you see how wicked it is? Papa, do say
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something to them. The clear, deliberate tones of Tom Larpent suddenly made everyone
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stiffen. During the early part of the interruption, he had seated himself upon
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the steps of Pickerham's store, in which position he had maintained a slightly bored
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air. He was now standing with the rope around his neck and bowing.
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He looked handsome and distinguished, and a devil, a devil as cold as
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moonlight upon the ice. You are quite right, miss, they are going
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to hang me. But I can give you my word that the affair is
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perfectly regular. I killed a man this morning, and you see these people
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here, who look like a fine collection of premier scoundrels, are really engaged
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in forcing a real estate boom. In short, they are speculators, land
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barons, and not the children of infamy, which you no doubt took them
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for at first. Oh, she said, and shuddered. Her father now
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spoke haughtily, what has this man done? Why do you hang him without
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a trial, even if you have fair proofs? The crowd had been afraid
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to speak to the young lady, but a dozen voices answered her father.
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Why he admits it, didn't you hear? There ain't no doubt about it?
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No, he says he did. The old man looked at the smiling
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gambler. Do you admit that you committed murder? Larpent answered slowly for the
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first question, in a temporary acquaintance, that is a fairly strong beginning.
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Do you wish me to speak as man to man, or to one who
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has some kind of official authority to meddle in a thing that is none of
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his affair? I, I stuttered the other A man to man, then
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said Larpent, I have to inform you that this morning, at about ten
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thirty, a man was shot and killed in my gambling house. He was
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engaged in the exciting business of trying to grab some money out of which he
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claimed I had swindled him. The details are not interesting. The old gentleman
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waved his arm in a gesture of terror and despair, and tottered toward the
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coach, the young lady fainted. The two little girls wailed, Larpin' say
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on the steps with the rope around his neck. Four. The chief function
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of Warpost was to prey upon the bands of cowboys, who, when they
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were paid, rode gaily into town to look for sin. To this end
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there were in Warpost many thugs and thieves. There was treachery and obscenity and
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merciless greed in every direction. Even Mexico was levied upon to furnish a kind
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of ruffian which appears infrequently in the northern races. War Post was not good,
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It was not tender, it was not chivalrous. But but there was
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a quality to the situation in front of Pigrim's store which made war Post wish
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to stampede. There were the two children, their angelic faces turned toward the
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sky, weeping in the last anguish of fear. There was the beautiful form
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of the young lady prostrate in the dust of the road, with her trembling
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father bending over her. On the steps sat Larpened, waiting with a derisive
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smile, while from time to time he turned his head in the rope to
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make a forked tongued remark as to the character bearing of some acquaintance. All
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the simplicity of a mere lynching was gone from this thing. Through some bewildering
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inner power of its own. It was carried out of the hands of its
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inaugurators, and was marching along like a great drama. And they were only
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spectators. To them, it was ungovernable. They could do no more than
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stand on one foot and wonder. Some were heartily ill of everything and wished
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to run away. Some were so interested in the new aspect that they had
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forgotten why they had originally come to the front of Pigrim's store. These were
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the poets. A large practical class wished to establish at once the identity of
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the newcomers. Who were they, where did they come from? Where were
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they going to? It was truthfully argued that they were the parson for the
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new church at Crowder's Corner with his family. And a fourth class, a
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dark browed muttering class, wished to go at once to the root of all
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disturbance by killing Ike Boston for trundling up in his old omnibus and dumping out
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upon their ordinary lynching party. Such a load of tears and inexperienced and sentimental
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argument in low tones. They addressed vitriolic reproaches. But how'd I know,
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he protested, almost with tears. How'd I know they'd be all this here?
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Kick up? But Larpent suddenly created a great stir. He stood up,
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and his face was inspired with new strong resolution. Look here, boys,
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he said decisively, you hang me tomorrow or anyhow later on to day.
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We can't keep frightening the young lady and these two poor babies out of
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their wits. He's off the rope, Simpson, you blackered. Frightening women
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and children is your game, but I'm not going to stand it. I
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Boston. Take your passengers on to Crowder's corner and tell the young lady that,
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owing to her influence, the boy changed their minds about making me swing.
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Somebody lift the rope where it's caught under my ear? Will ye?
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Boys, when you want me, you'll find me in the crystal palace.
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His tone was so authoritative that some obeyed him at once involuntarily, but as
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a matter of fact, his play and met with general approval. War post
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heaved a great sigh of relief. Why had nobody thought earlier, so easy
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a way out of all these here tears. Five Larpan went to the Crystal
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Palace, where he took his comfort like a gentleman, conversing with his friends
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and drinking. At nightfall, two men rode into town, flung their bridles
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over a convenient post, and clanked into the Crystal Palace. War Post knew
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them in a glance. Talk ceased, and there was a watchful square in
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aback. The foremost was Jack Potter, a now famous town marshal of Yellow
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Sky, but now the sheriff of the county. The other was Scratchy Wilson,
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once in no less famous Desperado. They were both two handed men of
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terrific prowess and courage. But Warpost could hardly believe her eyes at view of
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this daring invasion. It was unprecedented. Potter went straight to the bar,
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behind which frowned Bobby Heather. You know a man by the name of Larpent.
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Suppose an I do, said Bobby sourly. Well, I want him.
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Is he in the Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't, said
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Bobby. Potter went back among the glinting eyes of the citizens. Gentlemen,
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I want a man named Larpent. Is he here? Warpost was sullen,
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but Larpent answered lazily for himself, why you must mean me? My name
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is Larpin. What do you want? I've got a warrant for your arrest.
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There was a movement all over the room, as if a puff of
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wind had come. The swing of a hand would have brought on a murderous
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melee. But after an instant the rigidity was broken by Larpin's laughter. Why
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you're soul, Sheriff, he cried, I've got a previous engagement. The
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boys are going to hang me tonight. If Potter was surprised, he betrayed
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nothing. The boys won't hang you to night, Larpent, he said,
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calmly, because I'm gonna take you into yellow sky. Larpent was looking at
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the warrant. Only grand larceny, he observed. But still, you know
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I promised these people to appear at their performance. You're going in with me,
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said the impassive sheriff. You bet he is, Sheriff cried an enthusiastic
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voice, and it belonged to Bobby Heather. The bark keeper moved down inside
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his rail and inspired like a prophet. He began a harangue to the citizens
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Warpost. Now look here, boys, that's just what we want, ain't
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it. Here? We were going to hang Tom Larpin just for the reputation
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of the town, like long, com Sheriff Potter, the regularly constituted officer
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of the law, and he says, no, the man's mind. Now,
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we want to make the reputation of the town as a lawa biden place.
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So what do we say to Sheriff Potter? We says, all right,
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Sheriff here regular we ain't he's your man. But supposing we go to
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fighting over it, then what becomes the reputation of the town which we was
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going to swing Tom Larpin for. The immediate opposition to these views came from
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a source which a stranger might have difficulty in imagining. Men's foreheads grew thick
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with lines of obstinacy and disapproval. They were perfectly willing to hang Larpin yesterday,
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today, or tomorrow as a detail in a set of circumstances at Warpost.
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But when some outsiders from the alien town of Yellow Sky came into the
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sacred precincts of war posts and proclaimed their intention of extracting a citizen for cause,
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any citizen, for any cause. The stomach of war Post was fed
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with a clan's blood, and her children gathered under one invisible banner, prepared
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to fight, as few people in few ages were enabled to fight for their
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points of view. There was a guttural murmuring, no hold on, screamed
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Bobby, flinging up his hands. He'll come clear, all right, Tom,
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He appeared wildly to Larpin. You never committed no low down, grand
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larceny, No, said Larpent coldly. But how was it? Can't you
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tell us how it was? Larpin answered with plain reluctance. He waved his
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hand to indicate that it was all of little consequence. Well, he was
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a tenderfoot, and he played poker with me, and he couldn't play quite
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good enough, but he thought he could. He could play extremely well,
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he thought. So he lost his money. I thought he'd squeal. Boys
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begged Bobby. Let the sheriff take him. Some answered at once yes,
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Others continued to mutter. The sheriff had held his hand because, like all
25:11
quiet and honest men, he did not wish to perturb any progress. Toward
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a peaceful solution. But now he decided to take the scene by the nose
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and make it obey him. Drummun he said formally, this man is comin
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Wi me Larpent, get up an come along. This might have been the
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beginning, but it was practically the end. The two opinions and the minds
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of Warpost fought in the air, and like a snow squall, discouraged all
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action. Amid general confusion, Jack Potter and Scratchy Wilson moved to the door
25:41
with their prisoner. The last thing seen by the men in the Crystal Palace
25:45
was the bronze countenance of Jack Potter. As he backed from the place.
25:48
A man filled with belated thoughts suddenly crowd out. Well, they'll hang him
25:53
for this here shooting game anyhow, Bobby Heather looked disdain upon the speaker.
26:00
Will they and where'll they get their witnesses from here? D'ye think? No,
26:03
not a single one. All he's up against is a case of grand
26:07
larceny, an even supposin he'd done it? What' helds grand larceny? Amount
26:11
to end of section six, Moonlight on the Snow