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Twelve O'Clock · The Monster and Other Stories

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  Section five of The Monster and Other Stories by Stephen Crane. This LibriVox recording
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  is in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker, twelve o'clock Where were
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  you at twelve o'clock noon on the ninth of June eighteen seventy five? Question
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  on intelligent cross examination? One Excuse me, said Ben Raddle, with graphic
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  gestures to a group of citizens in Nantucket's store. Excuse me when them fellers
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  in leather pants and six shooters right in, I go home an settin the
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  cellar. That's what I do. When you see me perrootin through the streets
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  at the same time an occasion as them punchers. You can put me down
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  for beIN crazy. Excuse me, why, Ben drawled, old Nantucket.
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  You ain't never really seen em turn loose? Why I can remember in the
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  old days? When, oh damn your old days, retorted Roddell, fixing
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  nang Tucket with the eye of scorn and contempt. He said, I suppose
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  you'll be saying in a minute that in old days you used to kill engines,
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  won't you. There was some laughter, and Roddell was left free to
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  expand his ideas on the periodic visits of cowboys to the town. Mason Ricketts,
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  he had ten big pumpkins is sitting in front of his store, and
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  then fellers from the upside down p Ranch shot him, shot them all,
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  and Ricketts lying on his belly in the store calling for him to quit it.
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  And what did they do? Why they laughed at him, just laughed
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  at him. I don't do a town no good. Now, how at
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  an Eastern capital orist it was the town's humor to be always gassing of phantom
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  investors who were likely to come any moment and pay a thousand prices for everything.
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  How would in an Eastern capitalist like that? Why you couldn't see him
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  for the dust on his trail. Then he'd tell all his friends that their
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  town may be all right, but there's two much loose handed shootin' for my
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  money. And he'd be right too. Them rich fellers, they don't make
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  no bad breaks with their money. They watch it all the time cause they
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  know blame. Well. There ain't hardly room for their feet. For the
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  pikers and tin horns and thimble riggers. What are layin for him? I
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  tell ye, one puncher racin' his cow pony held bent for election down Main
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  street and yelling and shootin an nothin at all done about. It would scare
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  away a whole herd of capitalists, and it ain't right. It ought to
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  be stopped. A pessimistic voice asked, how you goin to stop it?
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  Ben organize, replied, raddle pompously organize. That's the only way to make
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  these fellers lay down. I from the street sounded a quick scudding of pony
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  hoofs, and the party of cowboys swept past the door. One man,
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  however, was seen to draw rein and dismount. He came clanking into the
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  store mornin. Gentlemen, he said, sivilly marnin. They answered in subdued
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  voices. He stepped to the counter and said, give me a paper of
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  fine cut please. The group of citizens contemplated him in silence. He certainly
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  did not look threatening. He appeared to be a young man of twenty five
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  years, with a tan from wind and sun, with a remarkable clear eye
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  from perhaps a period of enforced temperance, A quiet young man who wanted to
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  buy some tobacco. A six shooter swung low on his hip, but at
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  the moment it looked more decorative than warlike. It seemed merely a part of
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  his old gallop dress, his sombrero with its band of rattlesnake's skin, his
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  great flaming neckerchief, his belt of embroidered Mexican leather, his high heeled boots,
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  his huge spurs, and above all, his hair had been watered and
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  brushed until it lay as close to his head as the fur lays to a
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  wet cat. Paying for his tobacco, he withdrew Ben roddele resumed his harangue.
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  Well, there you are, looks like a calm man now, but
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  in less than half an hour he'll be as drunk as three bucks in a
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  squaw. And then excuse me two. On this day, the men of
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  two outfits had come into town, but Ben Raddle's ominous words were not justified.
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  At once. The punchers spent most of the morning in an attack on
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  whisky, which was too earnest to be noisy. At five minutes of eleven,
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  a tall, lank, brick colored cowboy strode over to Placer's Hotel.
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  Placer's Hotel was a notable place. It was the best host within two hundred
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  miles. Its office was filled with arm chairs and brown paper machet receptacles.
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  At one end of the room was a wood counter painted a bright pink,
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  and on this morning a man was behind the counter, writing in a ledger.
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  He was the proprietor of the hotel, but his customary humor was so
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  sullen that all strangers immediately wondered why in life he had chosen to play the
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  part of mind host. Near his left hand, double doors opened into the
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  dining room, which in warm weather was always kept darkened in order to discourage
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  the flies, which was not compassed at all. Placer, writing in his
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  ledger, did not look up when the tall cowboy entered. More and mister
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  said the latter, I'll come to see if you can grub steak the whole
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  crowd of us for dinner to day. Placer did not then raise his eyes,
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  but with a certain charlishness, as if it annoyed him that his hotel
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  was patronized. He asked how many? Oh about thirty, replied the cowboy,
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  And we want the best dinner. You can raise and scrape everything the
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  best. We don't care what it costs, so long as we get a
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  good square meal. We'll pad dollar ahead. By God, we will.
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  We won't kick on nothin in the bill. If you do it up,
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  fine. If you ain't got it in the house, rustle the whole town
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  for it. That's our gait. So you just tear loose and we'll.
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  At this moment, the machinery of a cuckoo clock on the wall began to
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  wear. Little doors flew open, and a wooden bird appeared and cried cuckoo.
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  And this was repeated until eleven o'clock had been announced, while the cowboy,
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  stupefied, glass eyed, stood with his red throat gulping. At the
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  end, he wheeled upon Placer and demanded wooden hills. That Placer revealed by
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  his manner that he had been asked this question too many times. It's a
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  clock, he answered shortly. No, it's a clock, gasped the cowboy.
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  But what kind of clock? A cuckoo clock, can't you see?
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  The cowboy, recovering his self possession by a violent effort, suddenly went shouting
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  into the street, boys, say, boys, come here a minute.
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  His comrades, comfortably inhabiting a nearby saloon, heard his stentorian calls, but
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  they merely said to one another, it's the matter with jake, he's off
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  his net again. But Jake burst in upon them with violence. Boys,
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  he yelled, come over to the hotel. They've got a clock with a
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  bird and sought it. And when it's eleven o'clock or anything like that,
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  the bird comes out and says, too too, to toot that way.
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  As many times as whatever time of day it is, it's a mint,
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  come on over. The wars of laughter which greeted his proclamation were of two
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  qualities, some men laughing because they knew all about cuckoo clocks, and other
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  men laughing because they had concluded that the eccentric Jake had been victimized by some
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  wise child of civilization. Old man crumfored of venerable ruffian, who probably had
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  been born in a corral, was particularly offensive with his loud guffaws of contempt.
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  Bird of coming out of a clock and telling you the time he swallowed
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  his whiskey. A bird telling you the time, Jake, you've been up
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  again, some new drink you've been drinking lonely and got up again, some
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  snake medicine liquor. A bird of telling you the time. Oh, the
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  shrill voice of one of the younger cowboys, piped from the background. Race
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  up, Jake. Don't let him laugh at you. Bring that salt codfish
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  in yarn? What can pick out the ace? Oh, he's only kidding
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  this. Don't pay attention to him. He thinks he's smart. A cowboy
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  whose mother had a cuckoo clock in her house in Philadelphia spoke with solemnity,
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  Jake's a liar. There's no such clock in the world. What a bird
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  inside a clock to tell the time? Change your drink, Jake. Jake
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  was furious, but his fury took a very icy form. He bent a
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  withering glance upon the last speaker. I don't mean a live bird, he
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  said, with terrible dignity. It's a wooden bird. And a wooden bird
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  shouted old man Crumfort. Wouldn't bird telling you the time? But Jake still
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  paid his frigid attention to the Philadelphian. If you're sober enough to walk,
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  but it ain't such a blame. Long ways from here to the hotel,
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  and I'll bet my pile again yours if only you got two bits. I
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  don't want your money, Jake, said the Philadelphian. Somebody's been stringing you.
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  That's all, I wouldn't take your money, He cleverly appeared to pity
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  the other's innocence. You couldn't get my money, cried Jake, in sudden,
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  hot anger. You couldn't get it now since you're so fresh' see how
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  much you got? He clattered some large gold pieces noisily upon the bar.
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  The Philadelphian shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Jake was triumphant. Any more
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  bluffers around here, he demanded, any more any more bluffers? Where's all
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  these here? Hot sports? Step up? Here's my money, Come and
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  get it. But they had ended by being afraid to some of them.
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  His tail was absurd. But still one must be circumspect when a man throws
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  forty five dollars in gold upon the bar and bids the world come and win
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  it. The general feeling was expressed by old man Crumfort, when, with
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  deference he asked, well is here bird, Jake? What kinder looking bird
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  is it? It's a little brown thing, said Jake briefly. Apparently he
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  almost disdained to answer. Well, how does it work, asked the old
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  man meekly. Why I'm blazers. Don't you go and look at it,
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  yelled, Jake won't mean to paint it in os for you. Go and
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  look. Three. Placer was writing in his ledger. He heard a great
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  trample of feet and clink of spurs on the porch, and there entered quietly
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  the band of cowboys, some of them swaying a trifle in these last being
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  the most painfully decorous of all. Jake was in advance. He waved his
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  hand towards the clock. There she is, he said, laconically. The
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  cowboys drew up and stared. There was some giggling, but a serious voice
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  said, half audibly, I don't see no bird. Jake politely addressed the
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  landlord, mister uh Fetchley's here, friends of mine, and here to see
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  your clock. Placer looked up suddenly. Well they can see it, can't
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  they, he asked in sarcasm. Jake abashed retreated to his fellows. There
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  was a period of silence. From time to time the men shifted their feet.
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  Finally, old men crumfered, leaning toward Jake, and in a penetrating
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  whisper, demanded, where is the bird? Some frolicsome spirits on the outskirts
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  began to call bird bird As men in a political meeting call for a particular
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  speaker, Jake removed his big hat and nervously mopped his brow. The young
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  cowboy with the shrill voice again spoke from the skirts of the crowd, Jake,
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  is there sure enough a bird in that thing? Yes? Didn't I
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  tell you? Once? Then said the shrill voiced man, in a tone
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  of conviction. It ain't a clock at all. It's a bird cage.
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  I tell you it's a clock, cried the madden Jake, But his retort
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  could hardly be heard above the howls of glee and derision which greeted the words
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  of him. Of the shrill voice. Old man Crumford was again rampant,
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  wooden bird, telling you the time. Amid the confusion, Jake went again
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  to place her. He spoke, almost in supplication, say mister, what
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  time does here thing go off? Again? Placer lifted his head, looked
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  at the clock and said none. There was a stir next door, and
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  big Watson of the square X outfit, and at this time very drunk indeed,
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  came shouldering his way through the crowd and cursing everybody. The men gave
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  him much room, for he was notorious as a quarrelsome person when drunk.
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  He paused in front of Jake and spoke as through a wet blanket, woo
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  ours munking a bough. Jake was already wild at being made a butt for
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  everybody, and he did not give backward. None of your damn business,
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  Watson, who growled Watson with the surprise of a challenged bull, I said,
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  repeated Jake, distinctly, It's none a year damn business. Watson whipped
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  his revolver half out of its holster. Well make it my business in you.
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  But Jake had backed to step away and was holding his left hand palm
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  outward toward Watson, while in his right he held a six shooter, its
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  muzzle pointing at the floor. He was shouting in a frenzy. No,
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  don't you try it, Watson, don't you dare try it, or by
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  God, I'll kill you. Sure sure. He was aware of a torment
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  of cries about him, from fearful men, for men who protested, for
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  men who cried out, because they cried out, But he kept his eyes
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  on Watson, and those two glared murder at each other, neither seeming to
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  Breathe fixed like two statues a loud, new voice suddenly rang out hold on
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  a minute. All spectators who had not stampeded turned quickly and saw Placer standing
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  behind his bright pink counter with an aimed revolver in each hand. Cheez it,
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  he said, I won't have no fighting in here. If you want
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  to fight, get out in the street. Big Watson laughed, and,
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  speeding up his six shooter like a flash of blue light, he shot Placer
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  through the throat, shot the man as he stood behind his absurd pink counter
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  with his two aimed revolvers and his incompetent hands. With a yell of rage
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  and despair, Jake smote Watson on the pate with his heavy weapon and knocked
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  him sprawling and bloody. Somewhere a woman shrieked like windy midnight death. Placer
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  fell behind the counter, and down upon him came his ledger in his inkstand,
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  so that one could not have told blood from ink. The cowboys did
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  not seem to hear, see nor feel until they saw numbers of citizens with
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  winchesters running wildly upon them. Old man Crumford threw high a passionate hand,
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  don't shoot, will not fight for him. Nevertheless, two or three shots
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  rang, and a cowboy who had been about to gallop off suddenly slumped over
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  on his pony's neck, where he held for a moment like an old sack,
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  and then slid to the ground, while his pony, with flapping rain
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  fled to the prairie god's name. Don't shoot, trumpeted old man Cromfort.
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  We'll not fight you for him. It's murder, bawled Ben Roddle. In
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  the chaotic street. It seemed for a moment as if everybody would kill everybody.
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  Where's the man? WoT done it? These hot cries seemed to declare
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  war, which would result in an absolute annihilation of one side. But the
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  cowboys were singing out against it. They would fight for nothing. Yes,
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  they often fought for nothing, but they would not fight for this dark something.
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  At last, when a flimsy truce had been made between the inflamed men,
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  all parties went to the hotel. Placer and some dying whim had made
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  his way out from behind the pink counter, and, leaving a horrible trail,
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  had traveled to the center of the room, where he had pitched headlong
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  over the body of Big Watson. The men lifted the corpse and laid it
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  at the side. Who done it, asked the white stern man. A
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  cowboy pointed at Big Watson. That's him, he said, huskily. There's
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  a curious, grim silence. And then suddenly, in the death chamber there
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  sounded the loud whirring of the clock's works. Little doors flew open, A
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  tiny wooden bird appeared and cried cuckoo twelve times. End of section five, twelve o'clock