XXXIII. THE SPINSTER LOSES SOME SLEEP
Somewhere at the eastern base of the Tetons did those hoofprintsdisappear into a mountain sanctuary where many crooked paths have led.He that took another man's possessions, or he that took another man'slife, could always run here if the law or popular justice were too hotat his heels. Steep ranges and forests walled him in from the world onall four sides, almost without a break; and every entrance lay throughintricate solitudes. Snake River came into the place through canyonsand mournful pines and marshes, to the north, and went out at the southbetween formidable chasms. Every tributary to this stream rose amonghigh peaks and ridges, and descended into the valley by well-nighimpenetrable courses: Pacific Creek from Two Ocean Pass, Buffalo Forkfrom no pass at all, Black Rock from the To-wo-ge-tee Pass--all these,and many more, were the waters of loneliness, among whose thousandhiding-places it was easy to be lost. Down in the bottom was a spread oflevel land, broad and beautiful, with the blue and silver Tetons risingfrom its chain of lakes to the west, and other heights presiding overits other sides. And up and down and in and out of this hollow square ofmountains, where waters plentifully flowed, and game and natural pastureabounded, there skulked a nomadic and distrustful population. This indue time built cabins, took wives, begot children, and came to speak ofitself as "The honest settlers of Jackson's Hole." It is a commodioustitle, and doubtless to-day more accurate than it was once.
Into this place the hoofprints disappeared. Not many cabins were yetbuilt there; but the unknown rider of the horse knew well that he wouldfind shelter and welcome among the felons of his stripe. Law and ordermight guess his name correctly, but there was no next step, for lack ofevidence; and he would wait, whoever he was, until the rage of popularjustice, which had been pursuing him and his brother thieves, shouldsubside. Then, feeling his way gradually with prudence, he would lethimself be seen again.
And now, as mysteriously as he had melted away, rumor passed over thecountry. No tongue seemed to be heard telling the first news; the newswas there, one day, a matter of whispered knowledge. On Sunk Creek andon Bear Creek, and elsewhere far and wide, before men talked men seemedsecretly to know that Steve, and Ed, and Shorty, would never again beseen. Riders met each other in the road and drew rein to discuss theevent, and its bearing upon the cattle interests. In town saloons mentook each other aside, and muttered over it in corners.
Thus it reached the ears of Molly Wood, beginning in a veiled andharmless shape.
A neighbor joined her when she was out riding by herself.
"Good morning," said he. "Don't you find it lonesome?" And when sheanswered lightly, he continued, meaning well: "You'll be having companyagain soon now. He has finished his job. Wish he'd finished it MORE!Well, good day."
Molly thought these words over. She could not tell why they gave hera strange feeling. To her Vermont mind no suspicion of the truth wouldcome naturally. But suspicion began to come when she returned from herride. For, entering the cabin of the Taylors', she came upon severalpeople who all dropped their talk short, and were not skilful atresuming it. She sat there awhile, uneasily aware that all of themknew something which she did not know, and was not intended to know. Athought pierced her--had anything happened to her lover? No; that wasnot it. The man she had met on horseback spoke of her having companysoon again. How soon? she wondered. He had been unable to say whenhe should return, and now she suddenly felt that a great silence hadenveloped him lately: not the mere silence of absence, of receivingno messages or letters, but another sort of silence which now, at thismoment, was weighing strangely upon her.
And then the next day it came out at the schoolhouse. During thatinterval known as recess, she became aware through the open window thatthey were playing a new game outside. Lusty screeches of delight reachedher ears.
"Jump!" a voice ordered. "Jump!"
"I don't want to," returned another voice, uneasily.
"You said you would," said several. "Didn't he say he would? Ah, he saidhe would. Jump now, quick!"
"But I don't want to," quavered the voice in a tone so dismal that Mollywent out to see.
They had got Bob Carmody on the top of the gate by a tree, with a roperound his neck, the other end of which four little boys were joyouslyholding. The rest looked on eagerly, three little girls clasping theirhands, and springing up and down with excitement.
"Why, children!" exclaimed Molly.
"He's said his prayers and everything," they all screamed out. "He's arustler, and we're lynchin' him. Jump, Bob!"
"I don't want--"
"Ah, coward, won't take his medicine!"
"Let him go, boys," said Molly. "You might really hurt him." And so shebroke up this game, but not without general protest from Wyoming's youngvoice.
"He said he would," Henry Dow assured her.
And George Taylor further explained: "He said he'd be Steve. But Stevedidn't scare." Then George proceeded to tell the schoolmarm, eagerly,all about Steve and Ed, while the schoolmarm looked at him with a rigidface.
"You promised your mother you'd not tell," said Henry Dow, after allhad been told. "You've gone and done it," and Henry wagged his head in asuperior manner.
Thus did the New England girl learn what her cow-boy lover had done. Shespoke of it to nobody; she kept her misery to herself. He was not thereto defend his act. Perhaps in a way that was better. But these werehours of darkness indeed to Molly Wood.
On that visit to Dunbarton, when at the first sight of her lover'sphotograph in frontier dress her aunt had exclaimed, "I suppose thereare days when he does not kill people," she had cried in all good faithand mirth, "He never killed anybody!" Later, when he was lying in hercabin weak from his bullet wound, but each day stronger beneath hernursing, at a certain word of his there had gone through her a shudderof doubt. Perhaps in his many wanderings he had done such a thing inself-defence, or in the cause of popular justice. But she had pushed theidea away from her hastily, back into the days before she had ever seenhim. If this had ever happened, let her not know of it. Then, as a cruelreward for his candor and his laying himself bare to her mother, theletters from Bennington had used that very letter of his as a weaponagainst him. Her sister Sarah had quoted from it. "He says with apparentpride," wrote Sarah, "that he has never killed for pleasure or profit.'Those are his exact words, and you may guess their dreadful effect uponmother. I congratulate you, my dear, on having chosen a protector soscrupulous."
Thus her elder sister had seen fit to write; and letters from less nearrelatives made hints at the same subject. So she was compelled to acceptthis piece of knowledge thrust upon her. Yet still, still, those eventshad been before she knew him. They were remote, without detail orcontext. He had been little more than a boy. No doubt it was to save hisown life. And so she bore the hurt of her discovery all the more easilybecause her sister's tone roused her to defend her cow-boy.
But now!
In her cabin, alone, after midnight, she arose from her sleepless bed,and lighting the candle, stood before his photograph.
"It is a good face," her great-aunt had said, after some study of it.And these words were in her mind now. There his likeness stood at fulllength, confronting her: the spurs on the boots, the fringed leathernchaparreros, the coiled rope in hand, the pistol at hip, the roughflannel shirt, and the scarf knotted at the throat--and then the graveeyes, looking at her. It thrilled her to meet them, even so. She couldread life into them. She seemed to feel passion come from them, and thensomething like reproach. She stood for a long while looking at him, andthen, beating her hands together suddenly, she blew out her light andwent back into bed, but not to sleep.
"You're looking pale, deary," said Mrs. Taylor to her, a few days later.
"Am I?"
"And you don't eat anything."
"Oh, yes, I do." And Molly retired to her cabin.
"George," said Mrs. Taylor, "you come here."
It may seem severe--I think that it was severe. That evening whenMr. Taylor cam
e home to his family, George received a thrashing fordisobedience.
"And I suppose," said Mrs. Taylor to her husband, "that she came outjust in time to stop 'em breaking Bob Carmody's neck for him."
Upon the day following Mrs. Taylor essayed the impossible. She tookherself over to Molly Wood's cabin. The girl gave her a listlessgreeting, and the dame sat slowly down, and surveyed the comfortableroom.
"A very nice home, deary," said she, "if it was a home. But you'll fixsomething like this in your real home, I have no doubt."
Molly made no answer.
"What we're going to do without you I can't see," said Mrs. Taylor."But I'd not have it different for worlds. He'll be coming back soon, Iexpect."
"Mrs. Taylor," said Molly, all at once, "please don't say anything now.I can't stand it." And she broke into wretched tears.
"Why, deary, he--"
"No; not a word. Please, please--I'll go out if you do."
The older woman went to the younger one, and then put her arms roundher. But when the tears were over, they had not done any good; it wasnot the storm that clears the sky--all storms do not clear the sky. AndMrs. Taylor looked at the pale girl and saw that she could do nothing tohelp her toward peace of mind.
"Of course," she said to her husband, after returning from herprofitless errand, "you might know she'd feel dreadful.
"What about?" said Taylor.
"Why, you know just as well as I do. And I'll say for myself, I hopeyou'll never have to help hang folks."
"Well," said Taylor, mildly, "if I had to, I'd have to, I guess."
"Well, I don't want it to come. But that poor girl is eating her heartright out over it."
"What does she say?"
"It's what she don't say. She'll not talk, and she'll not let me talk,and she sits and sits."
"I'll go talk some to her," said the man.
"Well, Taylor, I thought you had more sense. You'd not get a word in.She'll be sick soon if her worry ain't stopped someway, though."
"What does she want this country to do?" inquired Taylor. "Does sheexpect it to be like Vermont when it--"
"We can't help what she expects," his wife interrupted. "But I wish wecould help HER."
They could not, however; and help came from another source. Judge Henryrode by the next day. To him good Mrs. Taylor at once confided heranxiety. The Judge looked grave.
"Must I meddle?" he said.
"Yes, Judge, you must," said Mrs. Taylor.
"But why can't I send him over here when he gets back? Then they'll justsettle it between themselves."
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. "That would unsettle it worse than it is,"she assured him. "They mustn't meet just now."
The Judge sighed. "Well," he said, "very well. I'll sacrifice mycharacter, since you insist."
Judge Henry sat thinking, waiting until school should be out. He did notat all relish what lay before him. He would like to have got out of it.He had been a federal judge; he had been an upright judge; he had metthe responsibilities of his difficult office not only with learning,which is desirable, but also with courage and common sense besides, andthese are essential. He had been a stanch servant of the law. And nowhe was invited to defend that which, at first sight, nay, even at secondand third sight, must always seem a defiance of the law more injuriousthan crime itself. Every good man in this world has convictions aboutright and wrong. They are his soul's riches, his spiritual gold. Whenhis conduct is at variance with these, he knows that it is a departure,a falling; and this is a simple and clear matter. If falling were allthat ever happened to a good man, all his days would be a simple matterof striving and repentance. But it is not all. There come to him certainjunctures, crises, when life, like a highwayman, springs upon him,demanding that he stand and deliver his convictions in the name of somerighteous cause, bidding him do evil that good may come. I cannot saythat I believe in doing evil that good may come. I do not. I think thatany man who honestly justifies such course deceives himself. But this Ican say: to call any act evil, instantly begs the question. Many an actthat man does is right or wrong according to the time and placewhich form, so to speak, its context; strip it of its surroundingcircumstances, and you tear away its meaning. Gentlemen reformers,beware of this common practice of yours! beware of calling an act evilon Tuesday because that same act was evil on Monday!
Do you fail to follow my meaning? Then here is an illustration. OnMonday I walk over my neighbor's field; there is no wrong in suchwalking. By Tuesday he has put up a sign that trespassers willbe prosecuted according to law. I walk again on Tuesday, and am alaw-breaker. Do you begin to see my point? or are you inclined to objectto the illustration because the walking on Tuesday was not WRONG, butmerely ILLEGAL? Then here is another illustration which you will findit a trifle more embarrassing to answer. Consider carefully, let me begyou, the case of a young man and a young woman who walk out of a dooron Tuesday, pronounced man and wife by a third party inside the door.It matters not that on Monday they were, in their own hearts, sacredlyvowed to each other. If they had omitted stepping inside that door,if they had dispensed with that third party, and gone away on Mondaysacredly vowed to each other in their own hearts, you wouldhave scarcely found their conduct moral. Consider these thingscarefully,--the sign-post and the third party,--and the difference theymake. And now, for a finish, we will return to the sign-post.
Suppose that I went over my neighbor's field on Tuesday, after thesign-post was put up, because I saw a murder about to be committed inthe field, and therefore ran in and stopped it. Was I doing evil thatgood might come? Do you not think that to stay out and let the murder bedone would have been the evil act in this case? To disobey the sign-postwas RIGHT; and I trust that you now perceive the same act may wear asmany different hues of right or wrong as the rainbow, according to theatmosphere in which it is done. It is not safe to say of any man, "Hedid evil that good might come." Was the thing that he did, in the firstplace, evil? That is the question.
Forgive my asking you to use your mind. It is a thing which no novelistshould expect of his reader, and we will go back at once to Judge Henryand his meditations about lynching.
He was well aware that if he was to touch at all upon this subject withthe New England girl, he could not put her off with mere platitudes andhumdrum formulas; not, at least, if he expected to do any good. She wasfar too intelligent, and he was really anxious to do good. For her sakehe wanted the course of the girl's true love to run more smoothly, andstill more did he desire this for the sake of his Virginian.
"I sent him myself on that business," the Judge reflected uncomfortably."I am partly responsible for the lynching. It has brought him one greatunhappiness already through the death of Steve. If it gets runningin this girl's mind, she may--dear me!" the Judge broke off, "what anuisance!" And he sighed. For as all men know, he also knew that manythings should be done in this world in silence, and that talking aboutthem is a mistake.
But when school was out, and the girl gone to her cabin, his mind hadset the subject in order thoroughly, and he knocked at her door, ready,as he had put it, to sacrifice his character in the cause of true love.
"Well," he said, coming straight to the point, "some dark things havehappened." And when she made no answer to this, he continued: "But youmust not misunderstand us. We're too fond of you for that."
"Judge Henry," said Molly Wood, also coming straight to the point, "haveyou come to tell me that you think well of lynching?"
He met her. "Of burning Southern negroes in public, no. Of hangingWyoming cattle thieves in private, yes. You perceive there's adifference, don't you?"
"Not in principle," said the girl, dry and short.
"Oh--dear--me!" slowly exclaimed the Judge. "I am sorry that you cannotsee that, because I think that I can. And I think that you have justas much sense as I have." The Judge made himself very grave and verygood-humored at the same time. The poor girl was strung to a high pitch,and spoke harshly in spite of herself.
"
What is the difference in principle?" she demanded.
"Well," said the Judge, easy and thoughtful, "what do you mean byprinciple?"
"I didn't think you'd quibble," flashed Molly. "I'm not a lawyermyself."
A man less wise than Judge Henry would have smiled at this, and then warwould have exploded hopelessly between them, and harm been added to whatwas going wrong already. But the Judge knew that he must give to everyword that the girl said now his perfect consideration.
"I don't mean to quibble," he assured her. "I know the trick of escapingfrom one question by asking another. But I don't want to escape fromanything you hold me to answer. If you can show me that I am wrong, Iwant you to do so. But," and here the Judge smiled, "I want you to playfair, too."
"And how am I not?"
"I want you to be just as willing to be put right by me as I am to beput right by you. And so when you use such a word as principle, youmust help me to answer by saying what principle you mean. For in allsincerity I see no likeness in principle whatever between burningSouthern negroes in public and hanging Wyoming horse-thieves in private.I consider the burning a proof that the South is semi-barbarous, and thehanging a proof that Wyoming is determined to become civilized. Wedo not torture our criminals when we lynch them. We do not invitespectators to enjoy their death agony. We put no such hideous disgraceupon the United States. We execute our criminals by the swiftest means,and in the quietest way. Do you think the principle is the same?"
Molly had listened to him with attention. "The way is different," sheadmitted.
"Only the way?"
"So it seems to me. Both defy law and order."
"Ah, but do they both? Now we're getting near the principle."
"Why, yes. Ordinary citizens take the law in their own hands."
"The principle at last!" exclaimed the Judge.
"Now tell me some more things. Out of whose hands do they take the law?"
"The court's."
"What made the courts?"
"I don't understand."
"How did there come to be any courts?"
"The Constitution."
"How did there come to be any Constitution? Who made it?"
"The delegates, I suppose."
"Who made the delegates?"
"I suppose they were elected, or appointed, or something."
"And who elected them?"
"Of course the people elected them."
"Call them the ordinary citizens," said the Judge. "I like your term.They are where the law comes from, you see. For they chose the delegateswho made the Constitution that provided for the courts. There's yourmachinery. These are the hands into which ordinary citizens have put thelaw. So you see, at best, when they lynch they only take back what theyonce gave. Now we'll take your two cases that you say are the same inprinciple. I think that they are not. For in the South they take a negrofrom jail where he was waiting to be duly hung. The South has neverclaimed that the law would let him go. But in Wyoming the law has beenletting our cattle-thieves go for two years. We are in a very bad way,and we are trying to make that way a little better until civilizationcan reach us. At present we lie beyond its pale. The courts, or ratherthe juries, into whose hands we have put the law, are not dealing thelaw. They are withered hands, or rather they are imitation handsmade for show, with no life in them, no grip. They cannot hold acattle-thief. And so when your ordinary citizen sees this, and sees thathe has placed justice in a dead hand, he must take justice back into hisown hands where it was once at the beginning of all things. Call thisprimitive, if you will. But so far from being a DEFIANCE of the law, itis an ASSERTION of it--the fundamental assertion of self governing men,upon whom our whole social fabric is based. There is your principle,Miss Wood, as I see it. Now can you help me to see anything different?"
She could not.
"But perhaps you are of the same opinion still?" the Judge inquired.
"It is all terrible to me," she said.
"Yes; and so is capital punishment terrible. And so is war. And perhapssome day we shall do without them. But they are none of them so terribleas unchecked theft and murder would be."
After the Judge had departed on his way to Sunk Creek, no one spoke toMolly upon this subject. But her face did not grow cheerful at once. Itwas plain from her fits of silence that her thoughts were not at rest.And sometimes at night she would stand in front of her lover's likeness,gazing upon it with both love and shrinking.