The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  However, when a restriction was placed upon him—as, for instance, when a strong clique of members of the new Pollywog Club refused to permit him, even as a spectator, to appear in the rooms of the organization—the candor and gentleness with which he accepted the judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more desperately partisan. He invariably distinguished between himself and a respectable Romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner actually appeared to be a continual broadcast compliment.

  And one must not forget to declare the fundamental fact of his entire position in Romper. It is irrefutable that in all affairs outside his business, in all matters that occur eternally and commonly between man and man, this thieving card-player was so generous, so just, so moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight the consciences of nine tenths of the citizens of Romper.

  And so it happened that he was seated in this saloon with the two prominent local merchants and the district attorney.

  The Swede continued to drink raw whiskey, meanwhile babbling at the barkeeper and trying to induce him to indulge in potations. “Come on. Have a drink. Come on. What—no? Well, have a little one, then. By gawd, I’ve whipped a man tonight, and I want to celebrate. I whipped him good, too. Gentlemen,” the Swede cried to the men at the table, “have a drink?”

  “Ssh!” said the barkeeper.

  The group at the table, although furtively attentive, had been pretending to be deep in talk, but now a man lifted his eyes toward the Swede and said, shortly, “Thanks. We don’t want any more.”

  At this reply the Swede ruffled out his chest like a rooster. “Well,” he exploded, “it seems I can’t get anybody to drink with me in this town. Seems so, don’t it? Well!”

  “Ssh!” said the barkeeper.

  “Say,” snarled the Swede, “don’t you try to shut me up. I won’t have it. I’m a gentleman, and I want people to drink with me. And I want ’em to drink with me now. Now—do you understand?” He rapped the bar with his knuckles.

  Years of experience had calloused the bartender. He merely grew sulky. “I hear you,” he answered.

  “Well,” cried the Swede, “listen hard then. See those men over there? Well, they’re going to drink with me, and don’t you forget it. Now you watch.”

  “Hi!” yelled the barkeeper, “this won’t do!”

  “Why won’t it?” demanded the Swede. He stalked over to the table, and by chance laid his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. “How about this?” he asked wrathfully. “I asked you to drink with me.”

  The gambler simply twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. “My friend, I don’t know you.”

  “Oh, hell!” answered the Swede, “come and have a drink.”

  “Now, my boy,” advised the gambler, kindly, “take your hand off my shoulder and go ’way and mind your own business.” He was a little, slim man, and it seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic patronage to the burly Swede. The other men at the table said nothing.

  “What! You won’t drink with me, you little dude? I’ll make you, then! I’ll make you!” The Swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the throat, and was dragging him from his chair. The other men sprang up. The barkeeper dashed around the corner of his bar. There was a great tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the hand of the gambler. It shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue, wisdom, power, was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. The Swede fell with a cry of supreme astonishment.

  The prominent merchants and the district attorney must have at once tumbled out of the place backward. The bartender found himself hanging limply to the arm of a chair and gazing into the eyes of a murderer.

  “Henry,” said the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels that hung beneath the bar rail, “you tell ’em where to find me. I’ll be home, waiting for ’em.” Then he vanished. A moment afterward the barkeeper was in the street dinning through the storm for help and, moreover, companionship.

  The corpse of the Swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that dwelt atop of the cash-machine: “This registers the amount of your purchase.”

  IX

  Months later, the cowboy was frying pork over the stove of a little ranch near the Dakota line, when there was a quick thud of hoofs outside, and presently the Easterner entered with the letters and the papers.

  “Well,” said the Easterner at once, “the chap that killed the Swede has got three years. Wasn’t much, was it?”

  “He has? Three years?” The cowboy poised his pan of pork, while he ruminated upon the news. “Three years. That ain’t much.”

  “No. It was a light sentence,” replied the Easterner as he unbuckled his spurs. “Seems there was a good deal of sympathy for him in Romper.”

  “If the bartender had been any good,” observed the cowboy, thoughtfully, “he would have gone in and cracked that there Dutchman on the head with a bottle in the beginnin’ of it and stopped all this here murderin’.”

  “Yes, a thousand things might have happened,” said the Easterner, tartly.

  The cowboy returned his pan of pork to the fire, but his philosophy continued. “It’s funny, ain’t it? If he hadn’t said Johnnie was cheatin’ he’d be alive this minute. He was an awful fool. Game played for fun, too. Not for money. I believe he was crazy.”

  “I feel sorry for that gambler,” said the Easterner.

  “Oh, so do I,” said the cowboy. “He don’t deserve none of it for killin’ who he did.”

  “The Swede might not have been killed if everything had been square.”

  “Might not have been killed?” exclaimed the cowboy. “Everythin’ square? Why, when he said that Johnnie was cheatin’ and acted like such a jack-ass? And then in the saloon he fairly walked up to git hurt?” With these arguments the cowboy browbeat the Easterner and reduced him to rage.

  “You’re a fool!” cried the Easterner, viciously. “You’re a bigger jackass than the Swede by a million majority. Now let me tell you one thing. Let me tell you something. Listen! Johnnie was cheating!”

  “ ‘Johnnie,’ ” said the cowboy, blankly. There was a minute of silence, and then he said, robustly, “Why, no. The game was only for fun.”

  “Fun or not,” said the Easterner, “Johnnie was cheating. I saw him. I know it. I saw him. And I refused to stand up and be a man. I let the Swede fight it out alone. And you—you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. And then old Scully himself! We are all in it! This poor gambler isn’t even a noun. He is kind of an adverb. Every sin is the result of a collaboration. We, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this Swede. Usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men—you, I, Johnnie, old Scully; and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment.”

  The cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: “Well, I didn’t do anythin’, did I?”

  November 26 and December 3, 1898

  [Collier’s Weekly, Vol. 22, pp. 14–16, each issue.]

  THE PRICE OF THE HARNESS*

  [The Woof of Thin Red Threds]

  I

  Twenty-five men were making a road out of a path up the hillside. The light batteries in the rear were impatient to advance, but first must be done all that digging and smoothing which gains no encrusted medals from war. The men worked like gardeners, and a road was growing from the old pack-animal trail.

  Trees arched from a field of guinea-grass, which resembled young wild corn. The day was still and dry. The men working were dressed in the consistent blue of the United States regulars. They looked indifferent, almost stolid, despite the heat and the labor. There was little talking. From time to time a Government pack-train, led by a sleek-sided tender bell-mare, came from one way or the other, and the men stood aside as the strong, hard, black-and-tan animals crowded
eagerly after their curious feminine leader.

  A volunteer staff officer appeared, and, sitting his horse in the middle of the work, asked the sergeant in command some questions which were apparently not relevant to any military business.

  Men straggling along on various duties almost invariably spun some kind of joke as they passed.

  A corporal and four men were guarding boxes of spare ammunition at the top of the hill, and one of the number often went to the foot of the hill, swinging canteens.

  The day wore down to the Cuban dusk in which the shadows are all grim and of ghastly shape. The men began to lift their eyes from the shovels and picks, and glance in the direction of their camp. The sun threw his last lance through the foliage. The steep mountain range on the right turned blue, and as without detail as a curtain. The tiny ruby of light ahead meant that the ammunition guard were cooking their supper. From somewhere in the world came a single rifle-shot.

  Figures appeared, dim in the shadow of the trees. A murmur, a sigh of quiet relief, arose from the working party. Later, they swung up the hill in an unformed formation, being always like soldiers, and unable even to carry a spade save like United States regular soldiers. As they passed through some fields, the bland white light of the end of the day feebly touched each hard bronze profile.

  “Wonder if we’ll git anythin’ to eat,” said Watkins, in a low voice.

  “Should think so,” said Nolan, in the same tone. They betrayed no impatience; they seemed to feel a kind of awe of the situation.

  The sergeant turned. One could see the cool gray eye flashing under the brim of the campaign hat. “What in hell you fellers kickin’ about?” he asked. They made no reply, understanding that they were being suppressed.

  As they moved on, a murmur arose from the tall grass on either hand. It was the noise from the bivouac of ten thousand men, although one saw practically nothing from the low-cut roadway. The sergeant led his party up a wet clay bank and into a trampled field. Here were scattered tiny white shelter tents, and in the darkness they were luminous like the rearing stones in a graveyard. A few fires burned blood-red, and the shadowy figures of men moved with no more expression of detail than there is in the swaying of foliage on a windy night.

  The working party felt their way to where their tents were pitched. A man suddenly cursed; he had mislaid something and he knew he was not going to find it that night. Watkins spoke again with the monotony of a clock: “Wonder if we’ll git anythin’ to eat.”

  Martin, with eyes turned pensively to the stars, began a treatise. “Them Spaniards—”

  “Oh, quit it,” cried Nolan. “What th’ piper do you know about th’ Spaniards, you fat-head Dutchman? Better think of your belly, you blunderin’ swine, an’ what you’re goin’ to put in it, grass or dirt.”

  A laugh, a sort of deep growl, arose from the prostrate men. In the meantime the sergeant had reappeared and was standing over them. “No rations tonight,” he said gruffly, and, turning on his heel, walked away.

  This announcement was received in silence. But Watkins had flung himself face downward, and putting his lips close to a tuft of grass, he formulated oaths. Martin arose and, going to his shelter, crawled in sulkily. After a long interval Nolan said aloud, “Hell!” Grierson, enlisted for the war, raised a querulous voice. “Well, I wonder when we will git fed?”

  From the ground about him came a low chuckle full of ironical comment upon Grierson’s lack of certain qualities which the other men felt themselves to possess.

  II

  In the cold light of dawn the men were on their knees, packing, strapping, and buckling. The comic toy hamlet of shelter tents had been wiped out as if by a cyclone. Through the trees could be seen the crimson of a light battery’s blankets, and the wheels creaked like the sound of a musketry fight, Nolan, well gripped by his shelter tent, his blanket, and his cartridge belt, and bearing his rifle, advanced upon a small group of men who were hastily finishing a can of coffee.

  “Say, give us a drink, will yeh?” he asked, wistfully. He was as sad-eyed as an orphan beggar.

  Every man in the group turned to look him straight in the face. He had asked for the principal ruby out of each one’s crown. There was a grim silence. Then one said, “What fer?” Nolan cast his glance to the ground and went away abashed.

  But he espied Watkins and Martin surrounding Grierson, who had gained three pieces of hardtack by mere force of his audacious inexperience. Grierson was fending his comrades off tearfully.

  “Now, don’t be damn pigs,” he cried. “Hold on a minute.” Here Nolan asserted a claim. Grierson groaned. Kneeling piously, he divided the hardtack with minute care into four portions. The men, who had had their heads together like players watching a wheel of fortune, arose suddenly, each chewing. Nolan interpolated a drink of water and sighed contentedly.

  The whole forest seemed to be moving. From the field on the other side of the road a column of men in blue was slowly pouring; the battery had creaked on ahead; from the rear came a hum of advancing regiments. Then from a mile away rang the noise of a shot, then another shot; in a moment the rifles there were drumming, drumming, drumming. The artillery boomed out suddenly. A day of battle was begun.

  The men made no exclamations. They rolled their eyes in the direction of the sound, and then swept with a calm glance the forests and the hills which surrounded them, implacably mysterious forests and hills which lent to every rifle-shot the ominous quality which belongs to secret assassination. The whole scene would have spoken to the private soldiers of ambushes, sudden flank attacks, terrible disasters if it were not for those cool gentlemen with shoulder straps and swords, who, the private soldiers knew, were of another world and omnipotent for the business.

  The battalions moved out into the mud and began a leisurely march in the damp shade of the trees. The advance of two batteries had churned the black soil into a formidable paste. The brown leggings of the men, stained with the mud of other days, took on a deeper color. Perspiration broke gently out on the reddish faces. With his heavy roll of blanket and the half of a shelter tent crossing his right shoulder and under his left arm, each man presented the appearance of being clasped from behind, wrestler fashion, by a pair of thick white arms.

  There was something distinctive in the way they carried their rifles. There was the grace of an old hunter somewhere in it, the grace of a man whose rifle has become absolutely a part of himself. Furthermore, almost every blue shirtsleeve was rolled to the elbow, disclosing forearms of almost incredible brawn. The rifles seemed light, almost fragile, in the hands that were at the end of these arms, never fat, but always with rolling muscles and veins that seemed on the point of bursting. And another thing was the silence and the marvelous impassivity of the faces as the column made its slow way toward where the whole forest spluttered and fluttered with battle.

  Opportunely, the battalion was halted astraddle of a stream, and before it again moved most of the men had filled their canteens. The firing increased. Ahead and to the left, a battery was booming at methodical intervals, while the infantry racket was that continual drumming which, after all, often sounds like rain on a roof. Directly ahead one could hear the deep voices of fieldpieces.

  Some wounded Cubans were carried by in litters improvised from hammocks swung on poles. One had a ghastly cut in the throat, probably from a fragment of shell, and his head was turned as if Providence particularly wished to display this wide and lapping gash to the long column that was winding toward the front. And another Cuban, shot through the groin, kept up a continual wail as he swung from the tread of his bearers. “Ay—ee! Ay—ee! Madre mia! Madre mia!” He sang this bitter ballad into the ears of at least three thousand men as they slowly made way for his bearers on the narrow wood-path. These wounded insurgents were, then, to a large part of the advancing army, the visible messengers of bloodshed, death, and the men regarded them with thoughtful awe. This doleful sobbing cry, “Madre mia,” was a tangible consequent misery of
all that firing on in front, into which the men knew they were soon to be plunged. Some of them wished to inquire of the bearers the details of what had happened, but they could not speak Spanish, and so it was as if fate had intentionally sealed the lips of all in order that even meager information might not leak out concerning this mystery—battle. On the other hand, many unversed private soldiers looked upon the unfortunate as men who had seen thousands maimed and bleeding, and absolutely could not conjure any further interest in such scenes.