Somewhere at the eastern base of the Tetons did those hoofprints disappear into a mountain sanctuary1 where many crooked2 paths have led. He that took another man's possessions, or he that took another man's life, could always run here if the law or popular justice were too hot at his heels. Steep ranges and forests walled him in from the world on all four sides, almost without a break; and every entrance lay through intricate solitudes3. Snake River came into the place through canyons4 and mournful pines and marshes5, to the north, and went out at the south between formidable chasms6. Every tributary7 to this stream rose among high peaks and ridges8, and descended9 into the valley by well-nigh impenetrable courses: Pacific Creek10 from Two Ocean Pass, Buffalo11 Fork from 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 thousand hiding-places it was easy to be lost. Down in the bottom was a spread of level land, broad and beautiful, with the blue and silver Tetons rising from its chain of lakes to the west, and other heights presiding over its other sides. And up and down and in and out of this hollow square of mountains, where waters plentifully12 flowed, and game and natural pasture abounded13, there skulked14 a nomadic15 and distrustful population. This in due time built cabins, took wives, begot16 children, and came to speak of itself as "The honest settlers of Jackson's Hole." It is a commodious17 title, and doubtless to-day more accurate than it was once.
Into this place the hoofprints disappeared. Not many cabins were yet built there; but the unknown rider of the horse knew well that he would find shelter and welcome among the felons18 of his stripe. Law and order might guess his name correctly, but there was no next step, for lack of evidence; and he would wait, whoever he was, until the rage of popular justice, which had been pursuing him and his brother thieves, should subside19. Then, feeling his way gradually with prudence20, he would let himself be seen again.
And now, as mysteriously as he had melted away, rumor21 passed over the country. No tongue seemed to be heard telling the first news; the news was there, one day, a matter of whispered knowledge. On Sunk Creek and on Bear Creek, and elsewhere far and wide, before men talked men seemed secretly to know that Steve, and Ed, and Shorty, would never again be seen. Riders met each other in the road and drew rein22 to discuss the event, and its bearing upon the cattle interests. In town saloons men took each other aside, and muttered over it in corners.
Thus it reached the ears of Molly Wood, beginning in a veiled and harmless shape.
A neighbor joined her when she was out riding by herself.
"Good morning," said he. "Don't you find it lonesome?" And when she answered lightly, he continued, meaning well: "You'll be having company again 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 her a strange feeling. To her Vermont mind no suspicion of the truth would come naturally. But suspicion began to come when she returned from her ride. For, entering the cabin of the Taylors', she came upon several people who all dropped their talk short, and were not skilful23 at resuming it. She sat there awhile, uneasily aware that all of them knew something which she did not know, and was not intended to know. A thought pierced her--had anything happened to her lover? No; that was not it. The man she had met on horseback spoke24 of her having company soon again. How soon? she wondered. He had been unable to say when he should return, and now she suddenly felt that a great silence had enveloped25 him lately: not the mere26 silence of absence, of receiving no messages or letters, but another sort of silence which now, at this moment, was weighing strangely upon her.
And then the next day it came out at the schoolhouse. During that interval27 known as recess28, she became aware through the open window that they were playing a new game outside. Lusty screeches29 of delight reached her 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 said he would. Jump now, quick!"
"But I don't want to," quavered the voice in a tone so dismal30 that Molly went out to see.
They had got Bob Carmody on the top of the gate by a tree, with a rope round his neck, the other end of which four little boys were joyously31 holding. The rest looked on eagerly, three little girls clasping their hands, and springing up and down with excitement.
"Why, children!" exclaimed Molly.
"He's said his prayers and everything," they all screamed out. "He's a rustler32, 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 she broke up this game, but not without general protest from Wyoming's young voice.
"He said he would," Henry Dow assured her.
And George Taylor further explained: "He said he'd be Steve. But Steve didn't scare." Then George proceeded to tell the schoolmarm, eagerly, all about Steve and Ed, while the schoolmarm looked at him with a rigid33 face.
"You promised your mother you'd not tell," said Henry Dow, after all had been told. "You've gone and done it," and Henry wagged his head n a superior manner.
Thus did the New England girl learn what her cow-boy lover had done. She spoke of it to nobody; she kept her misery34 to herself. He was not there to defend his act. Perhaps in a way that was better. But these were hours of darkness indeed to Molly Wood.
On that visit to Dunbarton, when at the first sight of her lover's photograph in frontier dress her aunt had exclaimed, "I suppose there are days when he does not kill people," she had cried in all good faith and mirth, "He never killed anybody!" Later, when he was lying in her cabin weak from his bullet wound, but each day stronger beneath her nursing, at a certain word of his there had gone through her a shudder35 of doubt. Perhaps in his many wanderings he had done such a thing in self-defence, or in the cause of popular justice. But she had pushed the idea away from her hastily, back into the days before she had ever seen him. If this had ever happened, let her not know of it. Then, as a cruel reward for his candor36 and his laying himself bare to her mother, the letters from Bennington had used that very letter of his as a weapon against him. Her sister Sarah had quoted from it. "He says with apparent pride," wrote Sarah, "that he has never killed for pleasure or profit.' Those are his exact words, and you may guess their dreadful effect upon mother. I congratulate you, my dear, on having chosen a protector so scrupulous37."
Thus her elder sister had seen fit to write; and letters from less near relatives made hints at the same subject. So she was compelled to accept this piece of knowledge thrust upon her. Yet still, still, those events had been before she knew him. They were remote, without detail or context. He had been little more than a boy. No doubt it was to save his own life. And so she bore the hurt of her discovery all the more easily because her sister's tone roused her to defend her cow-boy.
But now!
In her cabin, alone, after midnight, she arose from her sleepless38 bed, and lighting39 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 likeness40 stood at full length, confronting her: the spurs on the boots, the fringed leathern chaparreros, the coiled rope in hand, the pistol at hip41, the rough flannel42 shirt, and the scarf knotted at the throat--and then the grave eyes, looking at her. It thrilled her to meet them, even so. She could read life into them. She seemed to feel passion come from them, and then something like reproach. She stood for a long while looking at him, and then, beating her hands together suddenly, she blew out her light and went 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 retired43 to her cabin.
"George," said Mrs. Taylor, "you come here."
It may seem severe--I think that it was severe. That evening when Mr. Taylor came home to his family, George received a thrashing for disobedience.
"And I suppose," said Mrs. Taylor to her husband, "that she came out just in time to stop 'em breaking Bob Carmody's neck for him."
Upon the day following Mrs. Taylor essayed the impossible. She took herself over to Molly Wood's cabin. The girl gave her a listless greeting, and the dame44 sat slowly down, and surveyed the comfortable room.
"A very nice home, deary," said she, "if it was a home. But you'll fix something 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, I expect."
"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 round her. But when the tears were over, they had not done any good; it was not the storm that clears the sky--all storms do not clear the sky. And Mrs. Taylor looked at the pale girl and saw that she could do nothing to help her toward peace of mind.
"Of course," she said to her husband, after returning from her profitless 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 hope you'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 heart right 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 she expect it to be like Vermont when it--"
"We can't help what she expects," his wife interrupted. "But I wish we could help HER."
They could not, however; and help came from another source. Judge Henry rode by the next day. To him good Mrs. Taylor at once confided45 her anxiety. The Judge looked grave.
"Yes, Judge, you must," said Mrs. Taylor.
"But why can't I send him over here when he gets back? Then they'll just settle 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 my character, since you insist."
Judge Henry sat thinking, waiting until school should be out. He did not at all relish47 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 met the responsibilities of his difficult office not only with learning, which is desirable, but also with courage and common sense besides, and these are essential. He had been a stanch48 servant of the law. And now he was invited to defend that which, at first sight, nay49, even at second and third sight, must always seem a defiance50 of the law more injurious than crime itself. Every good man in this world has convictions about right and wrong. They are his soul's riches, his spiritual gold. When his conduct is at variance51 with these, he knows that it is a departure, a falling; and this is a simple and clear matter. If falling were all that ever happened to a good man, all his days would be a simple matter of striving and repentance52. But it is not all. There come to him certain junctures53, crises, when life, like a highwayman, springs upon him, demanding that he stand and deliver his convictions in the name of some righteous cause, bidding him do evil that good may come. I cannot say that I believe in doing evil that good may come. I do not. I think that any man who honestly justifies54 such course deceives himself. But this I can say: to call any act evil, instantly begs the question. Many an act that man does is right or wrong according to the time and place which form, so to speak, its context; strip it of its surrounding circumstances, and you tear away its meaning. Gentlemen reformers, beware of this common practice of yours! beware of calling an act evil on Tuesday because that same act was evil on Monday!
Do you fail to follow my meaning? Then here is an illustration. On Monday I walk over my neighbor's field; there is no wrong in such walking. By Tuesday he has put up a sign that trespassers will be prosecuted55 according to law. I walk again on Tuesday, and am a law-breaker. Do you begin to see my point? or are you inclined to object to the illustration because the walking on Tuesday was not WRONG, but merely ILLEGAL? Then here is another illustration which you will find it a trifle more embarrassing to answer. Consider carefully, let me beg you, the case of a young man and a young woman who walk out of a door on Tuesday, pronounced man and wife by a third party inside the door. It matters not that on Monday they were, in their own hearts, sacredly vowed56 to each other. If they had omitted stepping inside that door, if they had dispensed57 with that third party, and gone away on Monday sacredly vowed to each other in their own hearts, you would have scarcely found their conduct moral. Consider these things carefully,--the sign-post and the third party,--and the difference they make. And now, for a finish, we will return to the sign-post.
Suppose that I went over my neighbor's field on Tuesday, after the sign-post was put up, because I saw a murder about to be committed in the field, and therefore ran in and stopped it. Was I doing evil that good might come? Do you not think that to stay out and let the murder be done would have been the evil act in this case? To disobey the sign-post was RIGHT; and I trust that you now perceive the same act may wear as many different hues58 of right or wrong as the rainbow, according to the atmosphere in which it is done. It is not safe to say of any man, "He did evil that good might come." Was the thing that he did, in the first place, evil? That is the question.
Forgive my asking you to use your mind. It is a thing which no novelist should expect of his reader, and we will go back at once to Judge Henry and his meditations59 about lynching.
He was well aware that if he was to touch at all upon this subject with the New England girl, he could not put her off with mere platitudes60 and humdrum61 formulas; not, at least, if he expected to do any good. She was far too intelligent, and he was really anxious to do good. For her sake he wanted the course of the girl's true love to run more smoothly62, and still 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 great unhappiness already through the death of Steve. If it gets running in this girl's mind, she may--dear me!" the Judge broke off, "what a nuisance!" And he sighed. For as all men know, he also knew that many things should be done in this world in silence, and that talking about them is a mistake.
But when school was out, and the girl gone to her cabin, his mind had set the subject in order thoroughly63, 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 have happened." And when she made no answer to this, he continued: "But you must not misunderstand us. We're too fond of you for that."
"Judge Henry," said Molly Wood, also coming straight to the point, "have you come to tell me that you think well of lynching?"
He met her. "Of burning Southern negroes in public, no. Of hanging Wyoming cattle thieves in private, yes. You perceive there's a difference, don't you?"
"Not in principle," said the girl, dry and short.
"Oh--dear--me!" slowly exclaimed the Judge. "I am sorry that you cannot see that, because I think that I can. And I think that you have just as much sense as I have." The Judge made himself very grave and very good-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 by principle?"
"I didn't think you'd quibble," flashed Molly. "I'm not a lawyer myself."
A man less wise than Judge Henry would have smiled at this, and then war would have exploded hopelessly between them, and harm been added to what was going wrong already. But the Judge knew that he must give to every word that the girl said now his perfect consideration.
"I don't mean to quibble," he assured her. "I know the trick of escaping from one question by asking another. But I don't want to escape from anything you hold me to answer. If you can show me that I am wrong, I want you to do so. But," and here the Judge smiled, "I want you to play fair, too."
"And how am I not?"
"I want you to be just as willing to be put right by me as I am to be put right by you. And so when you use such a word as principle, you must help me to answer by saying what principle you mean. For in all sincerity64 I see no likeness in principle whatever between burning Southern negroes in public and hanging Wyoming horse-thieves in private. I consider the burning a proof that the South is semi-barbarous, and the hanging a proof that Wyoming is determined65 to become civilized66. We do not torture our criminals when we lynch them. We do not invite spectators to enjoy their death agony. We put no such hideous67 disgrace upon 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," she admitted.
"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 delegates who made the Constitution that provided for the courts. There's your machinery68. These are the hands into which ordinary citizens have put the law. So you see, at best, when they lynch they only take back what they once gave. Now we'll take your two cases that you say are the same in principle. I think that they are not. For in the South they take a negro from jail where he was waiting to be duly hung. The South has never claimed that the law would let him go. But in Wyoming the law has been letting 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 civilization can reach us. At present we lie beyond its pale. The courts, or rather the juries, into whose hands we have put the law, are not dealing69 the law. They are withered70 hands, or rather they are imitation hands made for show, with no life in them, no grip. They cannot hold a cattle-thief. And so when your ordinary citizen sees this, and sees that he has placed justice in a dead hand, he must take justice back into his own hands where it was once at the beginning of all things. Call this primitive71, if you will. But so far from being a DEFIANCE of the law, it is an ASSERTION of it--the fundamental assertion of self governing men, upon whom our whole social fabric72 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 perhaps some day we shall do without them. But they are none of them so terrible as unchecked theft and murder would be."
After the Judge had departed on his way to Sunk Creek, no one spoke to Molly upon this subject. But her face did not grow cheerful at once. It was 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.
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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canyons
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| n.峡谷( canyon的名词复数 ) | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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rustler
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| n.[美口]偷牛贼 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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48
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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49
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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52
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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53
junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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54
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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55
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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58
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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59
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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60
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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