The Ox-Bow Incident

True law, the code of justice, the essence of our sensations of right and wrong, is the conscience of society. It has taken thousands of years to develop, and it is the greatest, the most distinguishing quality which has developed with mankind ... If we can touch God at all, where do we touch him save in the conscience? And what is the conscience of any man save his little fragment of the conscience of all men in all time?

Most men are more afraid of being thought cowards than of anything else, and a lot more afraid of being thought physical cowards than moral ones.

That hatred of the railroad was Winder’s only original notion, and when he got mad that always came in some way. Everything else was what he’d heard somebody, or most everybody, say, only he always got angry enough to make it sound like a conviction.

You goin’?” he rasped at me, shaking his stick at the corner. “John, John,” the old lady clucked, “it don’t do for you to go gettin’ excited.” “I ain’t excited,” the old man twittered, pounding his stick on the road, “I ain’t excited; I’m jest plumb disgusted.” I’d stopped because he’d caught hold of my shirtsleeve. “You’re goin’, ain’t you?” he threatened me again. “It looks like it, dad,” I said.

he is talking about the whole American society or, rather, the whole human society. And the horror lies in the irony: it is far easier to understand and forgive the brutal actions of slaves than it is to understand and forgive the brutal actions of men who think themselves free and act as slaves. Here is Clark’s most explicit criticism of the American Dream: the forms of law will not suffice if they are not based upon true individualism. And these Americans are not individuals nor are they concerned with individuals.

the north and south ends, there wasn’t much to Bridger’s Wells: Arthur Davies’ general store, the land and mining claims office, Canby’s saloon, the long, sagging Bridger Inn, with its double-decker porch, and the Union Church, square and bare as a New England meeting house, and set out on the west edge of town, as if it wanted to get as far from the other church as it could without being left alone.

Cold wind,” I began. He looked at me as if I’d said something important. Then he said, “It’s more than wind,” and stared ahead of him again. “Maybe,” I said. I didn’t get his drift, but if he wanted to talk, “maybe” shouldn’t stop him. “It’s a lot more,” he said, as if I’d contradicted him. “You can’t go hunting men like coyotes after rabbits and not feel anything about it. Not without being like any other animal. The worst animal.” “There’s a difference; we have reasons.” “Names for the same thing,” he said sharply. “Does that make us any better? Worse, I’d say. At least coyotes don’t make excuses.

Oh, we’re smart,” he said, the same way. “It’s the same thing,” he cried; “all we use it for is power. Yes, we’ve got them scared all right, all of them, except the tame things we’ve taken the souls out of. We’re the cocks of the dung-heap, all right; the bullies of the globe.” “We’re not hunting rabbits tonight,” I reminded him. “No; our own kind. A wolf wouldn’t do that; not a mangy coyote. That’s the hunting we like now, our own kind. The rest can’t excite us any more.” “We don’t have to hunt men often,” I told him. “Most people never have. They get along pretty well together.” “Oh, we love each other,” he said. “We labor for each other, suffer for each other, admire each other. We have all the pack instincts, all right, and nice names for them.

Well?” “Don’t rush me,” Gil said. “Take your time,” Canby said. “It don’t look to me,” Gil said, “like you was so rushed you couldn’t wait!” “It’s not that. I hate to see a man who can’t make up his mind.” “What do you care?” “I either have to put them to bed or listen to their troubles, depending on what they drink,” Canby said. His mouth only opened a slit when he talked, and the words came out as if he enjoyed them, but had to lift a weight to get them started. “I ain’t lookin’ for either sleep or comfortin’,” Gil said. “And if I was, I wouldn’t come here for it.” “I feel better,” said Canby. “What’ll you have? Whisky?

but you can feel awful guilty about nothing when the men you're with don't trust you.

I failed, he said, I got talking my ideas. It's my greatest failing.

I'm slow with a new idea, and want to think it over alone, where I'm sure it's the idea and not the man that's getting me.

How you feeling now, fellow?” he asked. “Good,” I said. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “This still don’t have to be our picnic.” “It looks like it was,” I said. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but it ain’t.

This snow will be three feet deep by morning,” the first man said. There was a lot of muttering in agreement. After trying to see into the clearing all that time the job did look ridiculous. Also, unseasonable winter takes the heart out of men the same as it does out of animals. You just get used to the sun and the limber feeling, and when they go you want to crawl back into your hole.