The Riddle

by Melville Davisson Post

　　I HAVE NEVER seen the snow fall as it fell on the night of theseventeenth of February. It had been a mild day with a soft, stagnantair. The sky seemed about to descend and enclose the earth, as though itwere a thing which it had long pursued and had now got into a corner.All day it seemed thus to hover motionless above its quarry, and theearth to be apprehensive like a thing in fear. Animals were restless,and men, as they stood about and talked together, looked up at the sky.

　　We were in the county seat on that day. The grand jury was sitting, andAbner had been summoned to appear before it. It was the killing of oldChristian Lance that the grand jury was inquiring into. He had beenfound one morning in his house, bound into a chair. The body satstraining forward, death on it, and terror in its face. There was no onein the house but old Christian, and it was noon before the neighborsfound him. The tragedy had brought the grand jury together, and hadfilled the hills with talk, for it left a mystery unsolved.

　　This mystery that Christian sealed up in his death was one that no mancould get a hint at while he was living-what had the old man done withhis money? He grazed a few cattle and got a handsome profit. He spentnext to nothing; he gave nothing to any one, and he did not put hismoney out to interest. It was known that he would take only gold inpayment for his cattle. He made no secret of that. The natural inferencewas that he buried his coin in some spot about his garden, but idlepersons had watched his house for whole nights after he had sold hiscattle, and had never seen him come out with a spade. And young bloods,more curious, I think, than criminal, had gone into his house when hewas absent, and searched it more than once. There was no corner thatthey had not looked into, and no floor board that they had not lifted,nor any loose stone about the hearth that they had not felt under.

　　Once, in conference on this mystery, somebody had suggested that theknobs on the andirons and the handles on the old high-boy were gold,having gotten the idea from some tale. And a little later, when the oldman returned one evening from the grist-mill, he found that one of theseknobs on the andirons had been broken off. But, as the thief never cameback for the other, it was pretty certain that this fantastic notion wasnot the key to Christian's secret.

　　It was after one of these mischievous searchings that he put up hisDelphic notice when he went away-a leaf from a day-book, scrawled inpencil, and pinned to the mantelpiece:

　　"Why don't you look in the cow?"

　　The idle gossips puzzled over that. What did it mean? Was the thing asort of taunt? And did the old man mean that since these persons hadlooked into every nook and corner of his house, they ought also to havelooked into the red mouth of the cow? Or did he mean that his money wasinvested in cattle and there was the place to look? Or was the thing acryptic sentence-like that of some ancient oracle-in which the secret tohis hoarded gold was hidden?

　　At any rate it was certain that old Christian was not afraid to go awayand leave his door open, and the secret to guard itself. And he wasjustified in that confidence. The mischievous gave over theirinquisitions, and the mystery became a sort of legend.

　　With the eyes of the curious thus on him, and that mystery forbackground, it was little wonder that his tragic death fired thecountry.

　　I have said there was a horror about the dead man's face as he satstraining in the chair. And the thing was in truth a horror! But thatword does not tell the story. The eyes, the muscles of his jaw, the veryflesh upon his bones seemed to strain with some deadly resolution, asthough the indomitable spirit of the man, by sheer determination, wouldforce the body to do its will, even after death was on it. And herethere was a curious thing. It was not about the house, where histreasure might have been concealed, that the dead man strained, buttoward the door, as though he would follow after some one who had goneout there.

　　The neighbors cut him from the chair, straightened out his limbs, andgot him buried. But his features, set in that deadly resolution, theycould not straighten out. Neither the placidity of death, nor thefingers of those who prepared the man for burial, could relax themuscles or get down his eyelids. He lay in the coffin with that hideousresolution on his face, and he went into the earth with it.

　　When the man was found, Randolph sent for Abner, and the two of themlooked through the house. Nothing had been disturbed. There was a kettleon the crane, and a crock beside the hearth. The ears of seed corn hungfrom the rafters, trussed up by their shucks; the bean pods together ina cluster; the cakes of tallow sat on a shelf above the mantel; thefestoons of dried apples and the bunches of seasoned herbs hung againstthe chimney. The bed and all the furniture about the house was in itsorder.

　　When they had finished with that work they did not know who it was thathad killed old Christian. Abner did not talk, but he said that much, andthe Justice of the Peace told all he knew to every casual visitor. True,it was nothing more than the county knew already, but his talk annoyedAbner.

　　"Randolph's a leaky pitcher," he said. And I think it was this commentthat inspired the notion that Abner knew something that he had not toldthe Justice.

　　At any rate he was a long time before the grand jury on this Februaryday. The grand jury sat behind closed doors. They were stern, silentmen, and nothing crept out through the keyhole. But after the witnesseswere heard, the impression got about that the grand jury did not knowwho had killed old Christian, and this conclusion was presently verifiedwhen they came in before the judge. They had no indictment to find. Andwhen the judge inquired if they knew of anything that would justify theprosecuting attorney in taking any further action on behalf of thestate, the foreman shook his head.

　　Night was descending when we left the county-seat. Abner sat in hissaddle like a man of bronze, his face stern, as it always was when hewas silent, and I rode beside him. I wish I could get my Uncle Abnerbefore your eye. He was one of those austere, deeply religious men whomight have followed Cromwell, with a big iron frame, a grizzled beardand features forged out by a smith. His god was the god of the Tishbite,who numbered his followers by the companies who drew the sword. The landhad need of men like Abner. The government of Virginia was over theAlleghenies, and this great, fertile cattle country, hemmed in by thefar-off mountains like a wall of the world, had its own peace to keep.And it was these iron men who kept it. The fathers had got this land ingrants from the King of England; they had held it against the savage andfinally against the King himself...And the sons were like them.

　　The horses were nervous; they flung their heads about, and rattled thebit rings and traveled together like men apprehensive of some danger tobe overtaken. That deadly stillness of the day remained, but the snowwas now beginning to appear. It fell like no other snow that I have everseen-not a gust of specks or a shower of tiny flakes, but now and then,out of the dirty putty-colored sky, a flake as big as a man's thumb-nailwinged down and lighted on the earth like some living creature. And itclung to the thing that it lighted on as though out of the heavens ithad selected that thing to destroy. And, while it clung, there cameanother of these soft white creatures to its aid, and settled beside it,and another and another, until the bare stem of the ragweed, or thebrown leaf of the beech tree snapped under the weight of these clingingbodies.

　　It is a marvel how quickly this snow covered up the world, and howswiftly and silently it descended. The trees and fences were grotesqueand misshapen with it. The landscape changed and was blotted out. Nightwas on us, and always the invading swarm of flakes increased until theyseemed to crowd one another in the stagnant air.

　　Presently Abner stopped and looked up at the sky, but he did not speakand we went on. But now the very road began to be clogged with this wetsnow; great limbs broke at the tree trunks under the weight of it; thehorses began to flounder, and at last Abner stopped. It seemed to be ata sort of crossroad in a forest, but I was lost. The snow had coveredevery landmark that I knew. We had been traveling for an hour in acountry as unfamiliar as the Tartar Steppes.

　　Abner turned out of the road into the forest. My horse followed. We camepresently into the open, and stopped under the loom of a house. It was agreat barn of hewn logs, but unused and empty. The door stood open onits broken hinges. We got down, took the horses in, removed the saddles,and filled the mangers with some old hay from the loft. I had no ideawhere we were. We could not go on, and I thought we would be forced topass the night here. But this was not Abner's plan.

　　"Let us try to find the house, Martin," he said, "and build a fire."

　　We set out from the stable. Abner broke a trail through the deep snow,and I followed at his heels. He must have had some sense of direction,for we could not see. We seemed an hour laboring in that snow, but itcould only have been a few minutes at the furthest. Presently we cameupon broad steps, and under the big columns of a portico. And I knew theplace for an old abandoned manor house, set in a corner of worn-outfields, in the edge of the forest, where the river bowed in under sheerbanks a dozen fathoms down. The estate was grown up with weeds, and thehouse falling to decay. But now, when we came into the portico, a hazeof light was shining through the fan-shaped glass over the door. It wasthis light that disturbed Abner. He stopped and stood there in theshelter of the columns, like a man in some perplexity.

　　"Now, who could that be?" he said, not to me, but to himself.

　　And he remained for some time, watching the blur of light, and listeningfor a sound. But there was no sound. The house had been abandoned. Thewindows were nailed up. Finally he went over to the ancient door andknocked. For answer there was the heavy report of a weapon, and a whitesplinter leaped out of a panel above his head. He sprang aside, and theweapon bellowed again, and I saw another splinter. And then I saw athing that I had not noticed, that the door and the boards over thewindows were riddled with these bullet holes. Abner shouted out his nameand called on the man within to stop shooting and open the door.

　　For some time there was silence; then, finally the door did open, and aman stood there with a candle in his hand. He was a little old man witha stub of wiry beard, red grizzled hair, keen eyes like a crumb ofglass, and a body knotted and tawny like a stunted oak tree. He wore asort of cap with a broad fur collar fastened with big brass wolf-headclasps. And I knew him. He was the old country doctor, Storm, who hadcome into the hills, from God knows where. He lived not far away, and asa child, I feared him. I feared the flappings of his cape on some windyridge, for he walked the country in his practice, and only rode when thedistances were great. No one knew his history, and about him the Negroeshad conjured up every sort of fancy. These notions took a sort of form.Storm was a rival of the Devil and jousted with him for the lives of menand beasts. He would work on a horse, snapping his jaws and mutteringhis strange oaths, as long and as patiently as upon the body of a man.And surely, if one stood and watched him, one would presently believethat Storm contended with something for its prey. I can see him now,standing in the door with the candle held high up so he could peer intothe darkness.

　　He cried out when he saw Abner.

　　"Come in," he said, "by the Eternal, you are welcome!"

　　"Storm!" said Abner, "you in this house!"

　　"And why not?" replied the man. "I walk and am overtaken by a snow; andyou ride and do not escape it."

　　He laughed, showing his twisted, yellow teeth, and turned about in thedoorway, and we followed him into the house. There was a fire burning onthe hearth and another candle guttering on the table. It was a hall thatthe door led into-the conventional hall of the great old Southern manorhouse, wide mahogany doors on either side stood closed in their whiteframes, a white stairway going up to a broad landing, and a hugefireplace with brass andirons. The place was warm, but musty. It hadlong been stripped and gutted. It was hung with cobwebs and powdereddown with dust. There was a small portmanteau on the table, such asone's father used to carry, of black leather with little flaps andbuckles. And beside it a blue iron stone jug and a dirty tumbler.

　　The man set down the candle and indicated the jug and the fireplace witha queer, ironical gesture.

　　"I offer you the hospitality of the cup and the hearth, Abner,'" hesaid.

　　"We will take the hearth, Storm," replied Abner, "if you please."

　　And we went over to the fireplace, took off our great coats, beat outthe wet snow, and sat down on the old mahogany settle by the andirons.

　　"Every man to the desire of his heart and the custom of his life," saidStorm.

　　He took up the jug, turned it on end, and drained its contents into theglass. There was only a little of the liquor left. It was brewed fromapples, raw and fiery, and the odor of it filled the place. Then he heldup the glass, watching the firelight play in the white-blue liquor.

　　"You fill the mind with phantoms," he said, turning the glass about asthough it held some curious drug. "We swallow you and see things thatare not, and dead men from their graves."

　　He toyed with the glass, put it on the table, and sat down. "Abner," hesaid, "I know the body of a man down to the fiber of his bones; but themind-it is a land of mystery. We dare not trust it." He paused andrapped the table with his callous fingers.

　　"Against another we may be secure, but against himself what one of us issafe? A man may have no fear of your Hebrew God, Abner, or your AssyrianDevil, and yet, his own mind may turn against him and fill him full ofterror....A man may kill his enemy in secret and hide him, and returnto his house secure-and find the dead man sitting in his chair with thewet blood on him. And with all his philosophies he cannot eject thatphantom from its seat. He will say this thing does not exist. But whatavails the word when the thing is there!"

　　He got on his feet and leaned over the table with his crooked fingersout before him.

　　I was afraid and I drew closer to my uncle. This strange old man,straining over the table, peering into the shadows, held me with agripping fascination. His wiry, faded red hair seemed to rise on hisscalp, and I looked to see some horror in its grave clothes appearbefore him.

　　Abner turned his stern face upon him. It was some time before he spoke.

　　"Storm," he said, "what do you fear?"

　　"Fear!" cried the old man, his voice rising in a sharp staccato; and hemade a gesture outward with his hand.

　　"You fear your God, Abner, and I fear myself!"

　　But there was something in Abner's voice and in this query launched athim that changed the man as by some sorcery. He sat down, fingered theglass of liquor, and looked at Abner closely. He did not speak for sometime. He appeared to be turning some problem slowly in his mind. Therewas a lot of mystery here to clear up. We had discovered him by chance,and surely he had received us in the strangest manner. His explanationcould not be true that he had come into the house before us on thisnight, for the house was warm, and it could not have been heated in thattime. What was the creature's secret? Why was he here, and who besiegedhim. These were things which he must fear to have known, and yet, he wasglad to see us, glad to find us there in the snow, instead of anotherwhom he feared to find there. And yet, we disturbed him, and he wasuncertain what to do. He sat beyond the table, and I could see his eyesrun over us, and wander off about the hall and return and glance at theblack portmanteau.

　　And while he hung there between his plans, Abner spoke.

　　"Storm," he said, "what does all this mean?"

　　The old man looked about him swiftly, furtively, I thought; then hespoke in a voice so low that we could hardly hear him.

　　"Let me put it this way, Abner," he said: "One comes here, as you come;he is met as you are met; well, what happens from all this?...Asuspicion enters the visitor's mind. There is peril to the host in that,and he is put to an alternative. He must explain or he must shoot theguest...Well, he chooses to make his explanation first, and if thatfail, there is the other!"

　　"'And,' he says, 'you have done me a service to come in; I am glad tosee you.' And you say, 'What do you fear?' He answers, 'Robbers.' Yousay, 'What have you in this house to lose?' And he tells you this:

　　"Michael Dale owned this house. He was rich. When he was dying he sathere by this hearth, tapping the bricks with his cane, and peering athis worthless son. You remember that son, Abner; he looked like theJupiter of Elis before the Devil got him. 'Wellington,' he said, 'I amleaving you a treasure here.' He had been speaking of this estate, andone thought he meant the lands, and so gave the thing no notice. Butlater one remembered that expression and began to think it over. Onerecalled where it was that Michael Dale sat and the tapping of hisstick. Well, when one is going down, any straw is worth the clutching.One slips into this house and looks." He indicated the brick hearth witha gesture. "No, it is not there now. The gold is in that portmanteau."He arose, opened the bag, and fumbled in it. Then he came to us withsome pieces in his hand.

　　Abner took the gold and examined it carefully by the firelight. Theywere old pieces, and he rubbed them between his fingers and scrapedsomething from their faces with his thumbnail. Then he handed them back,and Storm cast them into the portmanteau and buckled it together. Thenhe sat down and drew the stone jug over beside him.

　　"Now, Abner," he said, "there is this evil about a treasure. It fillsone full of fear. You must stand guard over it, and the thing gets onyour nerves. The wind in the chimney is a voice, and every noise afootstep. At first one goes about with the weapon in his hand, and then,when he can bear it no more, he shoots at every sound."

　　Abner did not move, and I listened to the man as to a tale of Bagdad.Every mystery was now cleared up-his presence in this house, his fear,the bullet holes, and why he was glad to see us, and yet disturbed thatwe had come. And I saw what he had been turning in his mind-whether heshould trust us with the truth or leave us to our own conclusions. Iunderstood and verified in myself every detail of this story. I shouldhave acted as he did at every step, and I could realize this fear, andhow, as the thing possessed him, one might come at last to shoot up theshadows. I looked at the man with a sort of wonder.

　　Abner had been stroking his bronze face with his great sinewy hand, andnow he spoke.

　　"Storm," he said, "Michael Dale's riddle is not the only one that hasbeen read." And he told of Christian Lance's death, and the Delphicsentence that had doubtless caused it. "You knew old Christian, Storm,and his curious life?"

　　"I did," replied Storm, "and I knew the man who carried off the knob ofthe andiron. But how do you say that any man read his riddle, Abner, andhow do you know that there was any riddle in it? I took the thing to bean idle taunt."

　　"And so did Randolph," said Abner, "but you were both wrong. The secretwas in that scrawled sentence, and some one guessed it."

　　"How do you know that, Abner?" said Storm.

　　Abner did not reply directly to the point.

　　"Old Christian loved money," he went on. "He would have died before hetold where it was hidden. And his straining toward the door, as thoughin death he would follow one who had gone out there, meant that hissecret had been divined, and that his gold had gone that way."

　　"You ride to a conclusion on straws, Abner," said Storm, "if that is allthe proof you have."

　　"Well," replied Abner, "I have also a theory."

　　"And what is your theory?" said Storm.

　　"It is this," continued Abner; "when old Christian wrote, 'Why don't youlook in the cow,' he meant a certain thing. There was a row of tallowcakes on a shelf. My theory is that each year when he got the gold fromhis cattle, he molded it into one of these tallow cakes, turned it outof the crock, and put it on the shelf. And there, in the heart of thesetallow cakes, was the old man's treasure!"

　　"But you tell me that the cakes were there on this shelf when you foundold Christian," said Storm.

　　"They were," replied Abner.

　　"Every one of them," said Storm.

　　"Every one of them," answered Abner.

　　"Had any one of them been cut or broken?"

　　"Not one of them; they were smooth and perfect."

　　"Then your first conclusion goes to pieces, Abner. No man carriedChristian's money through the door; it is there on the shelf."

　　"No," said Abner, "it is not there. The man who killed old ChristianLance got the gold out of those cakes of tallow."

　　"And, now, Abner," cried the man, "the bottom of your theory falls. Howcould one get the gold out of these cakes, and leave them perfect?"

　　"I will tell you that," replied Abner. "There was a kettle on the craneand a crock beside the hearth, and every cake of tallow on the shelf waswhite...They had been remolded! Randolph did not see that, but I did."

　　Storm got on his feet.

　　"Then you do not believe this explanation, Abner-that the gold comesfrom the hearth?"

　　"I do not," replied Abner, and his voice was deep and level. "There istallow on these coins!"

　　I saw Abner glance at the iron poker and watch Storm's hand.

　　But the old man did not draw his weapon. He laughed noiselessly,twisting his crooked mouth.

　　"You are right, Abner," he said, "it is Christian's gold, and this talea lie. But you are wrong in your conclusion. Lance was not killed by alittle man like I am; he was killed by a big man like you!"

　　He paused and leaned over, resting his hands on the table.

　　"The man who killed him did not guess that riddle, Abner...Put theevidences together...Lance was tied into his chair before the assassinkilled him. Why? That was to threaten him with death unless he toldwhere his gold was hidden...Well, Lance would not tell that, but theassassin found it out by chance. He stooped to put the poker into thefire to heat it, and torture Christian. The cakes of tallow were on ahanging shelf against the white-washed chimney; as the assassin arose,he struck this shelf with his shoulder, and one of the tallow cakes felland burst on the hearth. Then he killed Christian with a blow of theheated poker. I know that because the hair about the wound was scorched!

　　"You saw a good deal in that house, Abner, but did you see a crease inthe chimney where the shelf smote it, and the mark of a man's shoulderon the whitewash? And that shoulder, Abner," he raised his hand abovehis head, "it was as high as yours!"

　　There was silence.

　　And as the two men looked thus at each other, there was a sound as ofsomething padding about the house outside. For a moment I did notunderstand these sounds, then I realized that the wind was rising, andclumps of snow falling from the trees. But to another in that housethese sounds had no such explanation.

　　Then a thing happened. One of the mahogany doors entering the hallleaped back, and a man stood there with a pistol in his hand. And in allmy life I have never seen a creature like him! There was everything fineand distinguished in his face, but the face was a ruin. It was aloathsome and hideous ruin. Made for the occupancy of a god, the man'sbody was the dwelling of a devil. I do not mean a clean and viciousdevil, but one low and bestial, that wallowed and gorged itself withsins. And there was another thing in that face that to understand, onemust have seen it. There was terror, but no fear! It was as though theman advanced against a thing that filled him full of horror, but headvanced with courage. He had a spirit in him that saw and knew theaspect and elements of danger, but it could not be stampeded intoflight.

　　I heard Abner say, "Dale!" like one who pronounces the name of someextraordinary thing. And I heard Storm say, "Mon dieu! With ateaspoonful of laudanum in him, he walks!"

　　The creature did not see us; he was listening to the sounds outside, andhe started for the door.

　　"You there," he bellowed, "again!...Damn you!...Well, I'll get youthis time....I'll hunt you to hell!"...And his drunken voice rumbledoff into obscenities and oaths.

　　He flung the door open and went out. His weapon thundered, and by it andthe drunken shouting, we could track him. He seemed to move north, asthough lured that way. We stood and listened.

　　"He goes toward the river," said Abner. "It is God's will." Then far offthere was a last report of the weapon and a great bellowing cry thatshuddered through the forest.

　　That night over the fire, Storm told us how he had come in from the snowand found Dale drunk and fighting the ghost of Christian Lance; how helistened to his story, and slipped the drug into his glass, and how hegot him hidden, when we came, on the promise to keep his secret; and howhe had fenced with Abner, seeing that Abner suspected him. But it wasthe failure of his drug that vexed him. "It would put a brigadier andhis horse to sleep-that much, if it were pure. I shall take ten dropstomorrow night and see."