The House of the Dead Man

by Melville Davisson Post

　　WE WERE on our way to the Smallwood place-Abner and I. It was early inthe morning and I thought we were the first on the road; but at theThree Forks, where the Lost Creek turnpike trails down from themountains, a horse had turned in before us.

　　It was a morning out of Paradise, crisp and bright. The spider-websglistened on the fence rails. The timber cracked. The ragweed was dustedwith silver. The sun was moving upward from behind the world. I couldhave whistled out of sheer joy in being alive on this October morningand the horse under me danced; but Abner rode looking down his nose. Hewas always silent when he had this trip to make. And he had a reason forit.

　　The pastureland that we were going on to did not belong to us. It hadbeen owned by the sheriff, Asbury Smallwood. In those days the sheriffcollected the county taxes. One night the sheriff's house had beenentered, burned over his head and a large sum of the county revenuescarried off. No one ever found a trace of those who had done this deed.The sheriff was ruined. He had given up his lands and moved to aneighboring county. His bondsmen had been forced to meet the loss. Myfather had been one of them; but it was not the loss to my father thatbothered Abner.

　　"The thing does not hurt you, Rufus," he said; "but it cripples ElnathanStone and it breaks Adam Greathouse."

　　Stone was a grazier with heavy debts and Greathouse was a little farmer.I remember how my father chaffed Abner when he paid his portion of thisloss.

　　"'The Lord gave,'" he said, "'and the Lord hath taken away'-eh, Abner?"

　　"But, Rufus," replied Abner, "did the Lord take? We must be sure ofthat. There are others who take."

　　It was clear what Abner meant. If the Lord took he would be resigned toit; but if another took he would follow with a weapon in his hand andrecover what had been taken. Abner's God was an exacting Overlord andHis requisitions were to be met with equanimity; but He did not gohalves with thieves and He issued no letters of marque.

　　When the sheriff failed Abner had put cattle on the land in an effort tomake what he could for the bondsmen. It was good grazing land, but itwas watered by springs, and we had to watch them. A beef steer does notgrow fat without plenty of water. We went every week to give the cattlesalt and to watch the springs.

　　As we rode I presently noticed that Abner was looking down at thehorsetrack. And then I saw what I had not noticed before, that therewere three horsetracks in the road-two going our way and onereturning-but only one of the tracks was fresh. Finally Abner pulled uphis big chestnut. We were passing the old burned house. The crumbledfoundations and the blasted trees stood at the end of a lane. There hadonce been a gate before the house at the end of this lane, but it wasnow nailed up. The horse going before us had entered this lane for a fewsteps, then turned back into the road.

　　Abner did not speak. He looked at the track for a moment and then rodeon. Presently we came to the bars leading from the road into thepasture. The horse had stopped here and its rider had got out of thesaddle and let down the bars. One could see where the horse had gonethrough and the footprints of the rider were visible in the soft clay.The old horsetrack also went in and came out at these bars.

　　Abner examined the man's footprints with what I thought was an excess ofinterest. Travelers were always going through one's land; and, providedthey closed the bars behind them, what did it matter? Abner seemedconcerned about this traveler however. When we had entered the field hesat for some time in the saddle; and then, instead of going to the hillswhere the springs were, he rode up the valley toward a piece of woods.There was a little rivulet threading this valley and he watched it as herode.

　　Finally, just before the rivulet entered the woods, he stopped and gotdown out of his saddle. When I came up he was looking at a track on theedge of the little stream. It was the footprint of a man, still muddywhere the water had run into it. Abner stood on the bank beside therivulet, and for a good while I could not imagine what he was waitingfor. Then, as he watched the track, I understood. He was waiting for themuddy water to clear so he could see the imprint of the man's foot.

　　"Uncle Abner," I said, "what do you care about who goes through thefield?"

　　"Ordinarily I do not care," he said, "if the man lays up the fencebehind him; but there is something out of the ordinary about this thing.The man who crossed there on foot is the same man who came in on thehorse. The footprints here and at the bar show the same plate on thebootheel. He rode a horse that had been here before today, because itremembered the lane and tried to turn in there. Moreover, the man didnot wish to be seen, because he came early, hid the horse and went onfoot back toward the burned house."

　　"How do you know that he had hidden the horse, Uncle Abner?"

　　For answer he beckoned to me and we rode into the woods. The leaves weredamp and the horses made no sound. In a few moments Abner stopped andpointed through the beech trees, and I saw a bay horse tied to asapling. The horse stood with his legs wide apart and his head down.

　　"The horse is asleep," said Abner; "it has been ridden all night. Wemust find the rider."

　　I was now alive with interest. The old story of the robbery floatedbefore me in romantic colors. What innocent person would come here bystealth, ride his horse all night and then hide it in the woods?Moreover, as Abner said, this horse had been to the sheriff's housebefore today; and it had been there before the house was burned-becauseit had started to enter the old lane and had been turned back by itsrider. We were all familiar with such striking examples of memory inhorses. A horse, having once gone over a road and entered at a certaingate, will follow that road on a second trip and again enter that gate.

　　Then I remembered the old horsetrack that had preceded this one, and thesolution of this thing appeared before me. The story had gone about thattwo men had robbed the sheriff and these evidences tallied with thatstory. Two men had ridden into that pasture; that one track was olderwas because one of the men had gone to tell the other to meet himhere-had ridden back-and the other had followed. The horse of the firstrobber was doubtless concealed deeper in the wood. And why had theyreturned? That was clear enough-they had concealed the booty until nowand had just come back for it.

　　The thrill of adventure tingled in my blood. We were on the trail of therobbers and they could not easily escape us. The one who had ridden thishorse could not be far away, since his track in the brook was muddy whenwe found it; but why had he crossed the brook in the direction of theburned house? The way over the hill toward the house was wholly in theopen-clean sod, not even a tree. The man on foot could not have been outof sight of us when we rode across the brook and round the brow of thehill-but he was out of sight. We sat there in our saddles and searchedthe land, lying smooth and open before us. There was the burned housebelow, bare as my hand, and the meadows, all open to the eye. A rabbitcould not have hidden-where was the rider of that worn-out, sleepinghorse?

　　Abner sat there looking down at this clean, open land. A man could notvanish into the air; he could not hide in a wisp of blue grass; he couldnot cross three hundred acres of open country while his track in arunning brook remained muddy. He could have reached the brow of the hilland perhaps gone down to the house, but he could not have passed themeadows and the pasture field beyond without wings on his shoulders.

　　The morning was on its way; the air was like lotus. The sun, still outof sight, was beginning to gild the hilltops. I looked up; away on theknob at the summit of the hill there was an old graveyard-that was acurious custom, to put our dead on the highest point of land. A patch ofsunlight lay on this village of the dead-and as I looked a thing caughtmy eye.

　　I turned in the saddle.

　　"I saw something flash up there, Uncle Abner."

　　"Flash," he said-"like a weapon?"

　　"Glitter," I said. And I caught up the bridle-rein.

　　But Abner put his hand on the bit.

　　"Quietly, Martin," he said. "We will ride slowly round the hill, asthough we were looking for the cattle, and go up behind that knob; thereis a ridge there and we shall not be seen until we come out on the crestof the hill beside the graveyard."

　　We rode idly away, stopping now and then, like persons at their leisure.But I was afire with interest. All the way to the crest of the hill theblood skipped in my veins. The horses made no sound on the carpet ofgreen sod. And when we came out suddenly beside the ancient graveyard Ifully expected to see there a brace of robbers-like some picture in astory-with bloody cloths around their heads and pistols in their belts;or two bewhiskered pirates before a heap of pieces-of-eight.

　　On the tick of the clock I was disillusioned, however. A man who hadbeen kneeling by a grave rose. I knew him in the twinkling of an eye. Hewas the sheriff and in the twinkling of an eye I knew why he was there;and I was covered with confusion. His father was buried in this oldgraveyard. It was a land where men concealed their feelings as oneconceals the practice of a crime; and one would have stolen hisneighbor's goods before he would have intruded upon the secrecy of hisemotions.

　　I pulled up my horse and would have turned back, pretending that I hadnot seen him, for I was ashamed; but Abner rode on and presently Ifollowed in amazement. If Abner had cursed his horse or warbled a ribaldsong I could not have been more astonished. I was ashamed for myself andI was ashamed for Abner. How could he ride in on a man who had just gotup from beside his father's grave? My mind flashed back over Abner'slife to find a precedent for this conspicuous inconsiderate act; butthere was nothing like it in all the history of the man.

　　When the sheriff saw us he wiped his face with his sleeve and went whiteas a sheet. And under my own shirt I felt and suffered with the man. Ishould have gone white like that if one had caught me thus. And in mythroat I choked with bitterness at Abner. Had his heart tilted and everygenerous instinct been emptied out of it? Then I thought he meant toturn the thing with some word that would cover the man's confusion andsave his feelings inviolate; but he shocked me out of that.

　　"Smallwood," said Abner, "you have come back!"

　　The man blinked as though the sun were in his eyes. He had not yetregained the mastery of himself.

　　"Yes," he said.

　　"And why do you come?" said Abner.

　　A flush of scarlet spread over the man's white face.

　　"And do you ask me that?" he cried. "It is the tomb of my father!"

　　"Your father," said Abner, "was an upright man. He lived in the fear ofGod. I respect his tomb."

　　"I thank you, Abner," replied the man. "I honor my father's grave."

　　"You honor it late," said Abner.

　　"Late!" echoed Smallwood.

　　"Late," said Abner.

　　The man spread out his hands with a gesture of resignation.

　　"You mean that my misfortune has dishonored my father?"

　　"No," said Abner, "that is not what I mean; by a misfortune no man canbe dishonored-neither his father nor his father's father."

　　"What is it you mean, then?" said the man.

　　"Smallwood," said Abner, "is it not before you; where you in yourownership allowed the fence around this grave to rot I have rebuilt it,and where you allowed the weeds to grow up I have cut them down?"

　　It was the truth. Abner had put up a fence and had cleaned thegraveyard. Only the myrtle and cinquefoil covered it. I thought thesheriff would be ashamed at that, but his face brightened.

　　"It is disaster, Abner, that brings' a man back to his duties to thedead. In prosperity we forget, but in poverty we remember."

　　"The Master," replied Abner, "was not very much concerned about thedead; nor am I. The dead are in God's keeping! It is our duties to theliving that should move us. Do you remember, Smallwood, the story of theyoung man who wished to go and bury his father?"

　　"I do," said Smallwood, "and I have always held him in honor for it."

　　"And so, too, the Master would have held him, but for one thing."

　　"What thing?" said Smallwood.

　　"That the story was an excuse," replied Abner.

　　I saw the light go out of the man's face and his lips tremble; and thenhe said what I was afraid he would say.

　　"Abner," he said, "if you are determined to gouge this thing out of me,why here it is: I cannot bear to live in this community any longer. I amashamed to see those upon whom I have brought misfortune-Elnathan Stone,and your brother Rufus, and Adam Greathouse. I have made up my mind toleave the country forever, but I wanted to see the place where my fatherwas buried before I went, because I shall never see it again. You don'tunderstand how a man can feel like that; but I tell you, when a man isin trouble he will remember his father's roof if he is living, and hisfather's grave if he is dead."

　　I was so mortified before this confession that Abner's heartless mannerhad forced out of the man that I reached over and caught my uncle by thesleeve. My horse stood by Abner's chestnut, and I hoped that he wouldyield to my importunity and ride on; but he turned in his saddle andlooked first at me and then down upon the sheriff.

　　"Martin," he said, "thinks we ought to leave you to your filialdevotions."

　　"It is a credit to the child's heart," replied the man, "and a rebuke toyou, Abner. It is a pity that age robs us of charity."

　　Abner put his hands on the pommel of his saddle and regarded thesheriff.

　　"I have read St. Paul's epistle on charity," he said, "and, after longreflection, I am persuaded that there exists a greater thing thancharity-a thing of more value to the human family. Like charity, itrejoiceth not in iniquity, but it does not bear all things or believeall things, or endure all things; and, unlike charity, it seeketh itsown....Do you know what thing I mean, Smallwood? I will tell you. Itis Justice."

　　"Abner," replied the man, "I am in no humor to hear a sermon."

　　"Those who need a sermon," said Abner, "are rarely in the humor to hearit."

　　"Abner," cried the man, "you annoy me! Will you ride on?"

　　"Presently," replied Abner; "when we have talked together a littlefurther. You are about to leave the country. I shall perhaps never seeyou again and I would have your opinion upon a certain matter."

　　"Well," said the man, "what is it?"

　　"It is this," said Abner. "You appear to entertain great filial respect,and I would ask you a question touching that regard: What ought to bedone with a man who would use a weapon against his father?"

　　"He ought to be hanged," said Smallwood.

　　"And would it change the case," said Abner, "if the father heldsomething which the son had intrusted to him and would not give it upbecause it belonged to another, and the son, to take it, should comeagainst his father with an iron in his hand?"

　　The sheriff's face became a land of doubt, of suspicion, of uncertaintyand, I thought, of fear.

　　"Abner," cried the man, "I do not understand; will you explain it?"

　　"I will explain this thing which you do not understand," replied Abner,"when you have explained a thing which I do not understand. Why was itthat you came here last night and again this morning? That was twovisits to your father's grave within six hours. I do not understand whyyou should make two trips-and one upon the heels of the other."

　　For a moment the man did not reply; then he spoke. "How do you know thatI was here last night? Did you see me come or did another see and tellyou?"

　　"I did not see you," replied Abner, "nor did any one tell me that youcame; but I know it in spite of that."

　　"And how do you know it?" said Smallwood.

　　"I will tell you," said Abner. "On the road this morning I observed twohorse-tracks leading this way; they both turned in at the samecrossroads and they both came to this place. One was fresh, the otherwas some hours old-it is easy to tell that on a clay road. I comparedthose two tracks and the third returning track, and presently I saw thatthey had been made by the same horse."

　　Abner stopped and pointed down toward the beech woods.

　　"Moreover," he continued, "your horse, hidden among those trees, is wornout and asleep. Now you live only some twenty miles away-that journeythis morning would not have so fatigued your horse that he would sleepon his feet; but to make two trips-to go all night-to travel sixtymiles-would do it."

　　The sheriff's head did not move, but I saw his eyes glance down. Theglance did not escape Abner and he went on.

　　"I saw the crowbar in the grass there some time ago," he said; "but whathas the crowbar to do with your two trips?"

　　I, too, saw now the iron bar. It was the thing that had glittered in thesun.

　　The man threw back his shoulders; he lifted his face and stood up. Therecame upon him the pose and expression of one who steps out at lastdesperately into the open.

　　"Yes," he said, "I was here last night. It was my horse that made thosetracks in the road and it is my horse that is hidden in the woods now.And that is my crowbar in the grass...And do you want to know why Imade those two trips, and why I brought that crowbar, and why I hid myhorse?...Well, I'll tell you, since there is no shame in you and nodecent feeling, and you are determined to have it....You can'tunderstand, Abner, because you have a heart of stone; but I tell you Iwanted to see my father's grave before I left the country forever. I wasashamed to meet the people over here and so I came in the night. When Igot here I saw that the heavy slab over my father's grave had settleddown and was wedged in against the coping. I tried to straighten it up,but I could not...Well, what would you have done, Abner-gone away andleft your father's tomb a ruin?...No matter what you would have done!I went back twenty miles and got that crowbar and came again to lift andstraighten the stone over my father's grave before I left it....Andnow, will you ride on and leave me to finish my work and go?"

　　"Smallwood," Abner said presently, "how do you know that your house wasrobbed before it was burned? Might it not be that the county revenueswere burned with the house?"

　　"I will tell you how I know that, Abner," replied the man. "The revenuesof the county were all in my deerskin saddle-pockets, under my pillow;when I awoke in the night the house was dark and filled with smoke. Ijumped up, seized my clothes, which were on a chair by the bed, and randownstairs; but, first, I felt under the pillow for my saddle-pockets--andthey were gone."

　　"But, Smallwood," said Abner, "how can you be certain that the money wasstolen out of your saddle-pockets if you did not find them?"

　　"I did find them," replied the sheriff; "I went back into the house andgot the saddle-pockets and brought them out-and they were empty."

　　"That was a brave thing to do, Smallwood," said Abner-"to go back into aburning house filled with smoke and dark. You could have had only amoment."

　　"You speak the truth, Abner," replied the sheriff. "I had only amoment-the house was a pot of smoke. But the money was in my care,Abner. There was my duty-and what is a man's life against that!"

　　I saw Abner's back straighten and I heard his feet grind on the iron ofhis stirrups.

　　"And now, Smallwood," he said, and his voice was like the menace of aweapon, "will you tell me how it was possible for you to go into a housethat was dark and filled with smoke, and thus quickly-in a moment-findthose empty saddle-pockets, unless you knew exactly where they were?"

　　I saw that Abner's question had impaled the man, as one pierces a flythrough with a needle; and, like a fly, the man in his confusionfluttered.

　　"Smallwood," said Abner, "you are a thief and a hypocrite and a liar!And, like all liars, you have destroyed yourself! You not only stolethis money but you tried to make your father an accomplice in thatrobbery. To conceal it, you hid it in this dead man's house. And,behold, the dead man has held his house against you! When you came herelast night to carry away the money you found that the slab over yourfather's grave had fallen and wedged itself in against the limestonecoping, and you could not lift it; and so you went back for thatcrowbar...But who knows, you thief, what influence, though he be dead,a just man has with God! I came in time to help your father hold hishouse-and against his son, with a weapon in his hand!"

　　I saw the man cringe and writhe and shiver, as though he were unable toget out of his tracks; then the power came to him, and he vaulted overthe fence and ran. He ran in fear down the hill and across the brook andinto the wood; and a moment later he came out with his tired horse at agallop.

　　Abner looked down from the hilltop on the flying thief, but he made nomove to follow.

　　"Let him go," he said, "for his father's sake. We owe the dead man thatmuch."

　　Then he got down from his horse, thrust the crowbar under the slab overthe grave and lifted it up.

　　Beneath it were the sheriff's deerskin saddle-pockets and the stolenmoney!