The Tenth Commandment

by Melville Davisson Post

　　THE AFTERNOON sun was hot, and when the drove began to descend the longwooded hill we could hardly keep them out of the timber. We werebringing in our stock cattle. We had been on the road since daybreak andthe cattle were tired. Abner was behind the drove and I was riding theline of the wood. The mare under me knew as much about driving cattle asI did, and between us we managed to keep the steers in the road; butfinally a bullock broke away and plunged down into the deep wood. Abnercalled to me to turn all the cattle into the grove on the upper side ofthe road and let them rest in the shade while we got the runaway steerout of the under-brush. I turned the drove in among the open oak trees,left my mare to watch them and went on foot down through the underbrush.The long hill descending to the river was unfenced wood grown up withthickets. I was perhaps three hundred yards below the road when I lostsight of the steer, and got up on a stump to look.

　　I did not see the steer, but in a thicket beyond me I saw a thing thatcaught my eye. The bushes had been cut out, the leaves trampled, andthere was a dogwood fork driven into the ground. About fifty feet awaythere was a steep bank and below it a horse path ran through the wood.

　　The thing savored of mystery. All round was a dense tangle of thicket,and here, hidden at a point commanding the horse path, was this clearedspot with the leaves trampled and the forked limb of a dogwood driveninto the ground. I was so absorbed that I did not know that Abner hadridden down the hill behind me until I turned and saw him sitting thereon his great chestnut gelding looking over the dense bushes into thethicket.

　　He got down out of his saddle, parted the bushes carefully and enteredthe thicket. There was a hollow log lying beyond the dogwood fork. Abnerput his hand into the log and drew out a gun. It was a bright, new,one-barreled fowling-piece-a muzzle-loader, for there were nobreech-loaders in that country then. Abner turned the gun about andlooked it over carefully. The gun was evidently loaded, because I couldsee the cap shining under the hammer. Abner opened the brass plate onthe stock, but it contained only a bit of new tow and the implement,like a corkscrew, which fitted to the ramrod and held the tow when onewished to clean the gun. It was at this moment that I caught sight ofthe steer moving in the bushes and I leaped down and ran to head himoff, leaving Abner standing with the gun in his hands.

　　When I got the steer out and across the road into the drove Abner hadcome up out of the wood. He was in the saddle, his clenched hand lay onthe pommel.

　　I was afraid to ask Abner questions when he looked like that, but mycuriosity overcame me.

　　"What did you do with the gun, Uncle Abner?" "I put it back where itwas," he said. "Do you know who the owner is?"

　　"I do not know who he is," replied Abner without looking in mydirection, "but I know what he is-he is a coward!"

　　The afternoon drew on. The sun moved towards the far-off chain ofmountains. Silence lay on the world. Only the tiny creatures of the airmoved with the hum of a distant spinner, and the companies of yellowbutterflies swarmed on the road. The cattle rested in the shade of theoak trees and we waited. Abner's chestnut stood like a horse of bronzeand I dozed in the saddle.

　　Shadows were entering the world through the gaps and passes of themountains when I heard a horse. I stood up in my stirrups and looked.

　　The horse was traveling the path running through the wood below us. Icould see the rider through the trees. He was a grazer whose lands laywestward beyond the wood. In the deep, utter silence I could hear thecreak of his saddle-leather. Then suddenly as he rode there was the roarof a gun, and a cloud of powder smoke blotted him out of sight.

　　In that portentous instant of time I realized the meaning of the thingsthat I had seen there in the thicket. It was an ambush to kill this man!The fork in the ground was to hold the gun-barrel so the assassin couldnot miss his mark.

　　And with this understanding came an appalling sense of my Uncle Abner'snegligence. He must have known all this when he stood there in thethicket, and when he knew it, why had he left that gun there? Why had heput it back into its hiding-place? Why had he gone his way thusunconcernedly and left this assassin to accomplish his murder? Moreover,this man riding there through the wood was a man whom Abner knew. Hishouse was the very house at which Abner expected to stop this night. Wewere on our way there!

　　It was in one of those vast spaces of time that a second sometimesstretches over that I put these things together and jerked-my headtoward Abner, but he sat there without the tremor of a muscle.

　　The next second I saw the frightened horse plunging in the path and Ilooked to see its saddle empty, or the rider reeling with the bloodcreeping through his coat, or some ghastly thing that clutched andswayed. But I did not see it. The rider sat firmly in his saddle, pulledup the horse, and, looking idly about him, rode on. He believed the gunhad been fired by some hunter shooting squirrels. "Oh," I cried, "hemissed!"

　　But Abner did not reply. He was standing in his stirrups searching thewood.

　　"How could he miss, Uncle Abner," I said, "when he was so near to thepath and had that fork to rest his gun-barrel in? Did you see him?"

　　It was some time before Abner answered, and then his reply was to myfinal query.

　　"I did not see him," he said deliberately. "He must have slipped awaysomehow through the thicket."

　　That was all he said, and for a good while he was silent, drumming withhis fingers on the pommel of his saddle and looking out over the distanttreetops.

　　The sun was touching the mountains before Abner began to move the drove.We got the cattle out of the wood and started the line down the longhill. The road forked at the bottom of the hill-one branch of it, themain road, went on to the house of the grazer with whom we had expectedto spend the night and the other turned on through the wood.

　　I was astonished when Abner turned the drove into this other road, but Isaid nothing, for I presently understood the reason for this change ofplans. One could hardly accept the hospitality of a man when he hadnegligently stood by to see him murdered.

　　In half a mile the road came out into the open. There was a big newhouse on a bit of rising land and, below, fields and meadows. I did notknow the crossroad, but I knew this place. The man, Dillworth, who livedhere had been sometime the clerk of the county court. He had got thisland, it was said, by taking advantage of a defective record, and he hadnow a suit in chancery against the neighboring grazers for the landabout him. He had built this great new house, in pride boasting that itwould sit in the center of the estate that he would gain. I had heardthis talked about-this boasting, and how one of the grazers had swornbefore the courthouse that he would kill Dillworth on the day that thedecree was entered. I knew in what esteem Abner held this man and Iwondered that he should choose him to stay the night with.

　　When we first entered the house and while we ate our supper Abner hadvery little to say, but after that, when we had gone with the man out onto the great porch that overlooked the country, Abner changed-I think itwas when he picked up the county newspaper from the table. Something inthis paper seized on his attention and he examined it with care. It wasa court notice of the sale of lands for delinquent taxes, but the paperhad been torn and only half of the article was there. Abner called ourhost's attention to it.

　　"Dillworth," he said, "what lands are included in this notice?"

　　"Are they not there?" replied the man.

　　"No," said Abner, "a portion of the newspaper is gone. It is torn off ata description of the Jenkins tract"-and he put his finger on the lineand showed the paper to the man-"what lands follow after that?"

　　"I do not remember the several tracts," Dillworth answered, "but you caneasily get another copy of the newspaper. Are you interested in theselands?"

　　"No," said Abner, "but I am interested in this notice."

　　Then he laid the newspaper on the table and sat down in a chair. Andthen it was that his silence left him and he began to talk.

　　Abner looked out over the country. "This is fine pasture land," he said.

　　Dillworth moved forward in his chair. He was a big man with a bushychestnut beard, little glimmering eyes and a huge body.

　　"Why, Abner," he said, "it is the very best land that a beef steer evercropped the grass on."

　　"It is a corner of the lands that Daniel Davisson got in a grant fromGeorge the Third," Abner continued. "I don't know what service herendered the crown, but the pay was princely-a man would do king's workfor an estate like this."

　　"King's work he would do," said Dillworth, "or hell's work. Why, Abner,the earth is rich for a yard down. I saw old Hezekiah Davisson buried init, and the shovels full of earth that the Negroes threw on him were asblack as their faces, and the sod over that land is as clean as awoman's hair. I was a lad then, but I promised myself that I would oneday possess these lands."

　　"It is a dangerous thing to covet the possession of another," saidAbner. "King David tried it and he had to do-what did you call it,Dillworth?-'hell's work'."

　　"And why not," replied Dillworth, "if you get the things you want byit?"

　　"There are several reasons," said Abner, "and one is that it requires acertain courage. Hell's work is heavy work, Dillworth, and the weaklingwho goes about it is apt to fail."

　　Dillworth laughed. "King David didn't fail, did he?"

　　"He did not," replied Abner; "but David, the son of Jesse, was not acoward."

　　"Well," said Dillworth, "I shall not fail either. My hands are nottrained to war like this, but they are trained to lawsuits."

　　"You got this wedge of land on which your house is built by a lawsuit,did you not?" said Abner.

　　"I did," replied Dillworth; "but if men do not exercise ordinary carethey must suffer for that negligence."

　　"Well," said Abner, "the little farmer who lived here on this wedgesuffered enough for his. When you dispossessed him he hanged himself inhis stable with a halter."

　　"Abner," cried Dillworth, "I have heard enough about that. I did nottake the man's life. I took what the law gave me. If a man will buy landand not look up the title it is his own fault."

　　"He bought at a judicial sale," said Abner, "and he believed the courtwould not sell him a defective title. He was an honest man, and hethought the world was honest."

　　"He thought wrong," said Dillworth.

　　"He did," said Abner.

　　"Well," cried Dillworth, "am I to blame because there is a fool theless? Will the people never learn that the court does not warrant thetitle to the lands that it sells in a suit in chancery? The man who buysbefore the courthouse door buys a pig in a poke, and it is not thecourt's fault if the poke is empty. The judge could not look up thetitle to every tract of land that comes into his court, nor could thetitle to every tract be judicially determined in every suit thatinvolves it. To do that, every suit over land would have to be a suit todetermine title and every claimant would have to be a party."

　　"What you say may be the truth," said Abner, "but the people do notalways know it."

　　"They could know it if they would inquire," answered Dillworth; "why didnot this man go before the judge?"

　　"Well," replied Abner, "he has gone before a greater Judge." Abnerleaned back in his chair and his fingers rapped on the table.

　　"The law is not always justice," he said. "Is it not the law that a manmay buy a tract of land and pay down the price in gold and enter intothe possession of it, and yet, if by inadvertence, the justice of thepeace omits to write certain words into the acknowledgment of the deed,the purchaser takes no title and may be dispossessed of his lands?"

　　"That is the law," said Dillworth emphatically; "it is the very point inmy suit against these grazers. Squire Randolph could not find his copyof Mayo's Guide on the day that the deeds were drawn and so he wrotefrom memory."

　　Abner was silent for a moment.

　　"It is the law," he said, "but is it justice, Dillworth?"

　　"Abner," replied Dillworth, "how shall we know what justice is unlessthe law defines it?"

　　"I think every man knows what it is," said Abner.

　　"And shall every man set up a standard of his own," said Dillworth, "anddisregard the standard that the law sets up? That would be the end ofjustice."

　　"It would be the beginning of justice," said Abner, "if every manfollowed the standard that God gives him."

　　"But, Abner," replied Dillworth, "is there a court that could administerjustice if there were no arbitrary standard and every man followed hisown?"

　　"I think there is such a court," said Abner.

　　Dillworth laughed.

　　"If there is such a court it does not sit in Virginia."

　　Then he settled his huge body in his chair and spoke like a lawyer whosums up his case.

　　"I know what you have in mind, Abner, but it is a fantastic notion. Youwould saddle every man with the thing you call a conscience, and letthat ride him. Well, I would unsaddle him from that. What is right? Whatis wrong? These are vexed questions. I would leave them to the law. Lookwhat a burden is on every man if he must decide the justice of every actas it comes up. Now the law would lift that burden from his shoulders,and I would let the law bear it."

　　"But under the law," replied Abner, "the weak and the ignorant sufferfor their weakness and for this ignorance, and the shrewd and thecunning profit by their shrewdness and by their cunning. How would youhelp that?"

　　"Now, Abner," said Dillworth, "to help that you would have to make theworld over." Again Abner was silent for a while. "Well," he said,"perhaps it could be done if every man put his shoulder to the wheel."

　　"But why should it be done?" replied Dillworth. "Does Nature do it? Lookwith what indifference she kills off the weakling. Is there any pity inher or any of your little soft concerns? I tell you these things are notto be found anywhere in Nature-they are man-made."

　　"Or God-made," said Abner.

　　"Call it what you like," replied Dillworth, "it will be equallyfantastic, and the law would be fantastic to follow after it. As formyself, Abner, I would avoid these troublesome refinements. Since thelaw will undertake to say what is right and what is wrong I shall leaveher to say it and let myself go free. What she requires me to give Ishall give, and what she permits me to take I shall take, and thereshall be an end of it."

　　"It is an easy standard," replied Abner, "and it simplifies a thing thatI have come to see you about."

　　"And what have you come to see me about?" said Dillworth; "I knew thatit was for something you came." And he laughed a little, dry, nervouslaugh. I had observed this laugh breaking now and then into his talk andI had observed his uneasy manner ever since we came. There was somethingbelow the surface in this man that made him nervous and it was from thatunder thing that this laugh broke out.

　　"It is about your lawsuit," said Abner. "And what about it?"

　　"This," said Abner: "That your suit has reached the point where you arenot the man to have charge of it."

　　"Abner," cried Dillworth, "what do you mean?"

　　"I will tell you," said Abner. "I have followed the progress of thissuit, and you have won it. On any day that you call it up the judge willenter a decree, and yet for a year it has stood there on the docket andyou have not called it up. Why?"

　　Dillworth did not reply, but again that dry, nervous laugh broke out.

　　"I will answer for you, Dillworth," said Abner-"you are afraid!" Abnerextended his arm and pointed out over the pasture lands, growing dimmerin the gathering twilight, across the river, across the wood to wherelights moved and twinkled.

　　"Yonder," said Abner, "lives Lemuel Arnold; he is the only man who is adefendant in your suit, the others are women and children. I know LemuelArnold. I intended to stop this night with him until I thought of you. Iknow the stock he comes from. When Hamilton was buying scalps on theOhio, and haggling with the Indians over the price to be paid for thoseof the women and the children, old Hiram Arnold walked into theconference: 'Scalp-buyer,' he said, 'buy my scalps; there are no littleones among them,' and he emptied out on to the table a bagful of scalpsof the king's soldiers. That man was Lemuel Arnold's grandfather andthat is the blood he has. You would call him violent and dangerous,Dillworth, and you would be right. He is violent and he is dangerous. Iknow what he told you before the courthouse door. And, Dillworth, youare afraid of that. And so you sit here looking out over these richlands and coveting them in your heart-and are afraid to take them."

　　The night was descending, and I sat on a step of the great porch, in theshadow, forgotten by these two men. Dillworth did not move, and Abnerwent on.

　　"That is bad for you, Dillworth, to sit here and brood over a thing likethis. Plans will come to you that include 'hell's work'; this is nothing for you to handle. Put it into my hands."

　　The man cleared his throat with that bit-of nervous laugh.

　　"How do you mean-into your hands?" he said.

　　"Sell me the lawsuit," replied Abner.

　　Dillworth sat back in his chair at that and covered his jaw with hishand, and for a good while he was silent.

　　"But it is these lands I want, Abner, not the money for them."

　　"I know what you want," said Abner, "and I will agree to give you aproportion of all the lands that I recover in the suit."

　　"It ought to be a large proportion, then, for the suit is won."

　　"As large as you like," said Abner.

　　Dillworth got up at that and walked about the porch. One could tell thetwo things that were moving in his mind: That Abner was, in truth, theman to carry the thing through-he stood well before the courts and hewas not afraid; and the other thing-How great a proportion of the landscould he demand? Finally he came back and stood before the table.

　　"Seven-eighths then. Is it a bargain?"

　　"It is," said Abner. "Write out the contract."

　　A Negro brought foolscap paper, ink, pens, and a candle and set them onthe table. Dillworth wrote, and when he had finished he signed the paperand made his seal with a flourish of the pen after his signature. Thenhe handed the contract to Abner across the table.

　　Abner read it aloud, weighing each legal term and every lawyer's phrasein it. Dillworth had knowledge of such things and he wrote with skill.Abner folded the contract carefully and put it into his pocket, then hegot a silver dollar out of his leather wallet and flung it on to thetable, for the paper read: "In consideration of one dollar cash in handpaid, the receipt of which is hereby acknowledged." The coin struck hardand spun on the oak board. "There," he said, "is your silver. It is themoney that Judas was paid in and, like that first payment to Judas, itis all you'll get."

　　Dillworth got on his feet. "Abner," he said, "what do you drive at now?"

　　"This," replied Abner: "I have bought your lawsuit; I have paid you forit, and it belongs to me. The terms of that sale are written down andsigned. You are to receive a portion of what I recover; but if I recovernothing you can receive nothing."

　　"Nothing?" Dillworth echoed.

　　"Nothing!" replied Abner.

　　Dillworth put his big hands on the table and rested his body on them;his head drooped below his shoulders, and he looked at Abner across thetable.

　　"You mean-you mean--"

　　"Yes," said Abner, "that is what I mean. I shall dismiss this suit."

　　"Abner," the other wailed, "this is ruin-these lands-these rich lands!"And he put out his arms, as toward something that one loves. "I havebeen a fool. Give me back my paper." Abner arose.

　　"Dillworth," he said, "you have a short memory. You said that a manought to suffer for his lack of care, and you shall suffer for yours.You said that pity was fantastic, and I find it fantastic now. You saidthat you would take what the law gives you; well, so shall I."

　　The sniveling creature rocked his big body grotesquely in his chair.

　　"Abner," he whined, "why did you come here to ruin me?"

　　"I did not come to ruin you," said Abner. "I came to save you. But forme you would have done a murder."

　　"Abner," the man cried, "you are mad. Why should I do a murder?"

　　"Dillworth," replied Abner, "there is a certain commandment prohibited,not because of the evil in it, but because of the thing it leadsto-because there follows it-I use your own name, Dillworth, 'hell'swork.' This afternoon you tried to kill Lemuel Arnold from an ambush."

　　Terror was on the man. He ceased to rock his body. He leaned forward,staring at Abner, the muscles of his face flabby.

　　"Did you see me?"

　　"No," replied Abner, "I did not."

　　The man's body seemed, at that, to escape from some hideous pressure. Hecried out in relief, and his voice was like air wheezing from thebellows.

　　"It's a lie! a lie! a lie!"

　　I saw Abner look hard at the man, but he could not strike a thing likethat.

　　"It's the truth," he said, "you are the man; but when I stood in thethicket with your weapon in my hand I did not know it, and when I camehere I did not know it. But I knew that this ambush was the work of acoward, and you were the only coward that I could think of. No," hesaid, "do not delude yourself-that was no proof. But it was enough tobring me here. And the proof? I found it in this house. I will show itto you. But before I do that, Dillworth, I will return to you somethingthat is yours."

　　He put his hand into his pocket, took out a score of buckshot anddropped them on the table. They clattered off and rolled away on thefloor.

　　"And that is how I saved you from murder, Dillworth. Before I put yourgun back into the hollow log I drew all the charge in it except thepowder."

　　He advanced a step nearer to the table.

　　"Dillworth," he said, "a little while ago I asked you a question thatyou could not answer. I asked you what lands were included in the noticeof sale for delinquent taxes printed in that county newspaper. Half ofthe newspaper had been torn off, and with it the other half of thatnotice. And you could not answer. Do you remember that question,Dillworth? Well, when I asked it of you I had the answer in my pocket.The missing part of that notice was the wadding over the buckshot!"

　　He took a crumpled piece of newspaper out of his pocket and joined it tothe other half lying before Dillworth on the table.

　　"Look," he said, "how the edges fit!"