Uncle Abner, Master of Mysteries | Page 4

"and that the door was
locked. And then I knew that he was dead in his summer chamber like
Eglon, King of Moab."
He extended his arm toward the south.
"I came here from the Great Valley," he said, "to cut down these groves
of Baal and to empty out this abomination; but I did not know that the
Lord had heard my prayer and visited His wrath on Doomdorf until I
was come up into these mountains to his door. When the woman spoke
I knew it." And he went away to his horse, leaving the ax among the
ruined barrels.
Randolph interrupted.
"Come, Abner," he said; "this is wasted time. Bronson did not kill
Doomdorf."
Abner answered slowly in his deep, level voice:
"Do you realize, Randolph, how Doomdorf died?"
"Not by fire from heaven, at any rate," said Randolph.
"Randolph," replied Abner, "are you sure?"
"Abner," cried Randolph, "you are pleased to jest, but I am in deadly
earnest. A crime has been done here against the state. I am an officer of
justice and I propose to discover the assassin if I can."

He walked away toward the house and Abner followed, his hands
behind him and his great shoulders thrown loosely forward, with a grim
smile about his mouth.
"It is no use to talk with the mad old preacher," Randolph went on. "Let
him empty out the liquor and ride away. I won't issue a warrant against
him. Prayer may be a handy implement to do a murder with, Abner, but
it is not a deadly weapon under the statutes of Virginia. Doomdorf was
dead when old Bronson got here with his Scriptural jargon. This
woman killed Doomdorf. I shall put her to an inquisition."
"As you like," replied Abner. "Your faith remains in the methods of the
law courts."
"Do you know of any better methods?" said Randolph.
"Perhaps," replied Abner, "when you have finished."
Night had entered the valley. The two men went into the house and set
about preparing the corpse for burial. They got candles, and made a
coffin, and put Doomdorf in it, and straightened out his limbs, and
folded his arms across his shot-out heart. Then they set the coffin on
benches in the hall.
They kindled a fire in the dining room and sat down before it, with the
door open and the red firelight shining through on the dead man's
narrow, everlasting house. The woman had put some cold meat, a
golden cheese and a loaf on the table. They did not see her, but they
heard her moving about the house; and finally, on the gravel court
outside, her step and the whinny of a horse. Then she came in, dressed
as for a journey. Randolph sprang up.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"To the sea and a ship," replied the woman. Then she indicated the hall
with a gesture. "He is dead and I am free."
There was a sudden illumination in her face. Randolph took a step

toward her. His voice was big and harsh.
"Who killed Doomdorf?" he cried.
"I killed him," replied the woman. "It was fair!"
"Fair!" echoed the justice. "What do you mean by that?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders and put out her hands with a
foreign gesture.
"I remember an old, old man sitting against a sunny wall, and a little
girl, and one who came and talked a long time with the old man, while
the little girl plucked yellow flowers out of the grass and put them into
her hair. Then finally the stranger gave the old man a gold chain and
took the little girl away." She flung out her hands. "Oh, it was fair to
kill him!" She looked up with a queer, pathetic smile.
"The old man will be gone by now," she said; "but I shall perhaps find
the wall there, with the sun on it, and the yellow flowers in the grass.
And now, may I go?"
It is a law of the story-teller's art that he does not tell a story. It is the
listener who tells it. The story-teller does but provide him with the
stimuli.
Randolph got up and walked about the floor. He was a justice of the
peace in a day when that office was filled only by the landed gentry,
after the English fashion; and the obligations of the law were strong on
him. If he should take liberties with the letter of it, how could the weak
and the evil be made to hold it in respect? Here was this woman before
him a confessed assassin. Could he let her go?
Abner sat unmoving by the hearth, his elbow on the arm of his chair,
his palm propping up his jaw, his face clouded