Uncle Abner
"I am willing to believe her," replied my uncle.
They looked about the cabin. There was blood on the floor and flecked against the wall, and stains on the barrel of the pistol, as though the man had staggered about, stunned by the bullet, before he died. And so the wound looked—not mortal on the instant, but one from which, after some time, a man might die.
Randolph wrote down his memorandum, and the two went out into the road.
It was an afternoon of Paradise. The road ran in a long endless ribbon westward toward the Ohio. Negroes in the wide bottom land were harvesting the corn and setting it up in great bulging shocks tied with grapevine. Beyond on a high wooded knoll, stood a mansion-house with white pillars.
My uncle took the duelling pistol out of his pocket and handed it to the Justice of the Peace.
"Randolph," he said, "these weapons were made in pairs; there should be another. And," he added, "there is a crest on the butt plate."
"Virginia is full of such folderols," replied the Justice, "and bought and sold, pledged and traded. It would not serve to identify the dead man. And besides, Abner, why do we care? He is dead by his own hand; his rights and his injuries touch no other; let him lie with his secrets."
He made a little circling gesture upward with his index finger.
"'Duncan is dead,'" he quoted. "'After life's
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