on his side, and the heavy odds against him were growing stronger with each passing hour.
He would not formulate his case until he walked into the courtroom.
By then, it might be too late.
George Graham Vest was a lifelong politician who had served as a senator in the Confederate Congress and as U.S. Senator when the storm clouds of war finally faded from the landscape. He was a dashing and distinguished figure in Kentucky, and, as an attorney, he handled only the cases of utmost importance grave interest to the state.
His client was a farm dog, Old Drum that had been shot dead by Leonides Hornsby, allegedly for killing sheep. Couldn’t prove it. Had his suspicions. Had a rifle. Took it down. Took a shot.
Did not regret it. Did not deny it.
Old Drum’s owner, Charles Burden, without hesitation, retained George Graham Vest as counsel in his suit for damages. Old Drum had been good dog. A faithful dog. A constant companion. A great loss.
A sense of anger worked its way through Leonides Hornsby. He bowed his back, straightened his shoulders, and prepared for war. If Burden wanted to fight, Hornsby was ready to roll up his sleeves, spit on his fists, and meet Old Drum’s owner any place at any time. In a back alley, on main street, or in a courtroom. They could settle their dispute with fists, pistols, long knives, or log chains. It did not make him any difference. A bitter Leonides Hornsby promptly hired the renowned and dignified Francis M. Cockrell, a sitting United States Senator, to defend him.
All of Kentucky sat back to watch the two statesmen duel with a slam-bang, no-holds-barred whirlwind of words and emotions before a scowling, black-robed referee who happened to look a lot like a judge.
Senator Cockrell was not concerned, which meant that Leonides Hornsby was not worried either. He was competent. He was efficient. He knew the facts. And he carefully placed them before the court in a convincing manner.
He had all of the facts on his side, he said. His client owned a farm. He raised sheep. A dog trespassed on Hornsby’s land. Sheep died. Profits were lost. The dog needed killing. His client obliged. His client only did what other self-respecting farmers would do when facing the sudden demise of their livelihood by a marauding dog. The shooting was entirely justifiable. He nodded to the judge, walked stiffly to his chair, and sat down.
All eyes turned to George Graham Vest.
He made no effort to deny any of the facts that his opponent had presented the court. He called no witnesses. He cited no legal precedents. He presented no legal argument. He did not rant. Or rave. George Graham Vest simply stood before the jury and – with a low, calm voice – offered a quiet, gentle eulogy to a dog. He said:
“Gentlemen of the Jury, the best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful.
“Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose.
“It flies away from him, perhaps in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.
“The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog. A man’s dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer.
“He will lick the wounds and sores that come when his master encounters the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
“If fortune drives the master forth as an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies.
And when the last scène of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.”
Silence gripped the courtroom as Senator George Graham Vest quietly sat down. The silence lingered.
Unexpectedly, a wild storm of applause erupted in the courtroom. Not even the good judge could gavel it away.
He tried.
Once.
Then again.
He hammered the gavel with supreme authority.
No one heard. If they heard, no one paid any attention.
People cheered. And people wept.
The jury reached a decision quickly, and it was unanimous. George Graham Vest, like no other, had defended the dignity, the honor, the loyalty of a dog.
Charles Burden had lost a dog.
Leonides Hornsby must pay.
Legally, he might be justified, but he had to pay.
He had taken the life of a good and faithful dog.
The jury would have been more lenient if he had taken the life of Charles Burden.
Moon Shot
Somewhere on the outskirts of
Chatsworth, Georgia
Pop: 3,531
The Scene: The high, rugged mountain terrain of northwest Georgia is haunted by the mysteries of the unexplained. The Indians came first to find a refuge, then a home, in the highland wilderness. Their ancient Etowah Mounds, near Cartersville, are the sacred reminders of a thriving center for political and religious life which spanned five centuries in the little river valley. A museum illustrates the history of the village, and clay ramps lead to the top of the mounds, where the temples of chieftains and priests once stood. Their time on earth is a puzzle yet to be solved.
The Sights: Neither can anyone explain a puzzling fortification that rises in ruin upon Fort Mountain near Chatsworth. No record has ever been found of the men who piled those rocks together for protection against an unknown foe. The curious wall rises as high as six feet in places, and spans the mountainside for eight hundred and fifty-five feet. Its builders could have been the Indians, or Conquistadors searching for gold, maybe twelfth century Welsh adventurers led by Prince Madoc, or even the strange “moon-eyed people,” who once roamed the woodlands. All vanished without a trace. Their time on earth, too, has been lost with the ages.
The
