Early winter, and the wind was crisp and cold as I rode into Howard’s Creek. Smoke rose from the cabins. I limped toward the Davis cabin, a strange shyness holding me back. Some one inside was singing:
There was a whirl of linsey petticoats behind me, and two plump arms were about my neck; and her dear voice was sobbing: “They didn’t know! I feared you were dead beyond the Ohio!” “But I sent you a message!” I protested, patting her bowed head. “I sent word by Moulton that it “And he never came, nor brought your word! He stopped in Tygart’s Valley and sent his brother to bring Mrs. Moulton and the children. One man said he heard you had been hurt. I wrote to Colonel Lewis but he was not at Richfield. So I never knew!” We walked aside, and I petted her and listened to her dear voice and forgot the cold wind biting into my thin blood, forgot I would always walk with a slight limp. When we did awake, because the early dusk was filling the clearing, the singer was finishing his seventeen-stanza song:
And I thought of Shelby Cousin and the others, who gave their lives that we might meet thus without the war-whoop interrupting our wooing. And I wondered if our children’s children would ever realize that the deaths died at Point Pleasant made life and happiness possible for them. I prayed it might be so, for lonely graves are not so lonely if they are not forgotten. THE END |