And the boy answered: “Mother, listen to what I say: We will go on—we will go on. We know where father was going to take us—we know what he was going to do. We will go on, and we will do what he intended to do, and if possible we will do it better. We will go on!”
That first burst of pink in the East had turned to gold.
Great streaks of light stretched from horizon to zenith.
I could see in the dim and hazy light the hobbled horses grazing across the plain a quarter of a mile away.
The boy of fifteen arose and put fuel on the fire.
After breakfast I saw that boy get a spade, a shovel and a pick out of the wagon.
With help of others a grave was dug there on the prairie.
The dead was rolled in a blanket and tied about with thongs, after the fashion of the Indians.
Lines were taken from a harness, and we lowered the body into the grave.
The grave was filled up by friendly hands working in nervous haste.