I saw the boy pat down the mound with the back of a spade.
I saw him carve with awkward, boyish hands the initials of his father, the date of his birth and the day of his death.
I saw him drive the slab down at the head of the grave.
I saw him harness the four horses.
I saw him help his little brothers into the canvas-covered wagon.
I saw him help his mother climb the wheel as she took her place on the seat.
I saw him spring up beside her.
I saw him gather up the lines in his brown, slim hands, and swing the whip over the leaders, as he gave the shrill word of command and turned the horses to the West.
And the cavalcade moved forward to the West—always to the West.
The boy had met calamity and disaster. He had not flinched.