CHAPTER XIII
PEACE COMES TO THE CLEARING
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:
| “Ye daughters and sons of Virginia, incline Your ears to a story of woe; I sing of a time when your fathers and mine Fought for us on the Ohio. In seventeen hundred and seventy-four, The month of October, we know, An army of Indians, two thousand or more, Encamped on the Ohio.” |
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 was only an arrow-wound in the leg, and that I must wait.”
“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: