The following Spring
grandpa had the grave enclosed with a white paling; and we children
planted Castilian rose bushes at the head and foot of the mound, and
carried water to them from the house, and in time their branches met
and the grave was a bed of fragrant blossoms.
One day as I was returning from it with my empty pail, a tidy,
black-eyed woman came up to me and said,
"I'm a Cherokee Indian, the wife of one of the three drovers that sold
the Brunners them long-horned cattle that was delivered the other day.
I know who you are, and if you'll sit on that log by me, I'll tell you
something."
We took the seats shaded by the fence and she continued with
unmistakable pride: "I can read and write quite a little, and me and
the men belong to the same tribe. We drove our band of cattle across
the plains and over the Sierras, and have sold them for more than we
expected to get. We are going back the same road, but first I wanted to
see you little girls. I heard lots about your father's party, and how
you all suffered in the mountains, and that no one seems to remember
what became of his body. Now, child, I tell the truth. I stood by your
father's grave and read his name writ on the headboard, and come to
tell you that he was buried in a long grave near his own camp in the
mountains. I'm glad at seeing you, but am going away, wishing you
wasn't so cut off from your own people.
Pages:
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256