The Last Battle

THE LAST BATTLE By Lenna Houskeeper For a year, old Mr. Brown's life had been confined to the quiet routine within the four walls of his home, and that is why I was privileged — or rather obliged — to visit him in the privacy of his own little room in the old fashioned cottage. My mind was working busily as I walked rapidly up the gravel walk, dodging now and then to avoid the hanging ivy vinesi which entangled themselves about in the bushes on either side of the path. I knocked vigorously upon the door and waited while the sound of tot- tering foot steps became clearer and clearer; finally the door was swung open and I looked into the most venerable old face I ever saw. "How do you do, Mr. Brown. I am Mr. Bleach, representing the Eastern Construction Company in the interest of the new reser- voir project. I presume you know I wish to make definite arrange- ments by which we shall be able to secure your land." A fire seemed to kindle in the old gray eyes as he answered: "Come in, young man. I want to say something to you, and the breeze through the door seems to make a rattlin' in my throat. Sit down in yonder chair. I will just draw this shade a little, the sun in the afternoons is a little bit troublesome, makes a kind of dizzy light in here, don't you think? Mary says that is just a notion of mine. Maybe it is, everybody has their notions and I guess its a good thing. Some of these young folks got a notion that the old town ain't no good the way it is, and wants to tear it all down and fill it up with water — and that's what you came to see me about? "A number of years ago, I just can't recollect how many — my head sometimes buzzes and the years get all mixed up in my mind — but many years ago I first set foot in this country. I was an awkward, blushin' youth then, not very promising but as sturdy and brave as any when it came to a show-down with the Indians. Yonder fields were covered with brush and rocks and from yonder hills came the red men in groups, shouting, yelling, anxious to kill and a longin' for our scalps. Nights we sat up and watched, for our little settlement wasn't safe, and we watched and prayed and hoped and worked. Our days were darkened with trouble, yet brightened by faith and hope. Our provisions were scanty, so was our clothes. We struggled with the stubborn soil to eke out a mere existence. Our young men became old and worn and our women was weakened by hunger and anxiety. Disease came among us and many was laid in a final resting place on yonder hill. "A family of seven I recollect was murdered in cold blood one night while sleeping in their cabin. That was after we had begun to build outside the fort and take up farmin'. Their burial was simple, no flowers nor marble stones adorned their graves, but they was hid

1026 IMPROVEMENT ERA up as much as we could hide them. We feared the red men would count our dead to see how many was left. "Then came the war. It was God's country, our country. God'-s promised land to us and we fought for it, — many died for it. We killed and they killed. Sometimes I wonder if we done right by them, but we couldn't make them understand that all we wanted was peace- ful homes. I sometimes wonder what took us through them days of savage warfare. I'll never forget the look in John's eyes when we left him wounded and rode on. John and me bad been raised together as boys, his troubles was my troubles; and his joys, my joys. We played together and — so when they needed us — we fought together. " 'Jim,' says he, 'there's a long seige on and I'd like to live to see it to a finish. See there's little Annie, waving a bit of red flannel from the top of the wall — God bless the little gal — she must have schoolin' when she grows up. Things would have been different if her mother had lived, but it just seemed like we had to lose her in that spell of fever.' "John had married. That was the only thing he ever did that I never, and that was because we both wanted the same gal. Then we rode off and John just kept a lookin' back sort of longin' like. We rode and rode, and arrows flew thick all around us. I looked at John and him at me, and then he screamed. His horse fell. I could have died of grief to see him shot down right beside me. I got off and kneeled down by him. I can never tell you how he looked at me. but there was death in his eyes — and a queer rattlin' in his throat. 'Jim,' says he, 'I'm dying. We've always been pals, all I've got belongs to you, and all I've got is little Annie, — God bless her.' "I'd gladly have died in his place but all I could do was to flee and fight, to flee and leave him! Knowing that any minute the savages would rush and scalp him. "When the worst Indian troubles was over, our heads was bowed down in grief, but our hearts was lightened with hope. We began to settle outside the fort again and that's about the time me and Mary was married and built us a little cabin just back of where this house stands now. Times was hard but us young folks was gay. . Many, many moonlight evenin's we danced those good old fashioned catillions to the tunes old Tom Jones played on his fiddle. Danced! I guess we did. Right on the bare ground where it was smoothest. "Bill Smith's wife started up a school in the back lean of her cabin. She was a widow, Bill havin' been killed in the war. That was the only schoolin' I ever had, was there in that little shack. I was a man, then, but that woman did know a powerful lot fer them days. 'Course I didn't go there very long, fer a man has other things to do. There was nothin' much doin', exceptin' church on Sunday and once in a while a huskin' bee, or a good old-fashioned hoe down. Yes, and after a while they did get what they called spellin' bees. But me and Mary didn't take much in after a while. There was little John dead, he was our first boy, and Mary was a cryin' her eyes out. I'll tell you

THE LAST BATTLE 102 7 I had a sort of lonesome feelin' creepin' over me, too. When I was a workin' out in the field I used to look at his little grave off on the hill, and wonder how it would seem if he was a runnin' around and a climbin' up on my lap when I came in at night. Fer a long time all the children we had was John's little Annie and her a really gettin' to be quite a gal. "Times sure changed fast. A few more people kept a comin' and a settlin' up against us. We got to raisin' more crops. Some of us begin to addin' more log rooms on to the ones we had and after a time we got to building right smart houses. Schools was gettin' more com- mon, too, all our young ones went some, and then Will Smith put up a little store. I don't recollect how it all came about but we got better machinery to work with and buggies to ride in. I'll tell you things was sure gettin' handy, and us a workin' and gettin' old and our chil- dren a growing up and gettin' married. "The first thing I knew there was trains and automobiles and fine houses. The fields which used to be all rocky and hilly was green, and shade trees and fruit trees took the place of the shale and brush. I'll never forget when we planted that plum tree in yonder corner of the garden. Ever' time the smell of them blossoms comes floatin' in with the breeze I have to think of it. I can just see Mary as she smiled down at little Annie and told her daddy was plantin' some trees so the kiddies might play there---and they did. My children and my chil- dren's children, and my children's children's children have swung from those branches and played at house in the shade of them trees. I can just see their little, dimpled, laughing faces now. "And now would you destroy it all? Oh Heavens! — that I should live to see the day that our life's work is all undone. I'm an old man now, Mary's an old woman. It's the only home I've got, the only home Mary and me ever had. Here our children was born and here one of them died. The rest of them have married and settled down around us. Out of this very window I can set and see the road me and John rode off on that day, — the same road Mary and me drove off on when we went to git married, the same road we came back on, happy as two larks, when we was man and wife; the same road that our little John was took over when they took him out and layed him to rest; the same road that our children used to come troopin' along from school. "I used to ride home along in the cool of the evenin" after a long, hot day in the fields and then I'd watch the dusk sort of gatherin' in about the east mountains, then a sort of peaceful calm would steal in and creep over me. The breeze would carry with it the smell of blos- soms, the birds was chirping kind of drowsy. Out in the old pond the frogs would commence to croakin' and the crickets would sing in that sad, dismal way, and then I'd always think of Mary, 'cause I knew when them crickets was a singing she was a thinkin' and a feelin' lonesome fer the time when she was a little girl back in Iowa, and how now she was a watching, supper on the stove, and a watchin' down

1028 IMPROVEMENT ERA the road fer me to come home and our darlings would come racin' and laughing to meet me and then — Oh, what would I do if that road wasn't there — no if I wasn't here — if me and Mary have to move. Oh, no; God forbid, they won't do it, they won't tear us up from our old home. They couldn't. It would kill us like it kills an old, use- less tree when you tear up its roots. You can't make it ever live any- where else, it would just have to die that's all. It's worse than when they cut up in the mountains. There we used to set on the porch and see the deer come down on the foothills to drink. Us and all the animals was such friends. We loved them cause we knew that's what God wanted us to do when he put them here among us, and then they made a track through our hills and a great, noisy, cruel engine came rushing through, a groanin' and puffin' just powerful and scared all our deer way back in the hills and then when I'd set out on the porch all I could see was them trains. I don't hear well any more, and can't see very good either and so I set and look that way and think the deer are there again and that all is still and peaceful. "Oh, that God in his mercy would spare me this — Oh, never! never! never! will I consent — not till the day this old gray head goes down in death. Tell me, do you think it's just? It's all I've got — all I've had, all I ever wanted, and all I want now, but I want it! I've got it, and no one can take it from me now. "Things is lookin' queer — its dark — no its light, and there's John — my old pal — you won't let them will you — I knew you'd come help me if you could — you always did come to help me— and so now you've got away from them killin' red men and come to help me? Thank God — it's all right now — everything all right!" The light died out of the old gray eyes, the feeble hands relaxed. The last rays of the sun stole in feebly and played upon the venerable white locks. A smile serene was printed on the careworn face. Now the future might have its way, because the past had claimed its own! Richfield, Utah Father Those weary steps we hear no more; The voice we loved is still. We miss his presence around our home No other one can fill. He is not very far away; Yet he has gone to stay Until his Father's voice shall say: Take part in Resurrection day. So come, dear children, let us know: "God's wisdom knew the way;" Let us prove faithful to the end. Thy will be done, O Lord, today. Annie S. Hatch.