AFTERGLOW

Standing in the doorway noting the loveliness of an autumnal
time there comes to me over Memory's waves the chime (?) of happy
voices calling "Grandma, Granny, Gran. Yes, Grandmother, you
promised; yes, you did Grad." I feel the pressure of a strong
hand upon me; there is a writing pad in my hand, also a pencil. A
caressing voice says, "Write, you promised; today is the time."
Comfortably seated I again know memory's waves are at work. I seem
to see happy faces looking expectantly into mine. How shall
I begin; you my grandchildren are all "grown up", so I will skip
my childhood period, and begin with my wedding day. If your
Grandfather were here, he could prompt me, but he is gone to that
country beyond our mortal vision.

My storehouse of memories is not a well-ordered one; there
is much dust over all, and mold covering many recollections.
No preservation - no system of placing in special niches, where
one could pull out in order the desired incident and we will brush
aside much that is lying around loose, brush them aside and
use only the "highlights," that framed our busy life.

April was our Wedding month, so typical of our married life,
its sunshine and clouds, and the use (?) of disappointment through
giving us the flowery promise of "Life's unmeasured"
proving the old adage - April showers bring May flowers. Our gloom
showers of disappointments brought us flowers of understanding.

I cannot tell you much about our Wedding; it was a quiet af-
fair, the ceremony took place in my sister's parlor with only a

(Afterglow)

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few friends present. The Civil War was on, the fitful stirring
times had been with us three years, and even then we could not
see the clearing away of battle smoke. The first "call to
arms" was for men to enlist for three months - and your grand-
father was among the first to enlist, a youth of 22 years - and
footed it across the country from Indiana to Virginia in the
infantry branch of the service; then came the call for three
years of service; again your grandfather answered the call, and
chose the cavalry service. Our flag, the Star Spangled Banner,
floated from windows and housetops - we young women under the
leadership of Mother and older sisters met in groups at each
other's houses to scrape lint from our worn linen tablecloths,
to bind upon our wounded soldiers.

A new regiment was in training at a neighboring city; your
grandfather had been appointed a staff officer to the Colonel of
this new regiment, and must be on hand to train and organize.
Thus our wedding trip was to the training station of the new
regiment; all too soon for us the order to the war zone "the
Front" came, and I returned to my sister's home.

In seven months my husband was allowed a two weeks leave,
and before the year ended a twenty-four hour leave was granted
to greet his young son - your father Richard. Before another
year ended the young father just had to resign and come home; the
war was over, and why delay for the lingering process of disband-
ment of regiments.

(Afterglow)

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War makes widows, cripples, and debt, and the Civil War was no exception for the making of all three - financial depression affected all businesses, a promised co-partnership in a business seeming most favorable, failed to materialize for our benefit. A year or more of trying experiences - the memories are too moldy for us to use, we brush them aside.

A U. S. Senator from Indiana and also Governor Morton urged my husband to apply for a commission in the Regular Army. New regiments were being formed, and trained officers were needed. The far West seemed far away; it was to remote frontier posts that our cavalry regiments would be stationed; hostile Indians were giving trouble - to destroy or quiet these "savages" was to be our work.

The regular army, hostile Indians, all seemed so unknown to this young wife and mother. There must be danger in this venture, but I could go with my husband; that at least would be a comfort, a solace that separation could not bring in spite of family and friends advising otherwise. It was decided I would make myself ready to follow my husband, who was to go first, and as soon as our probably station was known I would turn my face westward; traveling was not so easy or safe by rail or boat as my route would take me, as today; one can step into a limited going from Coast to Coast and be almost as comfortable as living in a first-class hotel.

fect silence for a minute, then arose this rich plea, 'and fill it full of love for Jesus. Amen.'"

Our genial old friend has since died, and up there in that throng--
among prophets and kings, he enjoys the promise of God.

A. L. P. "

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Could make a quick refreshment, and took but small space. The other
bags contained bacon, bread and any other "delicacy" the time or though
suggested. Five days absence from our beloved does not seem unbear-
able to one when living within the reach of not only the daily mails,
the telegraph and now our indispensable telephone, but separations
under the conditions of which I write have a significance that brings
depression and when the chase for Indians lengthened into weeks, and
even a much longer period, as was the case many times during the years
we lived five hundred miles from a railroad, is an experience not
easily described.

Despite the fact that we became familiar with Indian atrocities that were too horrible to relate, we realized that they were untutored savages, and in many respects like ourselves, except we were civilized. My husband had unusual advantages from the beginning to learn the Indian character, as the second day after he reported at Fort Gibson in June, 1867, he was placed in command of the Indian scouts and had them on one of his first trips to Fort Arbuckle. When he reached that post, he was at once put in command of the Indian scouts at the same time he was made adjutant and attended to all the Indian business at that post. From that time until now his army duties have been almost exclusively such as the army has had performed in connection with the Indians. Consequently through all this period, we received many social visits from Mr. "Lo" and his numerous family, coming much too often to suit my convenience and pleasure, and yet, in such an ugly disguise we many times "entertained angels unawares", for I received many lessons from them that were and have been helpful.

One bright spring morning I had just dressed my fair girl-baby, in her first short dress, then carefully placing her on the bed,

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stood back mother-like to admire. The outer door of my room was wide open and I saw approaching what seemed to me then the most miserable looking squaw I had yet seen. On she came, with the grace and tread of an elephant, oh, how revolting her appearance, as she stood in the doorway. Her hair was cut short and hung over her forehead to her eyes, her face, neck and breast were painted in narrow stripes of many colors. About her waist was fastened a short skirt made of a part of a buffalo robe. She saw my baby and before I knew what she intended she had her in her arms. I sprang forward saying, "You horrid, dirty thing!" and took my baby into my own arms. The poor miserable woman looked at me in the most pitiful manner, then gathering up the corner of her blanket she held it in her arms as one would hold a sick infant, at the same time making a mournful cry, she made a sign that her baby had died, and to show how great her grief, she held up her hand so that I could see she had cut off her little finger at the second joint, which is one of the extreme mourning customs of the Kiowas. She also pointed to the deep cuts or gashes on her breast and arms. Tears ran down her cheeks and my sympathies were so moved that almost unconsciously I placed my baby in her arms. Tenderly and carefully she handled her as she passed her hands over the plump little limbs. After some moments she handed her back to me, with a grateful look; giving me a hearty handshake, she departed.

In a week she came again, bringing me a peck of wild plums that ripen there in the spring. The plums had been freshly washed and were carried in a new piece of pink calico. Again she held the baby and this time with signs asked permission, and I granted the request, to kiss my child, for this sorrowing mother was no longer revolting to me. When departing she gave signs of great gratitude. In another

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week she came again, this time bringing two buffalo Lounges. She would take no gift in return. All she wanted was the pleasure of holding baby. This was her last visit. Where she came from or where she went I never knew. She came and went alone.

Time passed and a hot sickly summer was upon us. Building stockade houses was new business for our officers. If they had been more experienced, I would have had a well pounded, smooth and hard earth floor, instead of the soft one prepared of sand covered with corn sacks, over which was my best carpet. This in three months time mildewed away and furnished enough malaria for all the family. Hot weather and malaria were not calculated to stimulate or revive our former enjoyment of canned fruits and vegetables, accompanied by dessicated potatoes. We could not have a post-garden that year, as our soldiers, who were always the gardeners, were kept busy watching the Indians. The pile of tin cans that made a small mountain below the garrison right in sight of our favorite drive, caused us to choose another route. What wonder then that our thoughts turned towards the east, with a desire to sit once more at mother's table. Possibly, we were homesick. At any rate we were tired of mud roofs, the intrusion of snakes, centipedes, and scorpions.

The building of a new Post, also meant the making of new roads, that would give a more direct route to the nearest railroad station, from which point the large amount of commissary and quartermaster supplies could be brought to us. An engineer officer was ordered to survey a special road from Fort Sill to Harker, Kansas, on the Union Pacific Railroad. This route through the Indian Territory and well into Kansas via the now flourishing city of Wichita, was at that time a section of country known only to the Indians and