He smoked in silence,puffing rapidly.Then--My name is Brick Willock.How came you to be named Lahoma Willock?
Lahoma suggested thoughtfully--All white people named Willock?There's a few,Willock shook his head,with less agreeable names.
But after all,I'm glad you have my name.Yes--the more I think on it,the more pleased I get.I reckon we're sort of kinfolks,anyhow.Well,honey,this is enough talk about being civilized;now let's make the first move on the way.You want to see your mother's grave,and lay some of these wild flowers on it.That's a part of being civilized,caring for graves is.It's just savages as forgets the past and consequently never learns nothing.Come along.Them moccasins will do famous until I can get you shoes from the settlements.It's seventy mile to Vernon,Texas,and none too easy miles.But I got a pony the first time I ventured to Doan's store,and it'll carry you,if I have to walk at your side.We'll make a festibul march of that journey,and lay in clothes as a girl should wear,and books to last through the winter.
Willock rose and explained that they must cross the mountain.As they traversed it,he reminded her that she had not gathered any of the flowers that were scattered under sheltering boulders.
Why?asked Lahoma,showing that her neglect to do so was intentional.
Well,honey,don't you love and honor that mother that bore so much pain and trouble for you,traveling with you in her arms to the Oklahoma country,trying to make a home for you up there in the wilderness,and at last dying from the hardships of the plains.Ain't she worth a few flowers.
She dead.She not see flowers,not smell flowers,not know.
Willock said nothing,but the next time they came to a clump of blossoms he made a nosegay.Lahoma watched him with a face as calm and unemotional as that of Red Feather,himself.She held her back with the erect grace and moved her limbs with the swift ease of those among whom she had passed the last two years.In delightful harmony with this air of wildness was the rich and delicate beauty of her sun-browned face,and the golden glow of her silken brown hair.Willock's heart yearned toward her as only the heart of one destined to profound loneliness can yearn toward the exquisite grace and unconscious charm of a child;but to the degree that he felt this attraction,he held himself firmly aloof,knowing that wild animals are frightened when kindness beams without its veil.
What you do with that?She pointed at the flowers in his rough hand.I'm going to put 'em on your mother's grave.
She not know.Not see,not smell.She dead,mother dead.Lahoma,do you know anything about God?
Yes--Great Spirit.God make my path white.
Well,I want God to know that somebody remembers your mother.It's God that smells the flowers on the graves of the dead.
They walked on.Pretty soon Lahoma began looking about for flowers,but they had reached the last barren ledge,and no more came in sight.
Take these,Lahoma.
No.Couldn't fool God.They began the last descent.Willock suddenly discovered that tears were slipping down the girl's face.He said nothing;he did not fear,now,for he thought the tears promised a brighter dawning.
Suddenly Lahoma cried joyfully,Oh,look,Brick,look!And she darted toward the spot at the foot of a tall cedar,where purple and white blossoms showed in profusion.She gathered an armful,and they went down to the plain.
Her head's toward the west,he said,as they stood beside the pile of stones.Lahoma placed the flowers at the Western margin of the pyramid.Willock laid his at the foot of the grave.The sun had set and the warmth of the heated sand was tempered by a fragrant breeze.Though late in October,he felt as if spring were just dawning.He took Lahoma's hand,and his heart throbbed to find that she showed no disposition to draw away.
He looked up with a great sigh of thanksgiving.Well,God,he said softly,here she is--You sure done it!
