He called again, “Put it down,” and the man dropped the stone. “I broke his jaw,” Bale said. “Felt it go.” He was amazed at having that much strength left. He took the bridle of the old horse and led her across the field, the cart wheels crunching through stubble. They bumped up over the rail pile, and out into the road. Dan tied the bridle to the rear of Sketchley’s buggy and started off, slowly. It took him almost an hour to reach the cemetery.

There were soldiers working around, hauling unseated cannon out of the splintered tombstones. The Huddlestone lot was not far from Pentland Bale’s grave, past a big cedar tree; only one of the stones had been ruined, in that section. Baby, Rest Darling was crushed into five pieces, and there were deep wheel-tracks across Pentland Bale’s mound.

He asked two soldiers to help him, and they came quietly, chewing tobacco. They buried Elijah deeper than most of the bodies were being buried, though not as far down as his father lay. Before the sun was very low they had the mound well-shaped. “We mark it with the name, usual, if we can git hold of it,” said one of the men. “Stick a musket at the head, or put the name in a bottle or on a shingle.” Dan thanked them. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

The soldier had brought out a dirty notebook. “We’re ’sposed to keep note of any we bury.”

Huddlestone, Sergeant E. 26th Pennsylvania—“I don’t know,” Dan said. “It was temporary infantry or unusual infantry or something like that.” The man wrote down 26th Pennsylvania, and went back to his work.

Bale left Henry Niede’s cart and horse in the Diamond, tied in front of Pock’s. Niede would find it, or send someone, even if his face was ruined. Finis Sketchley came out of the hotel; he had been waiting anxiously for Dan to return with the mare, because he had two coffin-makers coming from Harrisburg, and they might have to walk all the way from where the railroad was torn up if he didn’t go after them.