My Home in the Field of HonorHuard, Frances Wilson
History
My Home in the Field of Honor
Huard, Frances Wilson
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
"Guess you ain't ever seen the likes of that before. That's a lasso."
I explained, and then looking round, beheld a long, lanky individual,
his hands on his hips, literally taking us all in.
"Do you think you can tell 'em what that is, sister?"
"I fancy so."
"Then you must be from home!"
"If you mean the States--yes."
"To h--with the States! The State--Texas!"
I didn't find it necessary to translate that. "Say, you haven't by any
chance got a razor about you?" he inquired. I replied that I was not in
the habit of carrying such articles on my person.
"No offense meant--but since you speak this language, perhaps you could
persuade one of them kids to go and buy me one."
I said I thought I might, and my compatriot producing an American double
eagle, enjoined Leon to be quick and he'd make it worth his while.
"You see," he explained, "a razor is all I need to complete my outfit.
Got a Winchester, two revolvers, a Bowie knife, a lance and a lasso.
Razor's flat and easy to carry. Might be useful, too. Nothing like
being properly armed. If I've got to sell my hide you bet I'll sell it
dear!"
Leon returned and I was about to ask my friend to give us a little
exhibition of his skill with the rope, when the call to arms obliged him
to leave. So enjoining me to give his regards to Broadway, he departed
much pleased with the world in general and himself in particular.
From various sources, though none of them official, I learned that the
road as far as Coulommiers was clear. That was all we wanted to know,
so after seeing the boys off for Orleans, a very much diminished caravan
started on its homeward journey. The horses, after two days' rest, were
quite giddy, and the carts being light, they carried us on the new road
north as far as Pezarches with but few halts. The country we passed
through, though abandoned by its inhabitants, showed no traces of
invasion. The Germans had not been able to push so far west. I counted
on making Coulonimiers to sleep, but night closed in early and with it
came a chilly drizzle, which sent us in search of lodgings. Not a soul
was to be seen anywhere, and as all the houses were shut, I deemed it
unwise to force a door. So we pushed ahead into the border of the
forest, hoping that the rain would soon cease.
Presently someone discovered an abandoned hermitage, through whose low
doorway we crept, and spreading out our blankets on the floor, prepared
to make a night of it--glad of shelter from the dampness.
"Hark!" hissed George, just as we were dropping off to sleep.
We all sat up.
"There! That's the third bullet that's landed on this roof!"
Ra-ta-pan-Ratapan! There was no mistaking the sound--even through the
wind and rain that raged outside.
George crawled on his knees toward the opening, and a second later
jumped back, clapping his hand to his head with a low shriek.
"He's shot!" cried Julie.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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