Spring Place and the War Women

The major had said to Lou with a weak sternness and twinkle in his eye," Youngun, there's always plenty of work, so don't kill yourself trying to finish. We ain't going to ever be finished. Pace yourself, boy!"

What was it about those words? They were no different than the ones J. N., Alex or her father would say to her. But the feeling, her feeling, in reaction was most curious. She was not able to figure out her feelings of anger and appreciation. The major's attention preoccupied her mind as she went about tending the mounts and remounts. The major bothered her.

Lou approached the general as he sat on the exposed root of a big, snarled chestnut oak. "Excuse me, General," she quietly said, some eight feet in front of him. A good fire crackled and a blackened coffeepot sat on burning hickory branches.

"Yes, son?" the twenty-eight-year-old general asked. The general was about the same size as sixteen-year-old Lou and maybe even a little smaller. Lou's smeared, crusty and sweat-dried face had the appearance of a barn owl - white around the eyes with smudged brown everywhere else.

"Your mount, Sir - well, sir, she's got a ugly place on her left front leg, about mid-way between the knee and hoof."

"Bad, son?" the general asked, concerned.

"Well not yet, General. Must have pulled through some strong and rough brambles or skinned it somehow. It needs tending, though, before it sours," and then a belated, "Sir, might be best not to ride him the rest of the way. We've got two remounts, the bay and black."