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A Coffin for Hester by L. Milton Hankins Shelly Cochran shivered. The damp chill or the early April morning pierced his mackinaw. His bones ached. Through billowing clouds of breath, Shelly peered over the timber ridge off to the left of the woodshed. In a week or so he reckoned he'd have to go back over on the ridge and haul in enough wood to carry Hester through the spring. Last fall, before they'd joined up with Wilson's army "to make the world safe for democracy," Shelly'd had his boys in the timber almost every day, but he guessed he'd misfigured. The woodpile beside the shed was nearly gone. Inside, Hester was stirring around now. Shelly carried in an armload of sticks and dumped them beside the cookstove. 54 "That oughta hold you 'til suppertime," he said. "You going to the valley today?" Hester inquired. "Reckon I oughta fetch the mail. Hit's been more'n a week or two." "Then you might get me some of that salve for a plaster, Shell. Old Betsy ain't a bit better. Ain't been a-feeling too good lately myself. I might be a-coming down with something." "I'll come back quick as I can," he said. The fog was lifting by the time Shelly finished his breakfast and started out toward the Patterson place a mile or so down the creek, but it wasn't a shade warmer. Shelly hadn't seen a Patterson since Christmas, since Nate'd come by to brag about the turkey hanging from his belt. He thought maybe he'd see if he could get Nate to go over on the ridge with him to fetch a load of wood. But when Shelly caught sight of the Patterson house through the pine thicket, he sensed something was bad wrong, and when he got close enough, Lucy Patterson yelled out to him. "Don't come up here no closer, Mr. Cochran. We done got the sickness." "The sickness? What'ya mean, the sickness?" Shelly hollered back. "I buried Nate last week, Mr. Cochran . . . and now my Jenny Mae's done come down with it. She's sick nigh to death. Hit's a-catching real bad. You better go on by." Shelly didn't know what to make of this news. He'd been counting on Nate to take his boy's place up on the ridge. "Is there anything I can do t' help?" he offered, but Lucy just shook her head and went inside the house. Shelly hastened on down the creek. A half-hour later he came to a shallow place where he crossed over to follow the edge of the meadow to Dan Clagle's place. He thought he'd stop, tell the Clagle's about what he'd heard, and rest a-spell, but when he neared the front gate he saw five or six people standing around a newly-dug grave beside Clagle's big, rambling house. "Hit's my Sally, my youngest," Zeke said, coming to meet Shelly at the gate. "The flu . . . my Mabel's got it, bad too. I ain't a-specting her to make it through the night, Shell. "Same thing's done took Nate Patterson up the creek," Shelly said, sadly. "Spoke to his widder not more'n an hour ago. My Hester's been a-feeling right poorly." "Hit works mighty fast, Shell," Zeke said. "My youngen, Sally, got it day 'fore yesterday. Went down fast." "Well, I reckon as how I better git on, Zeke. Awful sorry 'bout yer youngen." Shelly turned aside from the gate and hurried on, but now he was beginning to get the torments. He thought maybe he ought to go back, but Hester'd said she needed that plaster salve. Then he got to thinking maybe he oughta just go ahead and order a coffin, seeing as how Zeke said the flu worked so rast. It'd save another trip down the creek later in the week. "Gracious sakes alive," Shelly swore, "Hester could be gone by the time I git back!" When Shelly got to the village, he went straight...

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