Jonse, the first-born of the Hatfields, bowed his head and his
deep-throated "Amen! God be praised!" echoed down the valley. Then Cap
and Troy, Tennis, Elias, Joe, Willis, and the rest joined in. All eyes
turned toward Jonse. He who had loved pretty Rosanna McCoy when he was a
lad, she a shy little miss.

Many at the baptizing remembered the first meeting of the two
star-crossed lovers one autumn day long ago on Blackberry Creek. The day
when young Randall and Tolbert, her brothers, were there. Old folks
remembered too the time when Devil Anse had slain Harmon McCoy. But that
was long ago and forgiven. "Let bygones be bygones," Levicy had pleaded
with her mate, and Sarah, wife of Old Randall, did likewise with her
spouse. But only Levicy, of the two sorely tried women, had survived to
witness the answer to her prayers--peace between the households with the
baptism of Devil Anse and his six sons.

As one by one they went down into the waters of baptism, it was the
voice of Levicy Chafin Hatfield that led in that best-loved hymn tune of
the mountains:

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye
Toward Canaan's fair and happy land where my possessions lie.
I'm bound for the Promised Land, I'm bound for the Promised Land.
Oh! who will come and go with me, I'm bound for the Promised Land.

The hills gave back the echo of their song.

It was a day of rejoicing.

As for Uncle Dyke Garrett he continued to journey up and down the broad
valley and through the hills, preaching the Gospel of repentance,
forgiveness, salvation. Above all he told of the baptism of Captain
Anderson and his six boys.

From the very first Dyke Garrett was more than a preacher.

Along lonely creeks into quiet hollows he went to pray at the bedside of
the dying, to comfort the bereft, to rejoice with the penitent. In the
early days he was the only visitor beyond the family's own blood kin, so
remote were the homes of the settlers one from the other. Like a breath
from the outside world were Uncle Dyke's words of cheer, while to him
they in the lonely cabins were indeed voices crying out in the
wilderness. Nor did flood nor storm, his own discomfort and hardship
deter him. Winter and summer, through storm and wind, he rode bearing
the good tidings to the people of the West Virginia ruggeds.

And now here he sat this autumn day in 1937, alert and happy for all his
ninety-six years. Bless you, he even talked of fighting!

"If