Bury 'em where they fall.

This is the cemetary, burial ground, plot, graveyard, whatever, which sits on top of the hill in the field just behind my Aunt's house. The churned up mud surrounding it is a result of a too warm January and 60 fat, preggo cows. We mix our cows and our dead.
My directly-descended-from family didn't clear the land and start farming it. Between Indians and us was at least one family. There are five adults buried in our little graveyard. One in each corner and one in the center. The large stones at the corners of the wall have children under them. Inside, there are only two headstones left standing:
This one belongs to a Durbin. A Samuel Durbin, aged 30, killed in 1821. Yes, killed, not died. These markers are for the settlers killed by Indians.
There are still Durbins around the area. One lives six houses south of mine. When Brad was home he talked to a woman who has done geneological research back further than we, and she found that we are vaugely related to those buried here. She cared because she is also vaugely related to us.