Walk by Faith (18 page)

June 30, 1863

“S
he's right, Michael. I
am
crazy.” Dawson sat on a log in front of his tent, and Michael sat across from him, both men with blankets around their shoulders against the unusually cool night. “I marry a woman who's a far better person than I am, inherit a kid I'm now responsible for, agree not to consummate the marriage—” He stared at the firelight. “Now
there's
something I never thought I'd agree to with
any
woman. Then I let her sleep in my tent last night while I slept out in the cold. I told her I'd find a way to support us, and I have no idea what that will be—and craziest of all, I told her she could annul the marriage at any time and that if she asked, I would ride out of her life when we reach Montana.” Michael listened quietly. “I already know I could no more ride out of her and Sophie's lives now than I could go the rest of my life without water,” he added. “Oh, and then I go and ask you to come out here tonight so we can talk alone. You—a preacher and Clare's good friend. I can just imagine what your opinion is of me right now.”

Michael cleared his throat before speaking. “I have a very high opinion of you, Dawson. If I didn't, I would have refused to marry you and Clare yesterday. It seems to me that
you're
the one doubting yourself and claiming not to be worthy of Clare. I'm just here because you asked me to be here. Maybe you should be honest and tell me why you
really
asked to talk to me tonight.”

Dawson sat quietly, thinking before answering. “That's the craziest thing of all, and it's hard for me to say it, especially to a preacher.”

Michael shrugged. “I am a good listener. Carolyn says that's one of the reasons I make a good preacher. I have no doubt that Jesus himself was also a good listener.”

Dawson stared at the fire, almost angry with Clare for the changes she'd brought about in his soul. “I want you to know I'm doing this for Clare, not for me. I mean, I know the kind of man she needs, and I'm not that man yet. I
want
to be. Part of that means, well, getting myself right with God, I guess you'd say. Now that I've committed myself like this—well, I want to do and say the right things, so that I never lose Clare. I mean—maybe I need a little help over the next few weeks.”

“Help?”

Dawson sighed, watching little embers drift upward when a piece of wood in the fire popped. “You know—from God.” He was feeling a bit of an idiot, wondering if this was really Dawson Clements sitting here saying these things—to a preacher, no less!

“I—uh—I made a vow, Michael, back when I was maybe ten years old,” he continued. “Actually it was two vows, and they came after one of Preacher Carter's many beatings. One was that I would never cry again, and I haven't, not even when my first wife died. The other was to never, ever, ask for help for anything from any man, and certainly not from what I saw as a cruel dictator of a God. It's not that I ever stopped believing in God. Preacher Carter made sure I knew there
was
a God, and that I should fear Him greatly. I hated that God, and there was no way I would ever ask such a Being for help. Carter never said a word to me about God's son or him dying for my sins or any of those things. From the bits of things you've said to me, and things Clare has said, I'm realizing I really don't know anything about God, certainly not about Jesus and all that. So I'm asking you to teach me, for Clare's sake, because she's a good Christian woman. And I'm asking you to—” He hated this. “I'm asking you to pray for me—and to teach
me
how to pray. I want to pray for help in being a good husband and in showing Clare she made a wise choice in marrying me. I want her to love me as much as I love her, and I don't want her pity or feelings of obligation. I just want her to truly love Dawson Clements, with no strings attached.”

Both men sat quietly for a moment. Michael took a deep breath before answering. “Well, now, that's quite a request. I have to tell you I am honored to be asked by someone who has doubted and hated God for years, because that tells me you have a lot of confidence in me and my faith. I have had a feeling since the first day I met you when Clare brought you home to treat that leg that God had brought you into our lives—especially into Clare's life—for a reason. I could see right off that you needed God in your life, and Clare needs someone in her own life who can teach her to trust again, not just trust another man, but trust God Himself. Chad Graham hurt her about as deeply as a woman can be hurt, and in her he instilled doubts about her ability to be a good wife, even though that is exactly what she was and none of what happened was her fault. I think she is beginning to see that, but she still has some obstacles to surmount. I firmly believe you will help her there, and that one day you will both see that you were truly brought together by God and should always be together.

“Now, as for teaching you about Christ and prayer and such, you first have to truly believe that God is kind and just, who forgives all sins through the death of his only beloved Son, Jesus Christ, who was sacrificed like a lamb for the people of the world. Through belief in Jesus, all sins are forgiven, Dawson, the minute a man sincerely asks for forgiveness. But it isn't your parents' deaths for which you need forgiving. God knows what happened, and He knows it was an accident, caused by an innocent child. What you need to be forgiven for is hating God all these years, and for being too stubborn up to now to pray and ask for help. You need help with all the anger you carry. God is always ready to listen, Dawson, and simply by voicing to me the things you want to pray for, you have already offered up a prayer, through me. You are already closer to God than you realize. He is working miracles,
in
you and
for
you. Bringing Clare into your life is one of those miracles, and at the same time He's working miracles for Clare through you.”

“Through me? That's unlikely.”

“Oh, but it's already happening. God thinks highly of you, Dawson. That's why He chose you to bring happiness into Clare's life again. Eventually she is bound to give herself to you, body and soul. The only thing she lacks is trust, and you will teach her about that. And I have told her that she needs to truly forgive Chad, deep in her heart and with all sincerity. That is the only way she will feel truly free to love you. I want to add that I admire the way you are honoring her person and her wishes. These are the things that will gradually win her total trust. I believe you already have her love, Dawson, even if she won't admit it. It's her fear of trusting another man that is holding her back.”

Dawson pondered Michael's words. “You're a good man, Michael. I appreciate you coming out here. You have no idea how I wish it was a man like you who'd taken me in after that fire.”

“And so do I, but what's done is done, and it's Preacher Carter who was the evil one, not you. Satan worked through him to try to win another soul to his own cause, but down inside you were too strong and too good for him to ever totally control you. And if it's possible for you to accept, Dawson, if you want to truly feel God's grace, I would like to baptize you. Baptism can bring miracles to your life, and peace to your heart.”

Why was this so hard? He contemplated telling Michael the
whole
story. But he couldn't bring himself to admit to what he'd done to Preacher Carter. Maybe he'd find a way once he was baptized and did some praying. “I, uh, I don't know if I'm worthy.”

“
All
are worthy, Dawson. We can walk to the river, just you and me. No one else needs to know, if you prefer it that way. We can give some explanation.”

Dawson had no explanation for what had come over him, except that God must be controlling his thoughts and movements. “Yeah, sure, why not, if it will help cure what ails me.”

Michael rose, and feeling insecure and a bit confused, yet strangely compelled, Dawson followed him to the Platte. Wolves howled in the distant hills and coyotes yipped, yet strangely no mosquitoes bothered them tonight. The two men removed their boots, and Dawson removed his hat. They stepped into the river.

“You're a little tall for me, Dawson,” Michael told him. “If you will get on your knees it will be easier for me to pour water over you.”

“Sure.” Dawson obeyed, an awesome humbleness overtaking him. He closed his eyes, and Michael scooped water into his hands and poured it over Dawson's head.

“Dawson Clements, I baptize you in the name of the Father—” Another scoop of water. “And the Son.” Once again he poured water over Dawson's head. “And the Holy Spirit.” He kept a hand on Dawson's head then and prayed. “Heavenly Father, this man before me comes to You more as the child he was when his parents were taken from him than the man he is now. That child was taught lies about You, so that Dawson could not come to You and open his heart to You. Teach him that we are all Your children forever, even when we are grown, and that You love us much more than any man can love any child of his own flesh. Forgive this man's true sins, but show him he needs no forgiveness for the one thing he was led to believe was an act of unforgivable evil.

“Help him, Lord, to realize he is worthy of every good thing that comes his way, including Clare, Lord. Fill his heart with love and his soul with your spirit and with truth.

“We pray for all of this in the name of Your son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Wolves howled again, and Dawson remained kneeling in the water. Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “I'll be glad to talk more whenever you tell me you have the time, Dawson. And be assured that anything we talk about is between you and me. I don't share a man's private needs and feelings with anyone but God. God bless you, Dawson Clements. I'll leave you here alone for a while.”

Michael left, walking up the bank. Once he was gone, Dawson broke the second vow he'd made all those years ago. He wept.

July 5, 1863

C
larissa watched nervously as a large band of Sioux followed the wagon train almost side by side. The pioneers made their way over more hills of such long, gradual grades that they sometimes had to stop and rest the oxen before they even reached the tops of the hills. To her they were mountains, but according to Dawson they hadn't seen true mountains yet. The thought was daunting.

Dawson kept his promise about leaving her alone other than to join them during every break, contributing some of his own food supplies to support theirs. He helped her hitch and unhitch her oxen whenever he was able, but since the appearance of the band of Sioux two days ago, he'd stayed at a distance, he and Zeb often keeping themselves between the Indians and the wagon train.

She was falling in love with him. He'd changed since they were married, more so since his talks with Michael. It seemed now that most of the time that dark cloud behind Dawson's blue eyes was gone. He didn't seem uncomfortable when Michael prayed over their meals. She was grateful that Michael had kept his conversations with Dawson to himself. If Dawson thought for a moment that Michael had betrayed his confidence, he would stop talking to him and again lose his trust in preachers.

In spite of her deepening feelings for Dawson, she still couldn't bring herself to give of herself totally and fully trust him. After all, they had a long way to go, and Dawson Clements still had a lot to prove to her once they reached Montana. Until they got there, Dawson had a job to do that kept him busy and constantly on the move. The hardship of this journey, the constant, endless walking, weary bones at night, all simply made it difficult to relax together and talk about all the things they still needed to discuss.

Still, she was Mrs. Dawson Clements, and in the few moments when she wasn't wondering if she'd lost her mind and committed the most ridiculous act ever, she actually liked the idea. Sometimes in the deep of night she fantasized what it would be like to truly take the man as a husband, but somehow Chad Graham's face would always replace Dawson's. Chad's betrayal still burned in her soul, destroying thoughts of truly sharing her soul with any other man.

One thing she did know—it was becoming difficult to imagine life now without Dawson in it. She cared enough that she knew she'd be devastated if something happened to him. It frightened her that the Sioux could decide to shoot him down at any moment, and she couldn't help constantly watching for him to make sure he was still there.

It was late afternoon when men began shouting, “Hold it! Hold up there!”

Clarissa immediately looked for Dawson, who'd given instructions that the minute any of the Indians broke from their band and rode toward Dawson or the wagon train, they were to stop and form a circle. Her heart beat faster when indeed, she saw four warriors riding in their direction. Zeb was riding fast toward Dawson from farther back on the train, where he'd been keeping an eye on the McCurdys as well as watching for more Indians that might be lurking farther back.

God, keep him safe,
she prayed silently as she switched her oxen and gave a command for them to begin veering left along with wagons ahead of her, which came around to join up with those toward the rear, leaving an opening for the McCurdy wagons once they caught up. As soon as wagons found their positions, men grabbed rifles and handguns and made ready behind the wagons on the inside of the circle.

Clarissa told Sophie to stay inside the wagon, and as Dawson had ordered, she and other women climbed into the wagons out of sight, ordering their children to do the same. Clarissa hurriedly dug out her handgun from deep inside a trunk she kept locked so that Sophie could not get to the gun. She nervously checked to make sure it was loaded, then moved to the side of the wagon that faced the Indians. She lifted the canvas enough to watch.

Dawson and Zeb were now parlaying with the four warriors, whose horses and faces were painted. She saw Dawson shake his head, apparently refusing something. Her stomach ached with fear and worry. Thank goodness he and Zeb had experience with Indians, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be trouble, and there was Dawson, right in the middle of it. How could she not love that kind of courage and experience? For all his inner doubts, Dawson Clements knew how to take care of himself and others. Surely that kind of conviction would make him a good husband after all.

She had so much to think about, and so little time to do the thinking. Right now she felt the sweat of fear trickle down her neck. Sophie asked her a question and she told the girl that Dawson said she should keep very still. Once she told her that, Sophie didn't say another word. Clarissa continued watching what looked like a literal argument between Dawson and one of the Indians who was apparently some kind of leader.

“Be careful, Dawson,” Clarissa whispered.

Finally Dawson shared some kind of hand signal with the Indian and turned his horse. He headed toward the wagon with Zeb and all four Indians. He removed his rifle and held it up sideways, his signal that no one from the wagon train should fire a shot. As they came closer, Clarissa could see the warriors better. The fringes of their clothing danced with the rhythm of their horses. Their black hair hung long and straight and was decorated with feathers and beads, and the paint on their faces and an array of formidable-looking weapons made them frightening indeed. Clarissa could hardly believe Dawson dared to turn his back on them.

By the time they stopped near the wagon train, the McCurdys were just then pulling into place. Dawson turned his horse and faced the Indians again, shoving his rifle through the loop that held it on his saddle. He said something to the Indians and gave them another hand signal before dismounting and walking inside the circle of wagons.

Clarissa hurriedly moved to the other side of her wagon so she could lift that side of the canvas to watch and listen.

“I need a few blankets that can be spared,” Dawson told the men. “Some tobacco, some flour, and anything colorful your women can give me—ribbon, lace, buttons, beads, things like that. They wanted a lot more, including a few head of the Kruegers' cattle, but I told them no. I said they either take what we give them, or opt for a fight. I told them we have a lot of guns, many more than they have.” He smiled slyly, helping relieve the tension. “I also told them there is a large regiment of soldiers coming up behind us. Of course I lied, but I think they believe me.” He glanced toward Clarissa's wagon, then around at the men. “I don't think this bunch is looking for trouble. They have women and children along and are simply moving their camp north. They happened to cross our path and decided to see what they could get out of us, so don't get itchy trigger fingers. Just do like I said. Somebody lay out a couple of blankets that we can tie some supplies into.”

Today Dawson had deliberately worn his army pants and shirt, hoping the uniform would give him an air of authority in the eyes of the Indians, more than if he were simply a common traveler. Apparently it had worked. Quickly Clarissa grabbed a blanket and moved to the back of the wagon, throwing it out without sticking her head out.

“You stay down, Sophie,” she warned, terrified the warriors might take a liking to her little girl's bright red hair and beautiful blue eyes.

She laid the gun aside carefully and opened a trunk that held sewing items. She hated the idea of giving away lace and ribbon—which she would need once she settled—to these people who surely couldn't appreciate such things in the same way she did. Still, Dawson had given the order. She shoved the items into a woolen sock and threw in some buttons and the second sock, then tied off the top of the sock and threw it out of the wagon.

Dawson walked over and picked up the blanket and sock, then took it to the center of the circle, where men brought more blankets, sacks of flour and plugs of tobacco and other items. Clarissa heard someone curse the heathens, and someone else said it might be fun to use them for target practice.

“Fire one shot and I'll shoot the man who does so,” Dawson warned. “Better to kill one of you and appease those warriors out there than let them wipe out this whole wagon train.”

Clarissa had to smile at how easily the army officer in him showed itself. She knew the men believed every word he said, and no one raised a gun as Michael and the Krueger men tied the blankets so that the items inside wouldn't fall out.

“Carry them out and hand them to the Indians,” Dawson told them.

“I'm not going out there!” Bert Krueger told him.

“It's all right, I assure you. One thing about Indians is they don't go back on their word, unless one of us does something stupid, like insult them or shoot at them. Come on. I need your help with all this.”

Wiping at sweat on his brow with his shirtsleeve, Bert picked up one of the blankets, and he, Michael, Will Krueger and Dawson carried the supplies outside the circle of wagons to the waiting Indians. Each arrogant-looking warrior took a blanket, and Dawson remounted his horse while the other three men made a hasty retreat back to their wagons.

“Dawson won't let them get us, will he, Mommy?” Sophie whispered.

Clarissa smiled at the girl's trust in the man. “No, he won't let them hurt us.”

Dawson rode with the warriors as they left, stopping about halfway between the wagons and the rest of the tribe. He and Zeb waited there until the leader of the band of Indians raised a hand in farewell.

Dawson raised his hand in return, and the long procession of natives got under way again. Dawson said something to Zeb, who nodded his head and got his horse into a slow walk, moving ahead of the wagon train to follow the tribe, probably to make sure they kept going. Dawson turned and rode back to the emigrants, dismounting and tying his horse to one of the wagons, then rejoining the circle.

“We shouldn't have any trouble,” he announced. “We'll stay here and make camp for the night. Zeb is riding on to make sure the Indians keep going for a ways and to see that they don't regroup into some kind of war party. I don't think that will happen.”

“What makes you so sure?” a still-resentful Sam McCurdy spoke up.

“I'm
not
sure. I'm simply going on experience. They have women and children along, and I convinced them there are soldiers behind us. They don't want their women and children hurt any more than we want ours hurt, so just be glad they took the supplies and left. That's a good sign.”

“Those dirty savages took some good supplies from us,” McCurdy answered. “What gives them the right?”

Dawson's disgust with the man was obvious. “Because, McCurdy, in reality there are more of them than us, and I guarantee they're a whole lot better at a fight than any of you are. Even if they don't have guns, which some of them
do
have, they'd get through this circle of wagons and kill every one of us. They would burn everything in sight and ride off with your children. Don't you think it's better to try to get along with them, even if it means swallowing a little pride and losing a few supplies?”

McCurdy's lips moved into a pout as he folded his arms and leaned against his wagon, shaking his head.

“You can stay with the circle of wagons for tonight,” Dawson told him. “If Zeb comes back in the morning and says things look good, you'd better fall back again once we get started. The last thing you want now is to be left behind with Indians lurking around, so don't do something stupid to make me change my mind about sticking to the vote we took.”

Sam glowered at Dawson but said nothing. Dawson walked over to Clarissa's wagon, leaning on the gate.

“Hi, Dawson!” Sophie said in a near whisper. “Can I talk now?”

Dawson grinned broadly. “Yes you can, carrot cake.”

Sophie giggled. “I'm not a piece of cake!”

“Sure you are. You're sweet like cake and your red hair reminds me of carrots, so you're carrot cake.”

Sophie covered her mouth and giggled again, and Dawson glanced at Clarissa. “You okay, Mrs. Clements?”

“I'm a nervous wreck, but fine,” she answered with a smile. “I was scared for you.”

“Good. That means you care, at least a little bit.”

“You know I do.”

He brightened more. “Then how about just one kiss?” he teased.

“Okay!” Sophie thought he meant her. She crawled to the wagon gate and put her arms around his neck, planting a sloppy kiss smack on his mouth. “Pick me up, Dawson.”

Dawson cast Clarissa a look of disappointment and despair as he took Sophie into his arms. “Well, I tried,” he told Clarissa with a teasing sigh. “If only her mommy loved me as much.” He walked away with Sophie in his arms, who yelled to Lena that Dawson had called her a carrot cake.

Clarissa sat back with a sigh. “You're using that child to get to me, Dawson Clements…and it's working.”