Walk by Faith (7 page)

May 5, 1863

T
hey were on their way! Clarissa felt more joy than she'd known in many, many months, shadowed only by the occasional stab of pain at realizing she'd never seen Chad since the day she read the letter from Susan. How strange that any human being could so suddenly walk away from his own wife and child without looking back. She realized Chad Graham's selfish, insensitive nature was her best aid in putting the man behind her and leaving him there forever. If only she and Sophie didn't have to carry the man's name—and if only she could find it in her heart to truly forgive him. Her heart was too injured for that. God would have to understand that some things were impossible for the human heart.

For now it was time to look only forward, not back. The first three days of travel brought enough excitement to help her forget the reason she was doing this. From now on little Sophie need never suffer stares or hear lies about her mother and father and the trumped-up reasons some people had probably decided caused the divorce. God surely had a plan for hers and Sophie's lives, and heading for Montana was part of that plan.

Everyone on the wagon train was in a wonderful mood. For the first part of the journey there would be plenty of places to stop, even places to stock up on more supplies. It would be a good month before they would have cause to watch for Indians or worry about running out of something. The biggest immediate problem would be crossing rivers. Old Zeb had told them that even the normally shallow Platte River could be very high this time of year.

Clarissa decided not to worry. For now, the countryside smelled wonderful, spring wildflowers blooming everywhere, new grass creating a sea of pungent-smelling green along the well-worn trail that for the most part was flat. The weather remained cool and sunny, perfect for the long hours of walking, and when they camped for a noon break, Sophie and Lena and several other little girls ran through the grass picking wildflowers.

Sophie's cheeks glowed and her blue eyes sparkled. Clarissa's heart soared at the girl's glee and unfettered curiosity. She was full of questions—“Why” this and “Why” that, “What's this?” and “When will we get there?” She and Lena were practically inseparable, and having so many other children along made what might have been monotonous days exciting for Sophie and Lena, as sometimes they would ride with another family and sometimes other girls would ride with them.

Lack of privacy was the one deprivation that took getting used to. Men could just turn their backs or even walk away from the train to take care of necessities. Mothers helped their little girls, and most of the little boys were not bashful about such matters. But because of the danger of getting too far away, women chose not to walk too far for their personal affairs. Instead, they would form a circle and spread out their skirts, allowing a woman inside the circle to take care of business without being seen, and with the other women's backs to them. After the first two days of getting used to no outhouses, Clarissa and Carolyn and the other women learned to set aside modesty and accept the new way of tending to personals. Clarissa thought how incredibly understanding women could be toward each other at such times, most always ready to help another with children or come up with medical remedies for “female” problems.

Other than an occasional ride up and down the long line of wagons to check on things or pass information about the trail ahead, Dawson Clements kept to himself most of the time, never taking people up on offers to have a meal with them. They saw Zeb Artis only in the mornings, before he would ride far ahead of them and usually not show up again until most of the travelers had bedded down for the night.

Clarissa's feet were beginning to blister and ache fiercely, but she'd decided not to complain to Mr. Clements. It still irked her that he'd been so sharp with her about driving the oxen. In her mind he'd insulted her abilities, and after what Chad had done to her, she was not about to admit she needed a man's help for anything, especially one as bossy and arrogant as Dawson Clements.

What an odd sort of personality he had. He seemed to have an extraordinary dislike for any form of discipline, and in his eyes, that could be a simple spanking. Last evening he'd called a quick meeting to add to his list of rules, which was that he did not want to see a child beaten or spanked. They were told that if a child misbehaved he or she was to be brought to him in the evening and he would give them a good talking to and some kind of extra chore that would cure them of misbehaving again.

He told them that one thing he admired about Indians was that they never screamed at their children or physically hit them. Indian children learned discipline through praise for the things they did right. When they did something wrong, the adults would show extreme disappointment and sadness over it so that the child was so embarrassed and felt so sad that he or she never misbehaved in that way again.

“Praise is the key,” he told them. “Children love to please their fathers and mothers. Spankings can destroy their spirits.”

Destroy their spirits.
Later that night, Clarissa, Michael and Carolyn talked about the man's strange new rule, especially his comment about spankings destroying a child's spirit.

“The man was talking from experience. Anyone can tell that,” Michael surmised.

“Yes, and since he told us he ran away at thirteen, surely he'd been abused,” Carolyn suggested.

“By a preacher perhaps?” Clarissa offered.

Michael sighed deeply. “I hate to think so, but I'll bet you're right.” He shook his head. “How sad. And you know something? That man's own spirit has somehow been destroyed. That explains why he doesn't seem to have any true joy about him.”

Carolyn nodded. “I have a feeling that teaching him about true joy will be a bigger challenge than we thought.”

Clarissa had to smile now at the thought of their conversation. Michael and Carolyn had taken on the salvation of Dawson Clements as a personal and very important project. That was the kind of people they were, the kind who cared about another's troubles and did what they could about them—the kind who would not turn their backs on a divorced woman with a daughter to raise, the kind who prayed for men like Dawson Clements, who probably cared absolutely nothing for them in return. True, loving, spiritual, honest men like Michael Harvey were rare indeed. He was not good-looking or big and strong or good with his fists, but he was a real man in so many other ways, with a courage of spirit that was brave enough to reach out to those who didn't want and would not ask for his help.

Then there was Dawson Clements, disturbingly handsome, a man who
was
big and strong and good with his fists and probably with a gun—but who wouldn't think of reaching out to those who didn't want his help and who seemed to practically scoff at prayer.

“Who are you, really, Dawson Clements?” she muttered as she switched at the oxen to keep them moving. She hated to admit it, but the man had been right that walking so many miles every day leading the oxen would begin to take its toll. Her feet were killing her!

May 8, 1863

T
he pouring rain brought back memories of Shiloh. Just like that night Sergeant Bridger was shot in front of his eyes, Dawson huddled down inside his rubber poncho. He cursed the turn of events. It had poured for practically the past twenty-four hours. The weather had been better than expected until now, but then, what else could he expect this time of year in these parts? Once farther west, rain would barely be a problem, but they were, after all, not even out of Missouri yet.

What truly rankled him was suddenly wishing he'd never met Mrs. Clarissa Graham and that little girl of hers. More than that, he wished he'd at least not told her and that couple she was traveling with to look him up when they went to Independence. He could have at least told them he had all the wagons he could handle and not allowed them to join this train. Everything was working out just fine until he opened his big mouth and let those three and their little girls join up.

Now he found himself upset over the first minor delay. And why? Because down inside he knew the next few months were going to be difficult and he wanted them over with as fast as possible. Clarissa Graham was going to end up needing help, and he was probably the one who'd end up having to help her. That meant having to associate with her and that preacher friend of hers.

Why did Mrs. Graham upset him? There was no good reason for it. She angered him, interested him, confused him, reminded him how long it had been since he cared one whit about any woman, leastways not a decent one like Mrs. Graham. Saloon women were easy—a man didn't have to care about them. Clarissa Graham was a respectable woman, the kind he admired for her courage and determination—and she had a shape that made a man want to stare at her.

He chastised himself for thinking about that. A beautiful, redheaded, hazel-eyed, slender, single woman on a wagon train with a bunch of married men and jealous wives could only mean trouble, the kind he preferred not to deal with.

He wished he knew the story behind the woman's “dead” husband, whom he knew wasn't dead at all. Was she still married to him? Was she running from him? He supposed he had a right to ask, since her situation could be important to the way she fit in on this train; but asking might be misinterpreted as being interested in her in a way that went beyond just being the leader of this wagon train, and he couldn't afford her thinking that. That could lead to discovering she was no more interested in getting to know him better than a rabbit wanted to get to know a fox.

He'd had all the disappointments he could handle. Memories from boyhood reminded him he was not worthy of anyone's love or concern. The one time he'd allowed himself to truly care enough about a woman to marry her, she'd up and died on him, taking their unborn baby with her. Then, of course, there had been Sergeant Bridger, one man he'd dared to consider a friend, only to see him die right in front of him at Shiloh. That had only instilled in his soul the fact that he deserved nothing good in life, that a cruel God would continually punish him until the day he died.

Why hadn't that Rebel shot him instead of the young sergeant? No, that would have been too easy. God wanted him to live in constant loneliness and with the constant guilt of being responsible for the death of his parents and the constant pain of realizing he could never be forgiven for his sin.

Now he'd gone and allowed a preacher to join this wagon train, a preacher and two women who actually bothered praying for him. He ought to have a good talk with them and tell them what a waste of time that was. They could certainly pray for better things than Dawson Clements, a lost soul who all the praying in the world could not help.

He should have made sure about Clarissa Graham's true circumstances. He'd probably invited disaster by letting her come, but her skills as a nurse could end up being helpful, as well, he supposed as having a preacher along. Those traveling on this train who thought God and prayer would help them survive might at least keep good hope and try harder if they thought God was helping them, and having a preacher along to boost their faith couldn't hurt, he supposed.

He heard a horse approaching in the distant darkness. That would be Zeb, but as a precaution, he reached for his rifle and readied it. Zeb finally rode into the light of the campfire Dawson had managed to keep going by erecting a lean-to with branches and blankets around the side from which the wind-driven rain came down. It provided enough shelter to keep the fire going.

“You're later than usual,” he told Zeb.

The old mountain man dismounted and began unloading his horse. “Muddy up ahead. I had to find a roundabout way, and a man can't travel very fast in pitch dark with rain in his eyes. Wretched weather.”

“How muddy?” Dawson asked.

Zeb threw his bedroll and some belongings inside the shelter Dawson had built, then set his saddle down and covered it with a poncho. He left his horse bridled and tied it to a young sapling. “
Very
muddy,” he answered in his cracked, aging voice. He threw a blanket around himself and sat down near Dawson under the shelter. “You ain't gonna get them wagons through, I'll tell you that much. It'll take a good day of sun to even think about it.”

Dawson fumed inside at realizing there would be a further delay. “I guess we're stuck here then, aren't we?” He leaned against his saddle farther inside the shelter.

“It won't be so bad. Gives us time to take up some of these folks on their offers of a good home-cooked meal or two. I've had plenty of invites. Reckon you have, too.”

“I'd just as soon keep to myself. You start eating with these people, you start getting attached, and that could lead to problems later when it comes to making decisions, like who has to cross the river first, or who has to throw out their prized belongings in order to get up the side of a mountain. Staying detached from them makes it easier to break their hearts later if it becomes necessary.”

Zeb chuckled. “You sure ain't exactly the most friendly sort, are you?”

“Can't afford to be. Besides, I seem to have a sort of curse about me—you get friendly with me and something bad happens to you.”

Zeb spit a wad of tobacco juice into the fire. It landed with a hiss. “That's crazy talk,” he told Dawson. “You sure have some strange ideas, Clements, but I admire your ability to give orders and keep things organized. What do you intend to do when you reach Montana?”

Dawson shrugged. “I'm not sure. Look for gold, I guess. Maybe look for a job as a foreman or a guard at a mine, something like that. I'm used to giving orders. Or maybe I'll just travel on someplace else. I probably should rejoin the army. I liked it out west, and army life is all I've ever known.”

“Then why'd you quit in the first place?”

Dawson could still hear the cries of the wounded at Shiloh, still saw the look in Bridger's eyes when that bullet landed in his back, still saw the bloodshed and heard the exploding cannon and smelled the smoke from rifles fired so repeatedly that their steel barrels grew hot and soft and warped. And he could still remember the pain of that shrapnel ripping into his leg as he hauled cannon through Mississippi.

“Had enough of war, I guess. A man can take only so much of seeing men walking around with their guts hanging out and seeing arms and legs in literal piles outside of hospital tents. Of all the fighting I did in Mexico and against Indians, nothing matched what I've seen the past couple of years. I had a chance to get away from it all and I took it. But once I get back out west, I don't know, I just might rejoin. Depends what I end up doing in Montana, Wyoming, California, wherever I land.”

“Yes, sir, it sure is beautiful country.” Zeb spit more tobacco juice. “Ain't you thought of settlin' with a good woman? Havin' a few kids?”

“Not for me. I tried it once. She died. So did the baby.”

“Had me an Indian wife once. She missed her people, so she went back to them. I'm a roamer, you know? I couldn't stay in one place, and she wanted me to settle with her tribe. So we went our separate ways.” Zeb looked at Dawson. “Me, I've always been sort of ugly, and I'm uneducated, except in the ways of a mountain man, you know? I just ain't the type to be a normal married man like the men on this wagon train. But you, you're educated, Clements, and a good-lookin' man, and not all that old yet, either. Army or not, you ought to think about marryin' again. That there widow woman on this train, she's a looker, for sure. Now there's somethin' you ought to pursue, know what I mean? You ought to at least give it a try. That there is a lot of woman. Seems to me she's brave, goin' west without a man of her own. That woman's got pluck.” He nudged Dawson's arm. “And maybe she's lonesome for a man, if you know what I mean. Could make this trip right pleasurable for you,” he ended with a chuckle.

The remark brought a quick twinge of desire Dawson would rather not have experienced. It awakened his original ire at allowing Clarissa Graham to join this wagon train in the first place. He shook his head. “A woman like that needs the settling-down type who's willing to work at a real job and provide for his family. I'm just not ready for any of that yet. Might never be.”

“Well, I'd sure give that pretty woman some serious thought. If I was your age and had your looks—”

“Drop it, Zeb. You just tend to your scouting and leave the decisions about the people on this train to me.”

Zeb spit once more and chuckled again. “Yes, sir, Mr. Clements.” He reached over and untied a blanket from his supplies, then fluffed it up and used it like a pillow, lying down inside the shelter. “I'm gonna try to get some sleep. You'd better do the same.”

Dawson sat staring at the flickering flames as thunder rumbled in the distance. Again he wondered what the real story was behind Clarissa Graham, wondered why it mattered, and wondered why he hoped she and that little girl of hers were staying dry.