Walk by Faith (9 page)

May 11, 1863

C
larissa tied Sophie's slat bonnet, determined that her daughter's fair complexion would not be destroyed by the prairie sun. The hats also provided wonderful relief from the sun's glare, and she wore one herself during all daylight hours, as did most of the women along the journey.

Today would be exciting but long. All wagons would first be floated across the river one by one. Clarissa would have her job cut out for her helping Michael tend the eighteen oxen, two draft horses and Trudy the cow along with her calf, while Carolyn's job today would be to keep watch on the two girls and take the ferry across with them.

“You and I will take turns going across and coming back until we get all the animals across,” Michael told her, handing her the leather straps that were buckled to the bridles of the two draft horses. “On the other side young Stuart Clymer will help watch those we deliver over there.”

Neither Michael nor Carolyn had asked one question this morning about Dawson Clements having been at her wagon last night, something Clarissa deeply appreciated. Michael Harvey always seemed to know when to talk and when to say nothing. She suspected he'd told Carolyn not to bother her about the visit. Clarissa could just hear the man telling his wife that Clarissa would tell them about it in her own good time. She had to smile at the suspicion that Michael feared pressuring her might disrupt something good that was happening between her and Clements.

The trouble was, she had no idea if last night meant anything at all, either good or bad. If she'd not caught the scent of whiskey on Dawson Clements's breath, she might make more of his visit, but she'd grown up being told that whiskey was a demon drink and made men do things they would not normally do, making them feel brave when they really were not, and stirring sinful desires in them. Thank goodness she did not know firsthand if that was true or not. Neither her father nor Chad drank a drop, one of the few good points she could score for Chad Graham. At the moment she wondered if a drink now and then would have been much less a sin than cavorting with another woman. She thought about Stanley Swenson, a shoemaker across the street from her father's store in St. Louis. Everyone knew Mr. Swenson liked to tip a bottle fairly often, but he was a friendly man, a hard worker and devoted husband with six children. Drinking now and then seemed hardly a sin at all for men like him. It seemed to her that it was a man or a woman's heart that mattered, the love and devotion they carried there.

She looked up then to see the man riding toward her, carrying something.

“Hi, Mistoo Clement,” Sophie called to him, waving.

“Hello there, Sophie,” he answered with a smile. “I brought you something.”

“Me?” The girl clapped her hands, and Clarissa walked closer as Dawson dismounted, but he was looking only at Sophie as he handed her a pair of small, knee-high moccasins.

“Indian shoes!” she said.

Dawson sobered slightly when he looked at Clarissa, then handed her a bigger pair of the moccasins. “You wanted something for sore feet,” he told her. “No one knows better the best kind of shoes for walking on rough ground and through weeds and thickets than Indians. You wear these, and your feet will feel a lot better. And the knee-high legs will protect you from scratches and bruises,” he added.

Clarissa took the moccasins as Carolyn and Michael both approached.

“Are you sure it's proper to wear these?” Clarissa asked, looking over the fringed and beaded footwear.

“Well, ma'am, I would hope you've learned by now that out here properness and protocol don't much matter. It's practicality and survival that matter, and those moccasins fit both needs. Besides that, who's going to see them under your long skirts?”

She met his eyes, seeing a hint of the dark cloud there again. “Well, then, thank you very much, Mr. Clements. This was very thoughtful of you. I wasn't sure you would even remember.”

“What's this?” Michael spoke up before Dawson could reply. “Are we dressing like Indians now?”

“Just footwear for the women and little girls,” Dawson answered, remaining sober as he handed more moccasins to Carolyn. “A pair for you, ma'am, and for little Lena. Mrs. Graham told me last night you both had sore feet. I got these from the Indian trading post down by the river. They will be much more comfortable than leather shoes.” He turned to Michael. “And, Mr. Harvey, wearing these will help protect the women and little girls from scratches and snakebites.”

“Well, now, Mr. Clements, that's very kind of you. What do we owe you for these?”

“Don't worry about it. Just make sure the women and girls wear them for their own protection.” Dawson turned to Clarissa. “Will you step away with me for a moment?”

Glancing at a grinning Carolyn and Michael, she felt her face redden a little as she turned back to Dawson. “Certainly.” She walked closer to her wagon, and Dawson followed. He folded his arms and remained quite serious.

“Mrs. Graham, I'm sorry for coming over to your wagon last night with you standing there alone. If anyone saw me, which they most likely did after hearing me laugh, they might get the wrong idea, you being alone and all.”

“I thought the same thing, Mr. Clements, but I'm not going to worry about it. I haven't noticed anyone treating me any different.”

“Even so, I don't want to cause you to suffer stares and gossip. Last night I was—well, not drunk, mind you, but I'd imbibed somewhat, and whiskey can cause a man to be, well, a little unwise, I guess you'd say.”

“So I've been told,” she answered. “But you were a gentleman and did absolutely nothing wrong. I hope you were serious about the things you told me—about feeling free to ask for help—and how it felt good to laugh.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, appearing very uneasy. “Well, it did, ma'am, and I meant what I said. I just want you to know that won't happen again, coming around at night like that. I mean no disrespect, and from now on I won't show you any more attention than anyone else. I think it's best that way.”

“Yes, it probably is best,” she answered. “I appreciate your thinking about my welfare, so to speak. And thank you again for the moccasins. I will wear them and see if it's true that they are better than leather shoes.”

He tipped his hat. “Ma'am.” He walked away then, leaving Clarissa full of questions and doubts. Apparently he'd woken up this morning angry with himself for showing her his softer, vulnerable side.

“And you do have one, Mr. Clements,” she said softly. “How you hate to show it.”

He mounted his horse and rode ahead to begin directing the river crossing.

“Mommy, look!” Sophie was already sitting on the ground holding up the moccasins. “Put them on me, Mommy!”

Clarissa smiled and walked over to kneel down and unbutton the girl's worn leather shoes so she could remove them.

“My, my, how thoughtful of Mr. Clements,” Carolyn said with a gleam in her eyes.

“Carolyn, mind what I told you this morning,” Michael told her. “Don't be teasing Clarissa. Let God work in His own way.”

Clarissa looked up at him. “I'm not so sure that God was working at all last night, Michael. I smelled whiskey on Mr. Clements's breath. It's more likely it was the
whiskey
working on the man than any divine intervention.”

Michael chuckled. “Perhaps. But then whiskey can cause a man to speak the bold truth when he ordinarily would not. You know of course that my Carolyn is dying to know just what he told you.”

Clarissa pulled the small moccasins over Sophie's feet and legs. “There. How's that?” She helped the girl to her feet.

“They feel good, Mommy! Put Lena's on,” she said excitedly.

Lena came and sat down in front of Clarissa, and Carolyn handed Clarissa the other pair of small moccasins. “You're not going to say anything more?” she asked Clarissa.

“Maybe this evening. There is just too much to do right now,” she answered. “Put on your moccasins, Carolyn.” Clarissa was beginning to feel like a fool for being rather flattered by Dawson's visit last night, for lying awake half the night thinking about him—wondering about him—wishing she could find a way to break down the wall he kept built around himself. He seemed to be suffering so on the inside, but it was absolutely stupid of her to care. Her emotions were in terrible condition because of Chad. She would have to watch out more for her heart and feelings on this trip than for her physical well-being.

She removed her shoes and pulled on her own moccasins, and to her dismay they were even more comfortable than Dawson Clements had claimed they would be. He was absolutely right. Indians certainly did know the best way to dress. She couldn't help wondering about the loose Indian tunics she'd seen some Indian women wear. They had to be more comfortable and practical than white women's corsets and camisoles and slips and stockings and formfitting dresses.

She stood up and walked around, getting a feel of her new “shoes.” “These are wonderful,” she told Carolyn, who was in turn getting a feel of her own moccasins.

“Yes, they are.” Carolyn walked closer, grasping Clarissa's arms. “Quick, before we get involved with the river crossing! What happened last night? What was Dawson Clements laughing about this time?”

Clarissa gently pushed her away with a warning look. “
Nothing
happened. He simply came over to apologize for laughing at my fall in the mud, and to thank me for making him laugh. He said it felt good. As he left I told him my feet were so sore I'd like to cut them off, and that's what made him laugh again. And like I said, he'd been drinking, Carolyn, so none of it meant a thing. This morning he apologized for that, too, and he said he would never again visit me after dark like that. He's afraid it could cause problems for me with the others on the train, and I completely agree. So the matter is settled, and none of it means anything at all, so don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean. Come on. You take the girls and get them across and I'll help Michael with the oxen. Maybe you can take Trudy and the calf with you and the girls. That will help.”

Carolyn breathed a sigh of obvious disappointment. “I was so hoping we—you at least, were starting to get through to Mr. Clements.”

“Well, I'm not—and none of us has any business caring one way or another about the man. Let's turn our attention to getting ourselves to Montana and just quit talking about him, all right? I doubt he will as much as give us the time of day after this, and I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

Clarissa walked up to Michael and took the reins of the draft horses again. “Let's get the oxen down to the river.”

Michael gave her a serious look. He was so short that he was able to look her straight in the eyes. “You know of course that it's impossible for you to tell a good lie.”

Clarissa couldn't help but break into a smile.

May 20, 1863

C
larissa paged backward to reread her diary account of falling in the mud. Secretly, she liked reading it because it reminded her of when Dawson Clements behaved like the rest of the wagon train and actually laughed. Now, since telling her he would not allow any further conversations or special attention, he'd kept his word.

Why did she wish he had not?

She set the diary aside and climbed out of the wagon, thinking again how grateful she was for the moccasins Dawson gave her. They still felt wonderful on her feet, the triple-hide soles buffering her feet from stones and the high legs protecting her shins from scratches and bruises. Her feet and legs finally felt stronger. She was growing more adjusted to the long daily walks and the daily chores of hitching and unhitching teams, cooking over campfires, loading and unloading supplies daily for meals and feeding the chickens and livestock, hauling water and finding ways to at least wash the dust from her face and keep Sophie clean.

Nothing about this trip so far had been easy. She could already see that she could manage as long as the weather cooperated and she and Sophie and the animals stayed healthy, but a change in either situation could cause big problems. She'd found a way to keep netting around Sophie at night to protect the child from being eaten alive by the pesky insects, which would start biting as soon as supper was finished and the sun was nearly set. People mingled and talked—except for Dawson Clements, who as usual was camped in a tent several yards beyond the circle of wagons.

Michael and Carolyn walked off to join another couple they'd befriended, the Buettners. Their three-year-old daughter, Ruth, and their eight-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, played with Lena and Sophie often, the girls darting under and around wagons now as they played hide-and-seek. The Buettners' six-year-old son, Raymond, was off playing with other boys, and Walt Clymer was strumming on a banjo, his teenage son greasing the wheel axles of their wagon.

People talked and laughed and visited. Clarissa had stayed in her wagon to make her daily diary entry, and now, watching the others, a keen loneliness brought an ache to her insides. With everyone else part of a couple, she suddenly felt like an outsider, in spite of Michael and Carolyn's kindness.

Walt Clymer began strumming a tune to the rhythm of a waltz, and the newlyweds, Robert and Jenny Trowbridge began dancing to the tune. People smiled and clapped, and then two other couples joined in, turning to the simple banjo music while others watched and laughed and talked, enjoying a chance to relax for a short while before retiring and then waking up to another long, arduous day of chores and walking.

“Would you like to dance, Mrs. Graham?”

Clarissa turned to see Haans Buettner's brother, Eric, one of two single men on the wagon train besides Dawson and his grizzly old guide. She guessed Eric to be around thirty, and he was neither handsome nor ugly, a sturdy German man who was hardly any taller than Clarissa.

No, she didn't want to dance with him, but she did not have the heart to turn him down. Still, she worried how it might look if she accepted his request. She graciously agreed, and Eric turned rather clumsily to the music.

“I'm not so good at this,” he told her.

“You're doing fine, Mr. Buettner.”

“You can call me Eric,” he told her with a strong German accent. “But I will call you Mrs. Graham. It's only proper.”

Clarissa found herself hoping Walt would not play the tune for too long. She nodded in agreement, looking away from Eric's eyes so he would not get any wrong ideas, which she feared he might already have because she was a “widow.” Neither seemed to know what to say to each other, so they danced silently, and after another turn Clarissa noticed him—Dawson Clements—standing near a wagon, watching her.

What was he thinking? Why did it bother her to be seen dancing with a single man? Why did she wish it was Dawson Clements who'd offered a dance? Then again, she doubted he'd ever danced a day in his life. After all, dancing was a joyful act, and Dawson Clements had no idea how to be joyful.

Now Michael and Carolyn started dancing, looking rather comical with Michael's head coming only to Carolyn's shoulder. Everyone was having a good time—everyone but Clarissa, who could not keep herself from glancing at Dawson whenever she got the chance. With the setting sun at his back, he was little more than a dark, shadowy figure. Between that and the way his wide-brimmed hat was pulled down, Clarissa could not see his face. Was he smiling or frowning? Did he approve or disapprove of her dancing with Eric Buettner? Why did it matter to her?

She had to stop this nonsense. She had to start praying more, beg God to show her what He wanted of her. If the Good Lord meant that there be something more serious between her and Dawson Clements, she wished He would give her some kind of sign, show her the way. Either that, or help her stop thinking and wondering about the man and get on with her life. God knew better than anyone that she was far from ready or willing to care about anyone of the male species. She wasn't sure she could ever again survive the kind of pain Chad Graham had caused. Maybe all He wanted of her was to help Dawson Clements find the saving grace of Jesus Christ and learn how to be happy.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted when there came a scream from the direction of where the girls were playing. Instant panic filled Clarissa when she heard Sophie yell for her mommy. She tore away from Eric Buettner to run and see Dawson Clements had already reached the girls and was bent over little Ruth, who lay on the ground screaming at the top of her lungs.

Clarissa grabbed Sophie into her arms, embracing her tightly. “Sophie, what's happened? Are you all right?”

“A snake bit Ruth.” Sophie sniffled.

“Oh!” Clarissa hugged her tight. “It didn't bite you, too, did it?”

“No, Mommy. It crawled away in the grass.”

Michael and Carolyn reached them, Carolyn sweeping Lena into her arms. Clarissa kissed Sophie and handed her to Michael to hurry over to where sweet, chubby little Ruth lay being consoled by her panic-stricken mother while Dawson studied two little red marks on the girl's wrist.

“I saw the snake slither away,” Dawson said in concern. “It was a rattler.”

Ruth's crying quieted as her eyes rolled up, and she appeared to pass out.

“Do something,” Florence Buettner screamed. “She'll die!”

Clarissa knelt beside Dawson. “We have to try to suck out the venom.”

“I know.” He reached toward his belt and pulled a large hunting knife from a sheath hooked there. Florence screamed and wept as he deftly sliced an X across the bite marks. Clarissa knelt beside Florence, putting an arm around the woman while Dawson began sucking out blood and venom from Ruth's wrist, spitting it out on the ground. Over and over he repeated the rescue attempt as a crowd gathered. Peter Burkette demanded to know what Dawson was doing.

“He's sucking out the venom,” Clarissa answered. “It's the only thing he can do for now. Someone get some whiskey to clean the wound when he's done.”

“Are you sure?” Haans Buettner asked.

“Yes. I'm a nurse, Mr. Buettner. And since the bite is on her wrist rather than her foot or ankle—” Her voice caught in her throat. Such a pretty little girl! This could have been Sophie! “With her so small, the venom will reach her brain much more quickly.” She looked up at the Buettners, swallowing back her own tears. “You'll have to pray very hard.”

“Keep her head elevated,” Dawson said, spitting more venom.

A sobbing Florence lifted the child's head more.

“I wish we had some moss,” Clarissa commented. “Sometimes it helps draw out the poison.”

“Good idea,” Dawson answered.

Clarissa looked around the crowd. “Someone go to the river and see if you can find moss growing on anything or on the ground. Look around the trees there.”

“I'll go,” Eric, the girl's uncle, offered, running off.

“I'll help,” added Walt Clymer, a huge man who lumbered away like a plow horse.

“Ruthie, my Ruthie,” Florence lamented. The stout, plain woman's body shook with sobs. “What would I do without my baby?” She leaned down and kissed the little girl's cheek.

Wanda Krueger came running with whiskey and a cloth bandage. Dawson wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of the calico shirt he wore, then took the whiskey and dumped some over the wound. Little Ruth gave no reaction. Dawson then rinsed his mouth with some of the whiskey and spat it out, then drank some down before handing back the bottle and wrapping the wound with the cloth. Clarissa saw a strange terror in his eyes.

“If someone finds moss we'll unwrap this and cover the wound with the moss.” He glanced at Clarissa. “You were right. The Indians use moss on wounds to help healing, especially for drawing out puss or poison.” He got up and lifted the girl, handing her to Haans while Clarissa helped Florence to her feet.

“Put her in your wagon with plenty of pillows under her head so she's elevated,” Dawson told Haans. “That helps a little as far as keeping too much poison from going to the brain.”

Haans carefully took the girl into his arms, the sturdy German's eyes filling with tears.

“I don't know what else to tell either of you,” Dawson said to Haans and Florence. “Right now it's a matter of waiting. We'll know by morning if she's going to be all right.”

Florence pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and broke into heavy sobbing. Wanda Krueger put an arm around her and led her to the Buettner wagon, and the crowd went on their way, the happy dancing they'd previously enjoyed now ended with an air of gloom.

Dawson turned to Clarissa. “Thanks for your help,” he told her.

Clarissa wiped at tears. “I didn't do much. You did the right thing. I just can't help thinking how that could have been Sophie.”

“We need to tell the children not to play under the wagons anymore,” Dawson said. “Snakes like to crawl into the shadows of wheels and barrels and such.”

Clarissa nodded. She met his gaze then, seeing his own sadness.

“Gather around, everyone,” Michael called out then. “Let's all pray together for little Ruth. There is power in numbers.” He waved his arms to call people together, and they circled around, leaving Dawson no choice but to stay in the circle. To leave would look as though he didn't care, and Clarissa suspected that was the only reason he stayed put as the others reached out and held hands to pray together. Daringly Clarissa reached for Dawson's hand, and she could tell he gave it to her quite unwillingly. The man did not want to pray, but he had no choice now but to stand there while Michael prayed ardently for the Lord Jesus Christ to spare the life of the Buettners' daughter. When everyone said their Amens, Dawson let go of Clarissa's hand.

“I'm going to see if I can find that snake,” he said, quickly leaving. Clarissa suspected it was an excuse to get away from an uncomfortable situation.

“Look how he runs from Jesus and all things that concern the heart,” Michael said quietly aside to Clarissa. “Mark my word, he'll do his own praying later that no one will see or know about. I saw the look of desperate worry in his eyes when he was sucking out that venom.”

People quietly parted, and a few minutes later a gunshot made them all jump. Moments later Dawson came back to call out that the snake was dead. He ordered everyone to retire for the night. Clarissa walked past the Buettner wagon, and she could still hear Florence sobbing. She wondered how Dawson even knew he'd shot the right snake. Perhaps he'd simply shot the first rattler he'd spotted, just to relieve his own frustration over what had happened to little Ruth. The man seemed to have a penchant for feeling responsible for anything bad that happened to those around him.