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.
Hear my cry, Oh God;
Listen to my prayer!
In despair and far from home I call to You!
Take me to a safe refuge, for You are my protector,
My strong defense against my enemies.
—Psalms 61:1-3
Chapter Fourteen
May 21, 1863
“Little Ruth Buettner died last night.” Clarissa stopped to wipe at tears that threatened to stain the fresh ink on today’s page of her diary.
It was now two o’clock in the afternoon, and Dawson Clements had allowed the weary, grieving travelers to finally stop for a while. Today’s trek covered country that was much hillier than they’d experienced up to now, hills that were high enough to be the first real strain on animals and people alike. Twice they’d crossed creeks that melt-off and spring rains had turned into something more like rivers.
We buried the little girl early this morning, and then Mr. Clements insisted we had to leave. It’s been very hard, since most of us got little sleep for worrying about little Ruth and then listening to Florence Buettner’s bitter weeping from 4:00 a.m. until the girl was buried. Florence had only a half hour to sit by her daughter’s grave, then had to be dragged away sobbing wretchedly because we had to go. I pray for her tortured heart, and I beg God to please never let me have to face such a loss myself. Little Sophie is all I have, and it was my decision to make this trip. I could never live with the guilt if something happened to her.
She felt sick at the memory of the burial, poor Mrs. Buettner having to leave that little grave behind, never to see or visit it again. Michael, of course, read from the Bible and prayed, and he assured Florence that Ruth was not in the ground at all. She was sitting at the feet of the Lord, and her spirit would alw
ays be with Florence.
Clarissa shuddered at the memory of Florence’s tirade against Dawson Clements as she fought those who pulled her from the grave site. She screamed that he was a cruel, heartless man for making her leave so soon. Then she shouted that Ruth’s death was his fault. She claimed he should have warned them not to let the girls play under the wagon. Everyone knew it was just a grieving mother lashing out, but the look on Dawson’s face was one of total devastation, a reflection of something that surely went deeper than Florence’s accusation.
“Let’s move!”
The words came from Dawson, who rode up and down the line of wagons, ordering them to get going again.
“We’ll travel till dark this time.”
Clarissa heard his horse ride past her wagon. She put away her diary and climbed out, her back and legs aching. Even though she’d grown more accustomed to the walking, this was the first day they’d encountered so many hills. So much climbing was a new exertion. She grimaced when she picked up Sophie to put her in Carolyn’s wagon. She gave the child a hug and kiss first, hardly able to hug her enough since watching little Ruth being put into the ground.
Carolyn walked up beside her then, lifting Lena into the wagon. “I can’t get over the sight of that lonely little grave,” she told Clarissa. “Poor Mrs. Buettner. Michael tried talking to her a little while ago, but she just sits in their wagon and stares.”
Clarissa looked up at her friend, whose brown eyes reflected her own grief. “I can’t imagine losing Sophie or Lena like that,” she told Carolyn. “But for Mrs. Buettner to blame Mr. Clements—” She shook her head. “Did you see the look on his face?”
“Yes. It was like he took her words to heart. Michael says it’s natural for someone who’s lost a loved one to try to blame someone else. Everybody knows this wasn’t Mr. Clements’s fault.”
“Mommy, is Wooth all bettoo now?”
Clarissa turned to see Sophie and Lena both watching them with wonder in their eyes.
“Did Mrs. Buettner stop crying yet?” Lena asked.
Clarissa thought that the girls understood Ruth had been in the little homemade box that was buried this morning, but apparently neither girl grasped what had really happened.
“Ruth went to heaven to be with God,” Carolyn told the girls. “Remember? I told you that He made her better, but she’s going to stay with Him. She won’t be back. That made Mrs. Buettner sad, but she understands that Ruth would rather be with Jesus now. Her mama will stop crying after a while.”
They turned when Dawson rode back in their direction. “Let’s get going, ladies. You can finish your visiting tonight.”
“We’ll be too sore and tired by then,” Clarissa answered with a smile, hoping to wrestle a smile out of the man in return, but to no avail.
“If you want to get where you’re going before the snow flies in the mountains, you’ll have to put up with the hardships getting there,” he answered coldly before riding off.
Clarissa looked at Carolyn. “I think he was referring more to burying loved ones than being tired and sore,” she commented.
Carolyn nodded. “Let’s just pray neither of us has to leave a little grave behind at any time on this trip, and that Mr. Clements gets over this himself.” She gave Clarissa a hug and walked around to the front of her wagon to switch her oxen into motion. Clarissa did the same, and for the next several hours she forced her aching legs to keep moving, up and down more hills, climbing into the wagon seat and shouting and switching the oxen to get them to wade through yet another cold, deep creek.
Up and down the line of wagons, others shouted, and those leading cattle whistled and yelled. Wagon wheels creaked, cattle bellowed, horses whinnied, oxen snorted and the rooster atop Clarissa’s wagon crowed once every couple of minutes. Everyone could hear Florence Buettner crying. The woman had insisted on staying out of sight inside the wagon, even though it caused more weight for the oxen that pulled it. She kept her other two children in there with her, and Clarissa thought how hard this must be on those little ones to know their little sister was gone and their mother was so horribly sad.
A pall of grief hung over all the emigrants, and Clarissa suspected each one of them was wondering if they would in turn have to bury any of their loved ones on this journey. What started out as an exciting adventure with minor hardship was beginning to turn into a long journey through an unforgiving land, with civilization falling farther and farther behind them.
By the time they circled the wagons for the night, the sun had nearly disappeared beyond the western horizon and there was barely enough light left by which to unhitch the teams. The girls had played hard jumping around inside Carolyn’s wagon, and a couple of times they got out and walked and ran beside their mothers because they were bored. Because of that, both the children had already fallen asleep by the time they stopped to make camp, and the women decided not to wake them.
“I’ll find a way to make room for myself,” Carolyn told Clarissa. “I don’t want them in there alone all night. If Sophie wakes up and wants you, I’ll bring her over.”
“Thank you, Carolyn, and let’s not cook tonight,” Clarissa suggested. “I’m too tired to even eat, but I know I should eat something. Let’s heat coffee and just eat cold biscuits and dig some ham out of the larder.”
Carolyn looked at Michael. “Is that all right with you, dear? If you’d rather have a full meal—”
“Ham and biscuits is fine,” Michael told her. With a groan of exhaustion he sat down on a crate, making a remark about his weary bones. Clarissa knew his heart was heavy for Florence Buettner.
The women built a fire and heated coffee, day-old biscuits and some ham, all of them gobbling down their food quickly, anxious to go to bed. The women cleaned up and set the coffee away from the fire so it would not boil away overnight. There was enough left to heat in the morning.
Clarissa walked to her wagon and climbed inside, half falling into the feather mattress centered amid crates and trunks and sacks of food. She decided she would not even put on a nightgown. She was simply too tired, as much from the grief she’d experienced the night before and all day today as from the long walk.
“Mrs. Graham?”
Puzzled, Clarissa sat up and pulled aside the canvas at the back of the wagon. Dawson Clements stood there. “What is it, Mr. Clements? You said you wouldn’t come to my wagon at night anymore.”
“I know,” he answered softly. “Just don’t light a lantern.”
“You haven’t been drinking again, have you?”
“No, ma’am, although I find it very tempting, the way I’m feeling.” He moved closer, resting his forearms on the top of the wagon gate so he could quietly talk directly inside the wagon. “I, uh, I’d like to ask you something.”
Clarissa scooted closer, a little angry with Clements for seeking her out this way again just when she’d decided she was better off not giving him another thought. “Well, I may not have the answer, Mr. Clements, but I’m willing to listen.”
He sighed with hesitation before continuing. “Do you think that little girl’s death was my fault?”
Clarissa was flabbergasted at the question and the fact that he cared what she alone thought. “Of course not! And neither does anyone else, Mr. Clements. Mrs. Buettner is a grieving mother who wants to blame someone for her child’s death. It’s a way of trying to make ourselves feel better. I have a feeling she’s just trying to avoid her own guilt for letting Ruth play unsupervised. In fact, I feel the same way. I should have been watching my baby girl more closely instead of dancing with Eric Buettner. That will never happen again.”
“Which one? Not watching your little girl closely, or dancing with Eric Buettner?” he asked.
The question embarrassed her, and she was glad for the darkness, but she also saw the humor in the remark. “Both,” she told him. She could feel him smiling then.
“I’m glad.”
“Glad I don’t blame you for Ruth’s death, or gla
d I won’t dance with Eric Buettner again?”
“Both,” he said, joining in the teasing.
Clarissa was rather stunned at the answer. Was the man saying he was interested in her and didn’t want her looking at another man? She wished he would explain himself so her emotions wouldn’t be tossed in every direction every time he talked to her. “Why did you think I would blame you for Ruth’s death?” she asked, deciding it’d be better to get off the subject of who she might dance with.
He paused a moment before answering. “It’s a long story, but I was raised believing I was responsible for the deaths of my own parents. It’s a horrible guilt to live with.”
“Who on earth told you their deaths were your fault? How did they die?”
“In a fire. I started it accidentally, playing downstairs while they slept. I was eight years old. I ran out, scared, thinking they’d hear the noise and smell the smoke and get out by themselves.” He swallowed before continuing. “They never came through the door. By the time I realized they needed help, the flames were too hot for me to go back inside. I just stood there in shock and watched the house burn down. I never heard a sound out of either of them. A neighbor found me standing there watching, and when I broke down sobbing that I had accidentally started the fire, he decided I was evil and must have set it on purpose. No one would have anything to do with me after that except a preacher who took me in—out of the kindness of his heart, he told others. But there was nothing kind about the man. He beat me regularly with a wide belt, saying that was the only way to beat the devil out of me.”
“That’s terrible! Surely you don’t really believe it was your fault!”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he said, his voice now strained. “I only know that my life has been miserable since the night of that fire. I ran away at thirteen and joined the army because I didn’t have any place else to go. I needed a bed to sleep in and food in my stomach. The army gave me both, certainly not the best, but I survived. Since then things have happened that make me wonder if I truly am cursed and if it’s really true I can never be forgiven for that fire.”
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