Walk by Faith

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Never be forgiven? By God? Did the preacher tell you that?”

  “Practically every day of the five years I lived with him and his family.”

  Clarissa couldn’t help reaching out and touching his arm. “That’s not true, Mr. Clements. God is very forgiving, and no child is held accountable by God for anything he or she does before the age of twelve. Children are born naturally innocent, Mr. Clements. What happened was an accident, plain and simple, and you were only eight years old! You panicked and didn’t know what to do.”

  Compassion swept through her when he put his free hand over hers. “A lifetime of guilt is not an easy thing to get over, Mrs. Graham. What Mrs. Buettner said today didn’t help.”

  “Of course not. You need to pray about this, Mr. Clements. It’s Michael you should be talking to, not me.”

  He stiffened and let go of her hand, pulling his arm away. “No.”

  “Just because he’s a preacher? He’s a wonderful man, Mr. Clements. He’s nothing like that man who raised you. That man might have claimed to be a preacher, but I assure you, there wasn’t a Christian bone in his body, the way he treated you. And God is a forgiving God. That’s why He sent Jesus Christ to us, to die for our sins, so that by believing in Him, all sins are forgiven. You didn’t do anything wrong. You have to stop blaming yourself and letting that guilt make you so angry and impatient and frustrated with life.”

  He paused, then suddenly announced, “I have to go. Thanks for the talk, and for not blaming me for that little girl’s death. You’d better get some rest.”

  He disappeared. Clarissa peeked out from the canvas flap and couldn’t hear a sound. She sat back down, feeling terribly frustrated. She would have liked to talk to him longer about God and prayer and forgiveness. She wished he would talk to Michael, who she believed could do a much better job than she could helping a man like Dawson Clements. Now she understood why he’d insisted parents not beat their children. Now she understood why he’d lit into that man who was beating his son. Now she understood why he hated preachers and turned away from prayer and talk of God. He’d grown up believing God was unforgiving, directing preachers to beat evil children. What else had happened in his life that left him feeling so unworthy of love and forgiveness and led him to believe perhaps he truly was evil in some way?

  She lay down, realizing she’d have to tell Michael what she’d learned and ask him what she should tell Clements if he came to her again to talk. Why had he chosen her to spill out his story to? She remembered the feel of his big, strong hand over her own. The man had actually reached out to her. But why? How should she feel about that? Where was all this going, and did God have anything to do with it? Was she simply supposed to help the man find God again, or was there more to this situation? She was the last person to help someone else with their faith, when her own had been nearly destroyed when Chad left her. It had taken a long time for her to bother praying again, to trust God again. It was easy for her to tell someone else about faith and forgiveness, but what about her own faith? What about her own inability to forgive Chad?

  A coyote yipped somewhere out on the prairie, and it reminded her of how far they still had to go. Dawson Clements’s attentions were making this trip more difficult for her than all the bad weather and snakes and deep rivers could possibly make it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  May 30, 1863

  They reached the Platte with no more catastrophes, much to Dawson’s relief. Throughout the long trek he worried about how difficult the trip was becoming for Clarissa Graham, but he did not visit her again alone. He was angry with himself for going to her a second time, let alone telling her something he’d never told another person in his entire adult life.

  He couldn’t even use the excuse this time of being drunk. What was it about that woman that made her so easy to talk to? Why did he think she would understand? Maybe because, like he’d told her, they had some things in common. She knew about rejection and abandonment and the inability to trust.

  What interested him most was that what happened to her did not seem to have affected her faith in God. And now she’d planted the idea that God actually forgave a man’s sins. She’d made him realize that forgiveness was what he wanted more than anything, a way to shake the awful guilt he’d lived with his whole life, as well as his hatred of Preacher Carter and all men who professed God’s love, a love he’d doubted since his parents died in that fire.

  He’d almost reached the point of abandoning God completely, until Sergeant Bridger asked him if he believed in God and heaven. As though God Himself heard the young man, He’d apparently decided to take Bridger then and there. Dawson still felt pain at the memory of the stunning way Bridger died—smiling and talking with him one minute, dead the next. Now he wondered if God meant for him to do something special with the money he’d inherited from Sergeant Bridger. It wasn’t a huge sum, but it was enough to buy some of that land in Montana under the Homestead Act if he wanted, or to afford the equipment he’d need to look for gold.

  He didn’t deserve that money. In addition to being told he was responsible for his parents’ deaths and then the death of little Ruth, he’d felt somewhat responsible for Bridger’s death. If he’d been more alert, he might have noticed that Rebel sneaking up on them. He needed forgiving for the way he’d literally shot the face off that already-dying Confederate soldier. Ever since his parents’ deaths, he’d experienced periods of uncontrollable rage, like the day he beat the father who was hitting his son with a belt.

  All that and more were why he had no business letting himself become interested in a fine woman like Clarissa Graham. What did he know about loving a woman like that and taking care of her and a little girl? Even his Mexican wife had married him more for the prestige of marrying a gringo who could take her to America legally, than for love. Even a soldier’s life was better than the way Estella had been living when he met her while stationed in Texas. He’d taken leaves to Mexico, where he’d found Estella working her young life away in a laundry.

  He realized now that he’d married Estella more for companionship and to have a woman in his bed than out of love. Nothing in his marriage had taught him about real love and devotion—the kind of love a woman like Clarissa Graham would demand, especially after what her ex-husband had done to her.

  It seemed true happiness would forever elude him. He’d hoped he’d find it when he quit the army and headed out on his own. Maybe he’d find gold in Montana and get rich. Maybe he could buy happiness. Trouble was, he’d met Clarissa Graham, and that woman was changing all his plans. She was beautiful. She was strong. She had courage. She was alone. She cared about people. She was raising a beautiful daughter by herself. She had a way of drawing him to her without even trying. He fought that feeling as hard as he could, and again he’d stayed away from the woman since that last time he visited her and told her things he had no business telling her.

  He wanted that woman in every way he could think of. He wanted to touch her, hold her. He wanted to protect her, provide for her, be a father to that wonderful little girl. But experience told him he was a fool to be thinking such things. She probably wanted nothing to do with any man after what her husband did to her. Plus, nothing in his life had ever gone right for him. What made him think pursuing Clarissa Graham would be any different? He had no idea if she was even interested, other than to treat his wounds and maybe save his soul. If he fell in love with her, no doubt God would take her from him, too. It was time to stop fantasizing about God and forgiveness and about making a life with Clarissa Graham. He had to face reality. He was not meant to live like ordinary men. He wouldn’t even know how to live like that.

  From a high bluff he glanced back at the travelers. Clarissa looked so small, walking bravely beside those big oxen, never complaining. The man who’d left her and little Sophie should be drawn and quartered.

  Suddenly he spotted movement coming over a bluff to the left of the wagon train. Quickly he counted eight
horses, being ridden fast and hard, headed for the wagon train. He could tell from here they were white men, and instinct told him they had no good intentions in mind. He turned and whipped his horse into a hard run to summon Zeb.

  He cursed under his breath. All he’d thought about was trouble that might lie ahead. He’d given no thought to trouble that could be lurking behind them, but with the country at war, marauders, mostly Rebels, ranged everywhere in the south and the west, mostly looking for goods and supplies to furnish their men and their war efforts. At least that was their excuse, but there was no excuse for killing and pillaging innocent people.

  Suddenly he heard gunshots. He crested another rise, then spotted Zeb. He pulled the six-shooter he wore at his waist and fired it into the air. Because of the bluffs that buffered them, Zeb probably had not heard the gunshots back near the wagon train. He signaled Zeb to ride back to him, and Zeb kicked his Appaloosa into a fast run.

  “The train is being attacked,” Dawson told him. “I saw about eight men riding hard toward them.”

  “Let’s go!” Zeb said, kicking his horse into a hard gallop. “The wagons ain’t camped far from the river. Let’s ride back through the trees there so’s they don’t spot us. We’ll give them what for!”

  Dawson felt a rush of dread. Already he was attached enough to Clarissa Graham and her little girl to feel a real loss if something happened to them, and the urge to protect them surged stronger inside than any other emotion. He and Zeb charged over a hill, down the other side of it out of sight, into the trees along the river. A slight rise separated the wagon train from the river, and both men quickly dismounted and checked their ammunition as they retrieved their rifles. They scuttled up the hill and flattened themselves on the top of it.

  Below them the marauders were circling the wagons shouting orders. Dawson noticed a woman lying on the ground. Could it be Clarissa? Please, God, don’t let it be her. What had made him pray like that? He hadn’t prayed in over twenty years!

  “How’s your aim?” he asked Zeb.

  “Pretty good. I’ve shot Indians, bears and buffalo, as well as just huntin’ rabbits and such. I ain’t gonna miss and hit one of the emigrants, if that’s what you mean.”

  Dawson leveled his rifle. “Count four wagons from the left. I’ll take every bandit from there going left. You aim for the ones from there going right so we don’t waste bullets on the same men. Once we start shooting, that will draw their attention away from the travelers. That should give our people time to take cover, maybe even grab guns of their own, although I’m not so sure any of them knows much about how to use one.”

  The bandits were shouting for the emigrants to throw certain supplies out of their wagons—potatoes, flour and such, and wrap them in blankets. A couple of the children were crying, and one man screamed for them to shut up.

  Dawson took aim. “You ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Zeb also took aim with his rifle.

  “Fire,” Dawson said quietly. He pulled the trigger, and the man he’d zeroed in on fell from his horse. He hated having to shoot toward the emigrants, but they had no choice. One of Zeb’s victims also went down. Before the men could react, Dawson had shot yet another one from his horse. Zeb’s shot missed, and they heard a loud ding when the bullet hit a pan hanging on the side of a wagon.

  Women screamed and grabbed their children, ducking under wagons. One man jumped at one of the bandits but was kicked away.

  Dawson fired again, hitting that intruder. “Five left,” he told Zeb, who again fired his own gun.

  “Now there’s four,” Zeb said gleefully.

  “Let’s get out of here!” someone shouted.

  “Don’t let them get away!” Dawson told Zeb. “They might come back with even more men!” He stood up and started down the hill, Zeb on his heels. He stopped and leveled his rifle at yet another bandit, who cried out and fell from his horse when Dawson’s bullet caught him in the back.

  “Three!” Zeb yelled. He took aim and fired. A bandit fell from his horse but got up and started running. Dawson took a second shot at him, and he went down with a scream.

  The last two were now riding hard, almost out of rifle range. Zeb and Dawson both fired, and one more man went down. The last man finally disappeared over the ridge.

  Supplies were scattered everywhere. Children were crying and men and women were running around, shouting to others and asking if they were all right.

  Dawson knelt beside the woman who lay on the ground. He turned her over. It was Florence Buettner.

  He moaned, thinking of her two remaining children and her husband. Just then Haans Buettner knelt on the other side of his wife, then leaned over and broke into tears.

  “That was some shooting!” Ben Gobles exclaimed. “It’s good you two got here when you did.”

  Dawson rose. “I didn’t expect trouble to come up from behind. From now on I’ll be more diligent in keeping an eye behind us as well as ahead of us.”

  “Some leader you are!” Peter Burkette came storming forward. “We could have all been killed!”

  Dawson cast him an angry glare. “Maybe you’d like to be the one to ride at the back of this train and eat our dust, Mr. Burkette. Are you volunteering?”

  Burkette stiffened. “Well—no. I—I don’t have a horse.”

  “I can get you one!”

  “Watching out for this train is not my job, Mr. Clements.”

  “That’s right! It’s mine. And I’m doing the best I can. If you don’t want to help, then keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you!”

  “You’re doing a fine job, Mr. Clements.”

  Dawson turned to see a teary-eyed Preacher Harvey standing nearby. “That was great shooting. None of us could have done something like that.”

  Dawson stepped closer. “What is it? Has something happened to your wife or Mrs. Graham?”

  Michael swallowed. “It’s Sophie. She took a stray bullet when they first attacked us. She’s in Clare’s wagon.”

  Dawson felt as though someone had slugged him hard on his chest. He groaned. “Some of you keep an eye open in case they come back with more men,” he ordered. “They might have given up, but we can’t be sure!”

  He headed for Clarissa’s wagon, the lawyer’s words ringing in his ears. Another disaster, and maybe he was to blame.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dawson found Clarissa and Carolyn both inside Clarissa’s wagon, tending to a crying, terrified Sophie. A sniffling Lena sat at the end near the wagon seat, terror in her eyes.

  “Come on out so I can get in there,” Dawson told Carolyn. “Take Lena out of here.”

  A sobbing Clarissa looked at him with devastation in her eyes. “How did this happen? They came out of nowhere!”

  Dawson helped Carolyn down, and she hurried around to lift Lena down from the front of the wagon while Dawson climbed inside. “Zeb and I got most of them,” he told Clarissa. “One got away. I’ve told folks to circle the wagons, and Zeb rode after the one who escaped to do a little spying and see if there are more camped somewhere over the bluff.”

  Clarissa held Sophie close, a blood-soaked bandage on the girl’s left arm, a lot of the blood also staining Clarissa’s blue gingham dress. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she sobbed. “I’ve treated all kinds of wounds, but when it’s your own daughter—” She couldn’t finish.

  “I know,” Dawson answered, his heart aching for her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Graham. I was only looking ahead for trouble, not behind.”

  She shook her head. “You couldn’t have known. I’m just glad you and Zeb got here and shot most of them before they could do more harm. Poor Mrs. Buettner. I think they killed her.”

  “Let me look at Sophie’s arm.”

  “I think it’s a flesh wound. I don’t think it broke the bone, but she’s so terrified I can’t get her to let me look at it good.”

  “Sophie.” Dawson spoke her name. “It’s Mr. Clements. Can I look at your arm?”
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  “It hoots,” the girl said, her body jerking in sobs.

  “Maybe I can fix it. Remember when I kept you from getting hurt by those horses back in St. Louis? Can I help you again? If you want your arm to get all better you have to let your mommy and I bandage it better.”

  Pouting, Sophie looked at him with big blue eyes that tore at his heart.

  “I wouldn’t want to live without my Sophie,” Clarissa told him, leaning down to kiss the girl’s tears. “It will be okay, sweetie. Please let us fix your arm. We can make it feel lots better.”

  “Okay,” the girl answered in a tiny, pathetic tone that made Dawson want to hug her. In his army career he’d not had much chance to be around children, and her innocence stirred him. Being around her helped him start to believe what Clarissa had told him, that little children can’t be held responsible for things they do in total innocence. Was there really hope he could be forgiven?

  Carefully he unwrapped Sophie’s upper arm and felt along the bone. She cried harder, but she didn’t pull away. “You sure are a brave little soldier,” he told her. “I’ve seen grown men cry over a wound like this, and they wouldn’t let me touch them.” He looked at Clarissa. “I agree. It’s a flesh wound. We should wash it out with whiskey and wrap it tighter. As long as she doesn’t get infection she should be fine, except for a scar, which I hate to see on such a pretty little thing.” He sighed. “Give her to me and find some more bandages and some whiskey.”

  Clarissa met his eyes as he took Sophie. “Thank you,” she told him.

  “Don’t thank me. If I’d been more alert this wouldn’t have happened.”

  She wiped at her tears. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens to others, Mr. Clements. I don’t blame you for this.”