Free Walk by Faith by Rosanne Bittner Page A

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.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œCan’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.”
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œHad 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.”
    â€œYes, sir, it sure is beautiful