Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  As she did so, Milt gave Peter a startled look. The road up the hill was pretty narrow, and it wouldn’t take much to tip their wagon if they got too far to the side. Reed saw that look and swore. “Are you deaf, Milt? I said let’s go.”

  Elliott had still not fully recovered from the shame of being the one who had lost the oxen, and so without another word he turned and lifted his whip. It popped over the lead yoke. “Ho, boys! Let’s go!”

  The animals hit their yoke and the heavy wagon began to move. Snyder, seeing what was happening, started waving his arms and yelling at them, but they couldn’t distinguish his words over the sounds of the wagon and team.

  The wagon slowed as the large wheels sank into the sand. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Reed shouted at Elliott. “We’ll never get them going again.”

  Peter looked around the wagon and saw that they were closing on John Snyder. Snyder was waving furiously now, screaming for them to stop.

  “There’s not enough room,” Peter yelled at Mr. Reed. “He’s not moving.”

  Reed leaped around Peter to see for himself. He let fly with an expletive, running forward, shouting furiously. “Give way. We’re coming through.”

  Now Snyder’s voice carried over the noise of the wagon. “You bullheaded idiot! Wait your turn.” Then when he saw they were still coming on and that he would be trapped between the oncoming oxen and his wagon, he darted forward, grabbing at the yoke of his oxen, yelling at them to move. They hit their yokes, but it was like trying to pull a barn. Nothing happened. No longer pushing Reed’s wagon but running alongside and urging the animals, Peter saw that Snyder, in a fury, was beating at the heads of his oxen with the butt of his whip to try and get them to move.

  Suddenly Peter was angry. That was no way to treat your animals. Snyder was punishing them for his own stupidity. Peter shouted and started to run forward.

  Milt Elliott, trotting alongside the oxen on their left side, saw that when the wagons came together he was going to be caught in the same squeeze that Snyder had scrambled away to avoid. He hurried around the front of the oxen to the off side, screaming profanities at Snyder. Peter darted forward, swinging around so that he could pass around the other side of Snyder’s wagon and stop the teamster from beating the oxen.

  All three men—Reed, Elliott, and Peter—reached Snyder’s wagon at the same moment. They didn’t have to look back. On its current course Reed’s family wagon was going to collide with Snyder’s. “Watch out, Milt!” Peter shouted.

  But Milt Elliott had already seen what was coming. “Gee! Gee!” he screamed, giving the oxen the command to turn to the right.

  “Not too far!” Reed shouted, running up to grab the yoke of the lead oxen and stop them from turning too sharply. “We’ll go over the side.”

  Peter’s attempt to stop Snyder was forgotten. He dropped back behind Reed’s wagon to size up the space between it and Snyder’s. The Reed wagon was turning, but it was going to be close. “More,” he yelled.

  But Elliott’s commands now created another problem. Snyder’s lashing fury had driven his oxen into a frenzy. They couldn’t move forward, but they couldn’t stand still under the beating. When they heard Elliott’s cries to turn right, they responded as well. The off ox jerked to the right just as Reed’s lead yoke came up alongside. There was a loud bawl of protest as the two teams collided and tangled up in a mass of kicking, struggling animals. Yoke locked against yoke, feet fought for the same ground, and one ox nearly stumbled.

  “Get out of there,” Snyder snarled at Reed. “Pull back. Pull back.” Then he leaped sideways and began raining blows on the heads of the Reed team, shouting, cursing, slashing downward with his whip again and again.

  Stunned at the ferocity of the teamster’s attack, Reed rushed forward, grabbing at Snyder’s arm. “What are you doing?” he yelled. “Let them alone. Let us through.”

  The teams, hopelessly entangled now, came to a stop and the Reed wagon sank down in the sand. Snyder jerked free from the older man’s grasp and stepped back, raising his whip. “Get back, Reed. Wait your turn.”

  Reed took a step toward him, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “You miserable fool. Now you’ve stopped us. If you can’t make it, then get out of the way for those who can.”

  The hand holding the whip rose high above Snyder’s head. His face was flushed and his mouth working. “I’ll teach you who can make it and who can’t.”

  Elliott and Peter started forward at the same moment. “Stop, John!” Elliott shouted.

  But James Reed was not a man lacking in courage. With a blur, his hand dropped, then swung up again. In it was the large hunting knife he kept in a scabbard at his side. “Put down the whip, John,” he exclaimed.

  “No, James.” It was Margret Reed, and it came out as a strangled cry of pure terror.

  For one long second Snyder stared at the naked blade in astonishment; then with lightning speed he lunged forward, bringing his hand downward. The butt handle of a bullwhip was usually made of a solid piece of hardwood, like oak or ash, or was made of a softer wood hollowed out so that melted lead could be poured into it. Either way it was heavy and more like a club than a handle. Reed was so startled, he didn’t even have time to step back. The butt caught him just above the left temple. He staggered back, blood gushing from a four-inch wound.

  “No!” Margret Reed hurled herself forward as Snyder raised his hand to strike again. She threw herself between her husband and his assailant. Snyder was in a black fury and barely perceived who had jumped in front of him. Down came the whip again, the butt hitting Mrs. Reed alongside the head and knocking her sprawling. Reed stared in stupefied shock. He had one hand to his head, trying to staunch the bleeding. Snyder moved in, swinging hard, and struck him twice more. The second blow knocked Reed to his knees.

  Then the rage swept over James Reed as well. With a cry of pure animal instinct, he leaped upward, diving at Snyder, the blade of the great knife flashing in the sun. His aim was true and the knife struck Snyder in the left breast, just below the collarbone.

  There was a startled, strangled “Oh!” and Snyder fell back against one of the oxen, clutching at the wound. The whip slipped from his fingers and fell to the sand. He turned, staggering away for several steps; then he sank to his knees, staring at Reed in total disbelief.

  Reed flung the knife away and took a step forward. “John?” He seemed as dazed as Snyder.

  The rest of the party, who were at the top of the hill, had started running toward the two wagons as soon as they saw what was happening. They arrived just in time to see the final blow. Patrick Breen, the Irishman, ran to Snyder and dropped to his knees, reaching out to steady him. Snyder gazed into the Irishman’s face, totally bewildered. “Uncle Patrick,” he said, struggling now to speak. “I am dead.”

  His head slowly dropped to his chest. After a moment, his eyes closed. Breen laid him down gently in the sand and took his hand. There was not a sound. No one moved. And then finally, there was a final gasp—the death rattle, as many called it—and a momentary shudder, and then the teamster’s body rolled against the big Irishman.

  Breen looked up, his eyes filled with tears and with shock. “He’s gone,” he said, his voice sounding very much like Snyder’s just a few moments before.

  Lewis Keseberg was a big man, and very German. In his early thirties, he was blond, handsome, and highly educated. He often bragged that he spoke three languages fluently. He had come from Germany only two years before and spoke with a heavy accent. He never spoke of why he had come to America and then almost immediately decided to embark on a journey such as this. Many speculated that there was something in his past that he wanted to escape.

  He was not well liked. He was loud, brash, eccentric, opinionated. Worse for a company that when traveling together was like a tiny village community, there had been strong suspicions that he beat his wife. A wagon cover offers little privacy. One night it had become so bad that James Reed had publicly rebuked him a
nd threatened him physically if it happened again. He made Keseberg walk at the rear of the company for several days.

  That had started a festering bitterness in Keseberg against the aristocratic Reed. And now finally, James Reed had done something that provided a chance to get even.

  After the tragedy, the Graves family took Snyder’s body up the hill, and then they quickly made camp. The Reeds followed, placing their wagon some thirty or forty yards away. William Eddy chose to camp with the Reeds, making a clear statement where he stood in this matter.

  The Eddy family was not part of the Reed-Donner group. A carriage maker in his late twenties, Bill Eddy was married and had two small children. He too was from Illinois, and so he had naturally drawn closer to the Reeds and the Donners than to the others. But he was not one of them, and everyone knew that. They also knew of his expertise with a firearm and that of all the company he had the greatest skills as a frontiersman. He had some rudimentary tracking skills, was an excellent hunter, and seemed able to fix about anything that got broken. His skills had served the company well many times, and he was greatly respected by all. It was therefore of great significance that he chose to bring his family with the Reeds now. The Donners were not there, of course, being a day or two ahead of the rest.

  Margret Reed, injured herself, was still in a state of shock, so plucky Virginia took scissors to her father and snipped away the hair from the three cuts, then bathed and bandaged them. That afternoon the Graveses held a funeral for John Snyder. Reed, totally shattered by what he had done, went over to Franklin Graves and tried to explain what had happened. He offered wood for a coffin. He was coldly rebuffed.

  As the evening wore on, it was clear, even though the two groups were camped some distance from each other, that the Graves family was building an emotional head of steam and wanted vengeance. The Reeds and the Eddys stayed close to their wagons, trying not to listen to the angry shouts and the wailing of the women. Reed seemed far away, so distraught that he barely noted what was going on around him. Then, on the still night air, the harsh voice of Lewis Keseberg sounded clearly.

  “Vhere is de justice?” he cried. “A man is dead. A good man. An honest man. Vhere is his murderer? He sits by his fire drinking coffee as though nothink had happened.”

  James Reed shot to his feet, but Margret grabbed his hand and pulled him down again. “No, James,” she said softly. William Eddy had also jumped up to block his way. He sat down when Reed sank back again.

  “Vhere is dis reech man who is too good to drive his own vagons? Where is dis man who is so qvick to condemn others?” He swung around and, in what looked very much like a staged maneuver, grabbed an ox yoke and held it up high. “You know what vee do vith murderers in my country? Vee hang them so dey cannot kill again.”

  In other circumstances it would have sounded so bizarre and so ridiculous that it would have brought smiles or open guffaws. No one laughed now. Beside Reed, Margret gasped and clutched at his arm. Eddy, looking grim, stood and went to the wagon. When he came back, he had his rifle and was loading it. Milt Elliott nodded and did the same.

  Peter felt like he was going to throw up. He had been no more than five feet from John Snyder when he saw the blade plunge into his body and the horrified look which crossed his face. The image was burned in his mind and against the back of his eyelids, so that every time he closed his eyes the scene unfolded again. He glanced at Reed. He wasn’t looking at anyone. But then Peter saw that Reed had sometime in the last hour strapped his pistol on. Elliott jerked his head at Peter, his eyes demanding.

  Peter’s mind was racing even as his stomach churned. Would it come to that? he wondered. Would they take up arms against each other now? But he already knew the answer. Out on the plains there were only two things that provided justice—the will of the majority and sheer firepower. Near Independence Rock one of the men in the Oregon company had killed another man. A quick trial had been held. Some argued for leniency because the man had a wife and children. The company agreed that leniency was needed, so they promised to care for the family and promptly hanged the man from a wagon tongue while his wife looked on.

  What was frightening was that with the Donners being a day or so ahead of them, James Reed did not have a majority. His other hired men were with the Donners as well. Besides his family, he had only Peter and Milt Elliott. Eddy’s siding with them helped, but those in this camp who would stand for James Reed were in a distinct minority.

  With a sigh, Peter stood up, went to his bedroll, and found the pistol that James Reed had given him back in Illinois. He came back and sat down beside the fire, feeling more ill than he had before.

  Keseberg was still on his feet, but all they heard now was the angry muttering of his audience. Then the German spun around, still holding the yoke high above his head. He strode to his wagon and in a quick movement lashed the yoke to the wagon tongue. Then he lifted the tongue until it stuck straight up in the air. “Dere!” he cried. “Dere is our gallows. Now, vhere is de murderer?”

  James Reed got to his feet again, only this time slowly, with great weariness. Margret tried to hold him down, but he shook her off. He looked at Elliott, then William Eddy, then Peter. “There’s no running from it. We have to face it.”

  They nodded, knowing the inevitability of it as well as he. What had happened today had torn the whole fabric of their company. Something had to be done, if not to mend it, then to stop it from ripping further. They were too far from civilization and in too desperate a strait to hope it would heal itself.

  Mrs. Reed stood up, but her husband turned to her and took her by the shoulders, gently, tenderly. “It will be all right, Mother,” he said softly. “You stay here with the children.”

  She sat back down slowly, then put her face in her hands and began to cry.

  As they crossed the creek, Keseberg saw them and cut off his harangue in midsentence. Everyone turned and a great silence fell over the camp. Several of them were armed as well, Peter saw. If they couldn’t settle this reasonably . . . He shuddered, not wanting to finish his thoughts on the matter.

  “Sit down, Keseberg,” Reed said flatly.

  The man reared back, starting to sputter, but then Patrick Breen turned on him too. “Sit down, Lewis.”

  And then it began. No formal meeting was called. No one asked for order. James Reed simply and with deep sorrow told in his own words what had happened. Faces went grim and eyes turned angry, but no one spoke. As soon as Reed sat down, Franklin Graves leaped to his feet. This was not a case of self-defense, he cried. Reed had been too impatient to wait his turn. When Snyder had tried to reason with him, Reed had pulled his knife in a fit of temper and stabbed him. Only then did Snyder hit Reed with the butt of his whip.

  Breen motioned to Milt Elliott, noting that he had been the closest to the event. Milt completely contradicted Graves. Midway through, as he told them how Snyder, in a rage, had struck Mrs. Reed, John Breen, Patrick’s fourteen-year-old son, leaped up, his voice so filled with anger that he could barely speak. “That is not true,” he shouted. “You are the one who started all this. John Snyder was a gentleman. He would never strike a woman.”

  Breen, who made little bones about the fact that he stood squarely against Reed on this, had nevertheless become the acknowledged judge, or at least the adjudicator. He waved his son down and turned to Peter. Peter confirmed all that Milt Elliott said and what James Reed had testified. It was not enough. Keseberg said he had seen it clearly from the top of the hill and that Reed had struck first. Others angrily blamed Elliott for not waiting his turn.

  It raged on like that for a quarter of an hour. Finally Breen raised his hands. The group fell silent. When he spoke, his Irish accent was as distinctive as Keseberg’s German one, and yet so much softer. “Shall we call for a vote?” he asked. “The question at hand is whether James Frazier Reed is guilty of murder and should be hanged.”

  There were murmurs from the larger group, and several cried out for a vo
te.

  William Eddy, rifle held easily in the crook of his arm, raised his hand. “I say that a vote is not the answer in this case. Those who are unfriendly to Mr. Reed—and I am speaking of your feelings before what happened today—outnumber those of us who take his side. If the full company were together, a vote might be appropriate.”

  “Vote! Vote!” Keseberg cried. “Hang him.”

  Reed swung around, baring his neck. “If that’s what you want,” he said hotly. “Come on, gentlemen. Here I am.”

  No one moved, and Keseberg fell back a step in the face of Reed’s daring anger.

  Eddy turned back to Patrick Breen. “We believe that Mr. Reed is totally innocent of the charge of murder. What happened today was a tragedy, a tragedy caused by hot tempers and difficult circumstances. If you vote to hang Mr. Reed, know that Mr. Elliott, Mr. Ingalls, Mr. Reed, and myself shall defend him to the death.”

  There were gasps and quick indrawn breaths. He was defying the law of the majority.

  Eddy went on calmly. “We cannot—” He stopped, waiting for every eye to turn to him. “We cannotafford any more deaths in this company. We shall need every man if we are to reach California before winter comes. Therefore, I suggest that we put this matter aside for now. Let it rest until we get to California. Then we shall have a formal trial and justice will be done.”

  “No!” A couple of the Graves men had jumped up to stand beside Keseberg. “We will not travel with a murderer. Hang him!”

  Eddy watched them for several seconds, then raised his hand again. “Feelings clearly run deep on this matter.” He glanced quickly at Reed, who stood with his head down, staring at the ground. “Therefore I suggest a compromise.” He hesitated, and finally Reed’s head came up. “I suggest that Mr. Reed be banished from the company.”

  “What?” Reed cried, his face draining of color.