The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  On 18 June 1846, Colonel William H. Russell did resign as captain, and it appears that Lilburn W. Boggs became the company’s leader (see What I Saw,p. 96). Boggs eventually split off from the Donners and went to California by a different route, and thus did not participate in the tragedy that took place in the Sierra.

  Chapter 2

  The two hired buffalo hunters left immediately after breakfast, taking along more than half a dozen others of those they considered to be “acceptable” for their hunting party. James Reed was invited but begged off, admitting that he and a small party would be hunting on their own. That brought a disdainful laugh from the designated hunters, and they rode off still chuckling at his naivete. Reed’s expression was bemused and he said nothing as he watched them ride away, but the moment they were all but out of sight he got to his feet. “Peter. Get the horses.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Reed.”

  Hiram Miller and Milt Elliott were waiting behind the last of Reed’s wagons. They were already mounted and had Peter’s horse and Glaucus. Peter took the reins and they moved forward. Milt Elliott, like Peter, was one of Reed’s hired drivers. Hiram Miller was a Donner teamster but had been a longtime friend of Reed’s back in Springfield.

  As they returned, Peter saw Margret Reed standing close to her husband, speaking in a low voice. Peter and the others stopped, not wanting to interfere, but Reed motioned them forward.

  “It will be all right, Mrs. Reed,” he said, addressing her more formally as he usually did when there were others nearby. “Glaucus will serve me well.”

  She glanced quickly at the three who now stood just beyond them. “Yes, I know, James,” she said, “but they say the bulls will charge without provocation. Tamsen Donner said she heard that a bull charged a wagon and knocked it clear over.”

  He smiled and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I seriously doubt that. And no bull, however determined, will be able to outrun Glaucus. We shall be fine. And tonight we shall have some tender buffalo veal for dinner.”

  She saw that there was no changing his mind and gave in. She nodded, pressed her cheek against his, and then stepped back.

  “The other hunting party is going mostly north, so we’ll ride west for a time. Just keep going and we’ll find you. I expect we’ll be back by noon.”

  “Yes, Mr. Reed,” his wife said.

  He turned back and looked at his three companions. “Do you know what those ‘perfect stars’ are calling us, boys? We’re the ‘sucker hunters.’ What say we go remove a few of those stars from off their brows?”

  Miller gave a whoop and Milt Elliott uttered an oath. As Reed swung up in the saddle, Peter walked over to Kathryn, the horse trailing behind him. He touched her cheek briefly with his free hand. “We’ll be back before long.”

  Her eyes were large and pleading. “Be careful, Peter.”

  “Me?” he said gruffly. “You’re worried about the world’s most accomplished buffalo hunter? I find that difficult to comprehend.”

  She laughed and gave him a gentle shove. “Go, brave hunter,” she said, shaking her head. “Just don’t fall off your horse.”

  After crossing the river, Reed turned immediately west. He wanted to be completely clear of the other hunting party so that they could in no way take credit for his planned triumph. He and his companions had the horses at a steady, mile-eating walk, wanting to save their running strength for when it would be needed most.

  “Is it true, Mr. Reed,” Milt Elliott asked, “that you can’t kill a buffalo by shooting it in the head?”

  “That’s what they say,” came the reply. “They claim that the hair on the front lock of a buffalo bull is so shaggy and so matted that you can shoot a ball at five or six paces and it will merely bounce off.” He was clearly warming to the subject. “While we were in Independence I spoke with some professional hunters. Allowing for exaggeration, I still think it is safe to say that the buffalo is a difficult animal to kill.”

  “They say they weigh about a ton,” Miller piped in.

  “More like seventeen or eighteen hundred pounds. They say there are only two ways to ‘throw a buffalo in his tracks’—that means bringing him down with one clean shot. Either you have to cut his spine with your ball—a very difficult thing to do—or you aim a few inches above the brisket. Only then will you pierce his vitals. Even if you hit his lungs, he may run another mile or two.” He slapped the horn of his saddle with delight. “That’s what makes the hunt so exhilarating. Experienced hunters claim buffalo hunting is the finest sport in the world.”

  They rode on easily, talking through the dangers and the possibilities and savoring the expected triumphs. They had come about four miles, angling away from the river until it was no longer in sight. As they crested a gentle rise, they saw them, a large black splotch against the green expanse of prairie about a mile ahead.

  Reed went up in his stirrups, squinting. “I count about thirty bulls, twice that many cows, and a lot of calves.” A wide grin split his face. “What say, boys? Are you game?”

  “Yes!” Miller and Elliott exclaimed. Peter nodded, but without the same enthusiasm.

  As they moved slowly forward, each man began to check his weapons. Reed carried two heavy Craddock’s pistols, plus a rifle in a scabbard. Miller and Elliott both had breech-loading Remington rifles. Peter carried an older-model pistol Reed had bought for him back in Springfield. Peter checked the cylinder quickly, seeing that all the chambers were loaded. He decided this wasn’t the time to remind his boss that as yet he had never fired the gun and wasn’t sure he could remember the instructions Reed had given him about how to do so.

  Reed flashed a huge smile. “Okay, boys, let’s see what us ‘sucker hunters’ can do.”

  They moved ahead at a steady walk, no longer talking. At about five hundred yards, the first bull lifted its head and turned in their direction. After a moment, the others did the same. Reed slowed them even more, fingers to his lips. At three hundred yards, the buffalo began to edge away from them. The sound of the animals’ snorting carried clearly to the hunters now. What fascinated Peter was how the bulls moved to encircle the cows and calves. Like huge, shaggy watchmen, they formed a rough barrier around their charges.

  Suddenly, at just over two hundred yards, the herd bolted. Off they went in a cloud of dust and flying clods of dirt, their hoofbeats rumbling like distant thunder. “Here we go, boys,” Reed shouted, digging his heels into Glaucus’s flanks. The thoroughbred leaped forward like a rock shot from a sling. Peter and the other two spurred after him, Miller and Elliott cutting to the right to try and head the herd off. Peter decided his safest bet was to stay close to his employer and learn from the master.

  As they drew up on them, the herd was running hard now, the bulls driving the cows and calves with grunts and bellows. With a shout, all four men gave the horses their heads and plunged into the herd. As they did so, Peter had three simultaneous perceptions pop into his head. The first was the thickness of the dust. Instantly he was enveloped in a blinding cloud. He tried to pull the bandanna up and over his mouth and nose, but the horse was running so hard that he didn’t dare let go of the reins. Second was the sudden keen awareness of the thundering danger on every side of him. The dark bulk of rushing animals appeared and disappeared in the murk. A cow cut suddenly left, trying to escape Reed’s pursuit and nearly crashed into Peter’s horse. Ahead a huge dark shape whirled and charged, deciding that attack was the best defense against the predators. Peter’s horse saved him. It sidestepped quickly and the old bull lumbered past them, no more than two feet away from Peter’s leg. With unbelievable clarity Peter suddenly understood that this was not child’s play. It was an extremely dangerous game they were playing.

  And with that realization came the third perception, and that was the sheer, intoxicating exhilaration of the hunt. The noise roared in his ears. Clods of dirt peppered his face. He was choking on the dust. But this was like nothing else he had ever experienced. Without conscious though
t he clamped his legs more tightly against his horse, guiding it with a nudge this way or that. Off to his left he saw Elliott or Miller—he wasn’t sure which—coming in fast, stretched forward over the saddle, rifle up and aiming. There was a puff of smoke, followed by the sound of the gunshot. Then he remembered his own pistol. He drew it out. “H’yah!” he shouted, kicking his heels into the horse’s flanks and causing it to leap forward.

  Reed had said that the meat of the buffalo cow was much more succulent and tender than that of the bulls. A cow was directly ahead of Peter, running at full speed, darting first one way and then another. He turned his horse in her direction. He too leaned forward, hugging the horse’s neck. “Go, boy! Go!”

  In a moment they were alongside. Her eyes were wild, and flecks of foam flew from her mouth. Peter raised his arm, took aim at the center of the great mass—now no more than five feet away—and fired. The pistol bucked in his hand, and there was a momentary impression of a red splotch in the dark fur. The cow grunted and veered away, running all the harder. Shoot for the vitals.Reed’s words flashed through his mind. He cocked the hammer back again, bringing the cylinder with a fresh bullet beneath the firing pin. Yelling and shouting, barely conscious that he was doing so, he drove alongside the animal again. This time he leaned over so that the muzzle of the pistol was only three feet away from the animal’s body. Again the pistol bucked in his hand, and the explosion nearly deafened him. There was a great whooshfrom the animal’s mouth. Her front legs buckled beneath her, and down she went, plowing up grass and dust like an overturned freight wagon.

  Peter shot away from her, and it took him a second or two to grope for the reins and wheel his horse around. He couldn’t believe it. There lay his quarry, hind legs twitching convulsively, eyes rolling in its final death struggles.

  Breathing hard, he reined in again, taking in the scene around him. Ahead the prairie was a wheeling, churning mass of dust and brute beast. He could see the two teamsters spurring hard to get out ahead of a large group. There was another rifle shot, but he couldn’t see through the dust who had done it. Then suddenly there was another dark shape down and kicking. He looked around for Reed but couldn’t see him. Then he noticed a cloud of dust coming from behind a slight rise in the prairie.

  As Peter came to the top of the rise, he pulled up. Just below him was a remarkable sight. About a quarter of the herd had come to a halt in the confines of a gentle gully. Half a dozen bulls had decided they couldn’t outrun their four-legged pursuers and had stopped to fight, just as they would do if a pack of wolves ran them to ground. The cows and calves milled wildly, bawling and snorting. The bulls formed a half circle around them, shoulder to shoulder, placing themselves squarely between their charges and their enemy—the honorable James F. Reed astride his blooded mare Glaucus.

  Reed had promised his wife buffalo veal for dinner tonight, and that meant he had to take one of the calves. He started in, trying to get around the bulls, but they whirled as if directed by a single head. Reed darted in another direction, Glaucus responding to his urgings. Again they wheeled and blocked his access to the herd.

  “Go get ’em!” Peter yelled, sensing that this was his employer’s moment and that he didn’t want help. Reed lifted his head and waved, then tried again. This time he spurred hard, racing around the wall of protection, and succeeded in cutting a yearling calf away from its mother. Reed shouted, sending the young animal spurting off in panic. Away they went, only again the bulls were not to be denied their role as protectors. Three of them—one a huge old monster with patches of shaggy hair across his massive shoulders—lunged forward with incredible speed. Up and over the other side of the gully they went, cutting in between the yearling and the hunter.

  Peter gave spur to his own horse, wanting to see how this turned out. Stretched out in a full lope, he came up the other side of the hill in time to see that Reed had managed to outrun two of the bulls, but the old monster still ran hard between Glaucus and the yearling, cheating Reed of the shot he wanted. They were wheeling in a large circle as the contest of wills went on, and in a few moments they were headed back in Peter’s direction. He reined in, realizing he had the perfect seat for watching the unfolding drama.

  Reed raced forward, trying to cut in between the yearling and the bull. In a sudden burst of speed, the bull nearly drove his horns into Glaucus’s belly. Reed fell back for a moment, then shot forward again, trying to come in from the other side. In an instant the bull had changed positions and blocked him again. Peter laughed in delight. He was now cheering for the bull.

  Seeing that he couldn’t win this one, Reed raised one of the Craddock’s and, as the old bull charged him again, placed a carefully aimed shot into the great hump of flesh. At first Peter thought he had missed the vital spot, but in a moment the bull faltered and slowed. Reed shouted triumphantly as he raced passed him and closed in on the yearling, lifting the other pistol. This was much easier. The yearling was tiring now. Reed moved in, took aim, and fired off one shot. The calf went down, nose plowing into the dirt, and then went end over end once before slamming to the earth and coming to a halt. Without waiting to see if it got up again, Reed turned and rode back to the massive old bull.

  Peter spurred forward and in a minute was at his employer’s side. They both dismounted, Reed reloading his pistols. “He just wouldn’t give up,” Reed gasped between breaths.

  “I saw.” Peter watched the buffalo warily, afraid that he might charge again, but the bull was mortally wounded. It stood with its feet splayed out, swaying back and forth like some great ship at anchor. Its head was down; its black tongue lolled out of the side of its mouth. Blood was coming from its nostrils and mouth. It was likely that the bullet had gone through his lungs, for there was a wheezing sound as he breathed. His body swayed from side to side more noticeably now. The great, shaggy head lifted and the animal bellowed once more in pain and rage. Then it lowered its head again and the eyes half closed. The feet spread even farther apart as the weight became too much for it to bear.

  Reed stepped forward. “I’ll finish him. No sense letting him suffer.” As he approached, one great cloven hoof pawed the ground, and the head swung back and forth ominously.

  “Watch him,” Peter called.

  Nodding, Reed moved slowly forward, poised for a charge. But the great beast had charged its last. From about ten feet away Reed raised his pistol and fired. For a moment nothing happened; then the old bull slowly sank to its knees. With one final grunt, it collapsed and rolled over onto its side. The eyes closed. The old bull was dead.

  For several moments the two men stared at the beast, a sudden sadness upon them. They had won, but it had been over a formidable enemy. Then Reed turned to Peter and smiled. “I can hardly wait to get back to camp. We’ll see who the ‘sucker hunters’ are now.”

  That night Peter found Kathryn a bathing spot. It was a place where some long-ago flood had scoured out a large pool near the bank. The water was almost three feet deep and quite still. Thick stands of willows and underbrush provided privacy. Unfortunately it was almost a full mile from where they were camped, and he was worried about how he would get Kathryn there and back. But when Mrs. Reed learned about what he had found, she told her husband that all of the women were going and to take them in a wagon. When word spread through the camp, they ended up with three wagons filled with women.

  By the time darkness settled in—even the bravest of women would never have dreamed of bathing out-of-doors in broad daylight—there were some twenty or so women and girls frolicking in the river. Several hundred yards away the men stood beside their oxen or horses, talking quietly, smoking pipes or chewing plugs of tobacco. Peter settled on a long stem of stiff prairie grass. From time to time they would stop, looking up and smiling at each other as the sounds of girlish laughter or wild squeals floated across the stillness to them. The women had chanced into paradise and romped happily and without restraint for the limited time they would have there.

>   The talk among the men was mostly about the hunt. About a dozen men had gone out with the professional hunters and brought in meat from two buffalo. When Reed announced that the four of them had killed eight, including three bulls, his triumph was complete. Now the men who had come to the river wanted every detail. Peter had to tell about the killing of the bull again and again.

  Finally about nine o’clock there was a call from the willows. They turned and saw a figure step out and wave. “James!” It was Margret Reed. “We’re ready.”

  The men moved quickly to the wagons. When they reached the stand of willows, most of the others had come out to stand beside Mrs. Reed. In the pale light of a half moon, Peter saw that each of the ladies had changed to a different dress and each carried her wet laundry over her arm. Their hair was wet and stringy, but their faces were scrubbed and glowing. They were still giggling like a group of four-year-old girls as the wagons stopped for them.

  Peter turned to his employer. “I say, Mr. Reed. Is that anyone you recognize?”

  Reed squinted in the moonlight, leaning forward, then shook his head slowly. “The one face does look familiar, but the name escapes me.”

  The women laughed merrily, then trooped around to the back of the wagons and climbed in. As Peter turned the oxen around and started back, Kathryn called out from the wagon. “Mr. Reed. Peter. We have an idea how you can both become very rich.”

  “What is it?” Reed asked.

  “Let’s stop here and build a tavern,” Margret Reed came in. “We’ll dig a large pool out back and let the river water fill it in. Then we’ll offer bathing facilities as well as a hot meal and feather beds to all the emigrant trains passing by.”

  Reed chuckled. “Now, there’s an idea for you, Peter.”

  “But the baths would be only for women,” Margret said.

  “Yes, only women,” Tamsen Donner, George’s wife, chimed in.