Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  That night, without telling anyone, Father visited the forlorn Eddy campfire and told them to take what they wanted out of our third wagon, as he intended to leave it behind the next morning.

  Our family went on with two wagons, but the very next night, as Bayliss and Father unhitched the eight oxen that pulled our giant wagon, the animals bolted and ran into the darkness. The rolling palace that Father had been so proud of, that had caused so much dissent because of its sluggishness and so much resentment over its lavishness, was left behind to rot in the salt flats. We hitched the four remaining oxen to our last, half-empty wagon, and transferred into it what possessions we still wanted to keep. It was surprising how little seemed worth hauling along. Heirlooms that had been so precious at the beginning of the journey were left by the side of the trail.

  No one cried or lamented our fate. We simply marched onward.

  Father insisted on taking another inventory of the supplies so they could be shared. Since he was one of those who had lost the most, it probably should not have been him to insist, though it needed to be done. It should have been George Donner who made that decision, but the Donner family had gone on alone and was several days ahead of us. Despite the grumbling, most everyone acceded to Father’s request.

  The Graves family had managed not to lose any of their wagons and still had most of their livestock. John Snyder, their teamster, didn’t want to help. “It’s not our fault if you folks didn’t plan well enough,” he insisted.

  I could see Father restraining his anger. “It’s no one’s fault. Some of us have had more bad luck than others.”

  “Bad luck?” Snyder snorted. “You’re the stupid bastard who convinced us to take this route. Why should I share with you?”

  “Then don’t!” Father shouted. “I neither want nor need your charity. But there are others among us who are desperate. We are companions on this journey. We must help one another.”

  “Why should I help you, Reed?” Keseberg said. “If you had made it to California with your palace wagon and your two extra wagons of supplies, were you planning to share with the rest of us?”

  “We’ll pay you back,” said Patrick Breen. He had brought seven children with him, and they had consumed his supplies like locusts. He still had his livestock, but his wagon was bare.

  The Murphy family also spoke in favor of rationing, and Keseberg and Snyder could see they were outvoted. I saw deep resentment, almost hatred, in their eyes, but they bowed to the will of the majority. That night, everyone had enough to eat. It was one of the last times that would happen.

  Finally, we reached the pitiful shade of the Ruby Mountains. We found a tepid pool of water there, and we rested by it for a time. Another couple of days was gone. We all knew we should push on, but none of us had the will or the strength. The livestock was even worse off. The animals could barely stand, and we let them wander far in search of food: too far, it turned out, because they started to disappear, and we found moccasin prints where cattle and horses should have been.

  On our second day encamped below the Ruby Mountains, Father asked Bayliss if he would go searching for our lost oxen. Then Father disappeared for a short while and came back with Jean Baptiste following sheepishly. Jean had been left behind by the Donner family to help the Murphy’s. Father was either unaware that Jean and Bayliss couldn’t stand each other, or he didn’t care.

  “I’ve asked Jean to go with you,” he said to Bayliss, who was speechless at this turn of events.

  I watched them leave the next morning, neither looking at the other––or at me, for that matter.

  When they returned the next night, Jean Baptiste and Bayliss were laughing and joking together. They’d found only our lost mule and one of the oxen, but they seemed to think this meager find was a triumph. I watched curiously as they sat near each other by the campfire that night, talking earnestly in low tones. Each of them gave me a quick glance and a shy smile. So! I thought. A conspiracy of kindness!

  The next day, we continued on with a hodgepodge of animals pulling the wagons. Our family had only four oxen left, and in front of them we put our lone surviving mule, and in front of him, the scrawny horse that Father had ridden most of the way from Independence. My pony had vanished hundreds of miles back, and no one seemed to know what had happened to him. Bayliss and Jean Baptiste took turns walking beside me, and I realized that on their little jaunt together, they had decided to call a truce, and that both of them had decided to look out for me.

  I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.

  The Ruby Mountain pass turned out to be the easiest crossing of the entire trip, though we were so tired that negotiating the simple slopes was a struggle. When we saw what awaited us on the other side, our hearts dropped. There was yet another dry, flat expanse of salt ahead.

  At the bottom of the pass, we found a worn, dried-up missive from Lansford Hastings, who informed us that we had two more days of hard travel without water, but that there were adequate provisions on the other side.

  “Adequate,” Jean snorted.

  “The old fraud isn’t even bothering to pretend anymore,” Bayliss agreed. Out of habit, he spit a meager bit of moisture onto the ground, then licked his lips as if he regretted it.

  I nodded in agreement, but there was nothing for it: the damage had been done, and we needed to move on. Soon we would be at the base of the Sierra Nevada, with one final push ahead of us. We were close to reaching our new home: the lush, rich, fertile valleys of California.

  “Who’s that?” Jean said suddenly.

  Out of the wavering horizon, two men came stumbling toward us. To everyone’s amazement, it was Charles Stanton and William Pike, though they were barely recognizable. The once stout, cheerful Stanton was gaunt and worn. Pike was as skinny as a split rail and so dark that his skin looked like cured leather. He had a dirty bandage on his arm that was stained a dark brown.

  It was August 20th. They had been missing for two weeks. We had thought them gone forever.

  We gathered together to await the two men. Stanton straightened up when he saw us and walked toward us with a rueful grin. “Bill and I have come with good advice. Best not take the shortcut.”

  No one laughed.

  CHAPTER 16

  Diary of Charles Stanton, Hastings Cutoff, August 10, 1846

  I don’t know how we got turned around. It was overcast those first few days, but even so, we should have been able to see which direction was east and which was west. Pike was feverish, so it was my fault we got lost. My only excuse was that I had my hands full trying to deal with my companion.

  It wasn’t more than a few hours after I found him that Pike began to utter strange sounds. He thought there were animals and men––they seemed to be mixed together in his mind––attacking him. He stumbled, walking into branches without seeing them and otherwise acting unaware of his surroundings, yet he went in the direction I pointed him in, so I thought it best to continue on. We were making steady progress going downhill, though the trail was harder and harder to make out.

  That night, Pike shivered and sweated, crying out with strange, animal-like grunts that sent a chill down my spine. When he started thrashing about, I wrapped him in his blankets and tied a rope around him to restrain him. Even so, between the strange noises he emitted and the fear that he would roll into the fire or get loose and wander away, I got little sleep that night. Frankly, he scared me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be unconscious in his presence.

  The next day, he was completely delirious. There was no way we could move on. As I looked around the campsite, I realized that I couldn’t even see the trail we had arrived by, much less where it went from there. In fact, I suspected there was no trail, that we’d wandered down deer paths and gullies, thinking we were getting somewhere, all the time straying farther from our path.

  That morning, when I saw the sun rise, I realized with a sinking feeling that we were on the wrong side of the mountain pass.

&
nbsp; It was getting colder every night. I doubted we could backtrack and find the others easily. I determined that rather than climb back upward blindly, it would be better to follow the stream downward and wait for the others on the other side of the pass. We had a week’s worth of provisions, and I was certain we’d be found before they ran out.

  Just to be careful, though, I starting rationing our supplies.

  Pike wasn’t eating anyway. His body was becoming thinner, all stretched out, and yet when he tossed and turned at night and I tried to restrain him, he exhibited a surprising strength.

  On the second day, his fever broke. I woke up to see him staring at me with glittering eyes. “What happened?” he asked.

  “You don’t remember?” I asked uneasily. He was aware of his surroundings, but his eyes still looked fever-bright. “You were attacked by a wolf.”

  He frowned, looking down at his bandaged arm. “A wolf? I’ve had the strangest dreams, Stanton. I was hunting with others, but I had four legs. I think… I think I was a wolf.”

  That would explain the frenzied thrashing about at night. “Can you walk?” I asked.

  “I feel strong,” he said, getting to his feet. He immediately toppled over, then looked up at me sheepishly. “My balance seems to be a bit off.”

  “Try again,” I insisted, helping him up. After a few wobbly seconds, he stood upright and took some tentative steps forward.

  “Feels so strange,” he muttered.

  I offered him some hardtack, which he tore into, then spit out.

  “Any jerky left?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, handing him a handful. I’d been saving the jerky for later, when we’d really need the strength.

  He tore into the dried meat, devouring it, though he didn’t seem to be enjoying it much. Still, after he was done, some color came back to his face and he was steadier on his legs. When I asked him if he was ready to continue, he hefted his backpack without complaint and followed me down the slope.

  “Where are we?” he asked after awhile.

  “Damned if I know,” I said. “We’re lost. Somewhere on the western side of the Wasatch Mountains.”

  “The western side?” he exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

  “Darkness and you raving out of your mind,” I answered defensively.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Where are the others?”

  “Safe, I hope.” I said. “With luck, they took the Weber Canyon route. We can find them at the bottom of the pass by going south along the base of the mountains and looking for their tracks. Two wagon trains should have left enough evidence of their passing. God help them if they chose the Hastings Cutoff.”

  “If I ever meet that man Hastings again… ” Pike muttered.

  We continued downward and reached the bottom of the pass. It grew hot during the day, though it was still freezing at night. We waited a few days beside the stream at the base of the mountains. If we left to search for Weber Canyon outlet, we’d be forced to leave the water behind, but it was becoming clear that we had to go looking.

  Before we left, we drank deeply, as much as we could hold, and filled our water bags. The cold mountain water in our bellies was almost enough to make us think we were full. That night, I divvied up the hardtack and jerky. Pike took the meat but refused the hardened cracker. “Won’t eat it,” he muttered. “Tastes like sawdust to me.”

  When I woke the next morning, Pike was nowhere to be seen. I spent the morning wavering over whether to wait for him to return or go looking for him. I followed his trail as far as I could, but his tracks disappeared after only a few hundred yards. After that, I could find only the spoor of animals, mostly deer and wolf.

  He came back around noon, walking jauntily, grinning with red-streaked teeth. His face was smeared with blood.

  “Where were you?” I asked angrily.

  “Did a little hunting,” he said, shrugging. He threw himself down on his bedroll and acted as if he was going to sleep.

  “Did you think to bring anything back?” I demanded. My stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh meat.

  He looked surprised and guilty. “It was only a jackrabbit. Not much meat on it––not enough to bring back.”

  “You ate it?” I asked, suddenly realizing what all the blood meant. “Without cooking it?”

  Again, he looked surprised. “Sure. It tasted all right raw. I was hungry.”

  “How did you catch it?” He’d left his rifle behind and his knife was on his belt, clean.

  “It was easy,” he muttered. “I ran it down. I could sense when it was going to turn… strange, now that you mention it. It must have been ill, weak or something. I had no trouble catching it.”

  I stared at him for a few more moments. The story didn’t seem to add up. I shuddered at the thought of eating an uncooked rabbit and the parasites he’d probably consumed along with the meat, and yet, I was also jealous. I’d taken care of this man for two days while he was helpless, and in return, he’d gone off and made a kill and hadn’t even bothered to share.

  “Next time tell me where you’re going,” I grumbled.

  “Sorry, Stanton,” he muttered. He sounded contrite. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  After that, we made good time. Trouble was, we were making good progress to nowhere. When we finally found the tracks out of Weber Canyon, they were weeks old. The Donner Party had obviously not gone that way. We decided to backtrack and wait for the wagons at the foot of the mountains farther to the north, near the stream.

  It was only by luck that after a few days I happened to look in the opposite direction, out over the desert, and was startled to see the Donner Party wagons receding in the distance. Somehow they had gotten past us. We headed out after them, but didn’t catch up before they started ascending the Ruby Mountain pass on the other side of the desert.

  We’d been without food for three days by then. We were forced to go back to the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains one last time. There was no way we could attempt the desert crossing without sustenance. We needed to search for food.

  We split up. I couldn’t find the spoor of a single animal. I couldn’t hear or see a bird in sight. I felt as if I was the only man alive.

  Late in the afternoon, Pike came back with a rabbit, acting as proud as if he’d bagged a grizzly bear. The rabbit was only half-consumed this time. I cooked what was left and, in gratitude, offered him another bite, but he turned it down with a sneer, as if the sight of cooked meat disgusted him.

  In the morning, I stumbled as I tried to stand up. I stood there for a few moments, wondering if my legs would support me. I staggered after Pike, who was already striding off.

  The desert was not as harsh as we expected, and we quickly reached the other side. There loomed the Ruby Mountains. I looked up at the slopes, wondering how I was going to make it over them.

  That last ascent was a blur of pain. It felt as though my muscles were being torn from my bones and my bones were shattering under the stress. I stumbled after Pike, who seemed rejuvenated. He helped me over a few of the rougher patches. As he clutched me with uncanny strength, I noticed that he had a wild, rank smell about him. I was thankful when he let me go at the top.

  The journey down the Ruby Mountains went swiftly, and at the bottom of the pass, we saw the Donner Party not far ahead of us. We finally caught up with the wagons just on the other side of the salt flats.

  #

  My relief at finding the others cleared my mind. Only when I was safe did I realize how close we’d come to perishing.

  Strangely, as my companion had recovered from his wounds, I’d felt more uneasy, not less. It was unnatural, how quickly he had healed. He still wore the bandage, but underneath it, the skin was pink and sound.

  Though Pike was healthy again, he’d scared me. He would make strange noises at night, and I would startle awake, my heart pounding, only to find that he was gone. As our rations had dwindled, he’d eaten less and less of them, yet had seemed
to gain strength as the days went on.

  I was relieved, then, not only by finding my friends, but because I was no longer alone with Bill Pike.

  Our fellow travelers were astonished to see us. I could see that they’d struggled in our absence. They shared some food with us, but it was clear that they were running low. Several of the wagons were missing, and much of the livestock. The party looked dispirited, if not quite defeated.

  The next day, we reached the Humboldt River. We had finally rejoined the regular trail, weeks late. If we had taken the long way, the established route, we’d have passed this spot long before. There wasn’t another wagon train in sight: certainly not behind us, nor could we see the dust of any ahead of us. We were alone, the last wagon train of the season.

  But just seeing the tracks and knowing others had passed this way was a relief.

  We followed the river for several days, reassured by the deep ruts of those who had been smart enough to avoid shortcuts. The greenery seemed to revive everyone’s spirits. By some miracle, we caught some fish with our crude poles, and one of the men shot a deer, so we ate well for a change.

  On the fourth day after Pike and I rejoined the group, Reed called a meeting. “We do not have enough supplies to reach California,” he said. “Someone has to go ahead and bring supplies back.”

  No one disagreed, but no one volunteered either.

  “I’ve heard that Mister Sutter is generous to pioneers,” Reed continued. “He loans them a stake for a small interest if they make it as far as his fort. I propose we send a couple of men ahead to get provisions and bring them back to us before we start the ascent.”

  No one replied. It was almost as if, because James Reed was suggesting it, no one wanted to agree.

  “It’s a good idea,” I spoke up. “I volunteer to go.”

  “You, Stanton?” Reed said doubtfully. “You’ve done quite enough, don’t you think?”

  I must have been a sorry sight, but strangely, after only a few days of rest, I was feeling strong. The slow pace of the wagon train was maddening to me, and after my experience with near starvation, I knew better than any of them how much jeopardy we were in.