Led to the Slaughter Read online

  We quickly moved on to the Donner camp, where we were told that George Donner has injured himself cutting up logs and is confined to his tent. The people in the tents seem drier than those of us in the cabins, but also colder, as their fires are outside. They had one main campfire burning in the middle of the circle of tents. A young man sat next to it, looking miserable, and it took me a moment to realize it was Jean Baptiste.

  He looked up at Bayliss and me as if he didn’t recognize us. He didn’t look emaciated, but he did look wild. His hair has grown very long and he has a beard now. His eyes were shining in the firelight, and there was no welcome in them.

  “Jean?” I said tentatively.

  “What do you want?” he growled at us. “Go away!”

  I hadn’t seen Jean since the incident with Hardkoop. I’d been disgusted with his running away and had not sought him out. I suppose I thought he’d come crawling to me with apologies. Perhaps he wasn’t as reliable as Bayliss, but I still thought of him as a friend. I could hardly believe how much he had changed.

  “What’s wrong, Jean?” I asked. “What happened to you?” Bayliss was pulling me away even as I spoke.

  “Run away, little girl,” Jean sneered. “Run away, little boy. There is nothing that can save you.”

  I was speechless. He sounded so cold, so heartless. Why would he say such things? Where was the cheerful, easygoing boy I remembered?

  “Come on!” Bayliss hissed at me. He kept his grip on me until we were out of sight of the campfire.

  “What’s happened to him?” I wondered aloud.

  Bayliss shook his head, looking grim. “There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with the whole bunch of them.”

  We trudged on in silence. I wondered whether to express the suspicions I had. I decided that Bayliss was the only one I could tell; he was the only other person who had seen the wolf that attacked Father turn into a man.

  “Did you notice anything else?” I asked.

  “Other than that everyone is suspicious and distrustful and only looking out for themselves?”

  “Have you seen John Haven or Jeremiah Stevens lately?” These were two of the Donner family’s hired hands, and it had occurred to me that I hadn’t seen either of them since we arrived at Truckee Lake.

  Bayliss frowned. “Now that you mention it, no. But then again, half the camp is staying in bed these days. They’re probably holed up in one of the tents, saving their strength.”

  Perhaps, I thought. Or perhaps they are already gone.

  Something is keeping the Germans active and healthy while the rest of us starve.

  #

  That night, I loaded Father’s rifle, though I knew that the powder might get damp and it would be better to keep it inside the sealed powder horn. I slept with the rifle at my feet, and once, after waking at the loud crack of a tree limb breaking under the weight of the snow, I found myself standing with the rifle in my hands, pointed at the entrance, before I was fully aware that I’d left my bed.

  Bayliss got up, pushed the barrel of the rifle down, and put his arms around me. I turned to him and rested my cheek against his chest. I was trembling, but the strength of his arms and the steadiness of his demeanor calmed me.

  Still, I kept the rifle near me as I went back to sleep.

  November 26, 1846

  More snow. The world now consists of snow and smoke: blinding, stinging smoke inside dark cabins, bright, freezing, spitting snow outside. We are completely out of food; the mice have all been caught, the insects in the timbers consumed. We are filthy, and though inured to the odor, I sometimes catch a whiff of how we would smell to others, and I feel ashamed.

  Mother boiled a leather backpack last night, and it was tastier and heartier than anything we have eaten for some time. It has probably occurred to all of us that we may soon have to eat the ox hides that provide shelter over our heads. It is a terrible choice, for the hides can serve as either food or protection, but not both. Hunger will win in the end. Hunger vanquishes everything, even the cold.

  Some of us have tried tasting what few plants can be found that aren’t stripped bare by the winter. The vegetation tastes bitter, and while sometimes it eases the hunger pangs, more often it causes violent diarrhea. Tree bark is even worse, and grasses seem to pass right through us. We do not have the stomachs of horses or oxen. Experimenting has turned out to be more costly than beneficial, and no one has the energy to test the plants systematically.

  Bayliss tried the leaves of one of the few bushes both big enough to still surmount the snows and to still have any growth. He got violently ill and spent two days wrapped in his blankets, getting up only to retch in the corner.

  As the days have gone by, most of us have given up eating the bitter vegetation. We stay near our fires and try not to move, and let the miserable cold and hunger cradle us. We rarely speak, much less laugh or tell stories. At times, I fear we are defeated already.

  But I still believe Father will return to fetch us. He’ll bring food and clothing and his strong spirit, and we will survive this winter.

  December 10, 1846

  It has been three weeks since I last wrote here. I have had neither the will nor the strength to write further in this diary. We have begun to consume the hides that help protect us from the weather. Even as hungry as we are, the gooey mixture is nearly impossible to eat, but eat it we must. No one would turn down bugs now, or the tails of mice, or the visceral insides of oxen.

  We have found the bones of the oxen we purchased and lost to the snows––or to some creature. The meat was stripped away. We have boiled these bones so often that they are disintegrating into the gruel and disappearing.

  There is nothing left to eat.

  We hear laughter from the Keseberg encampment, and it seems to come from a different world. One night, Bayliss and I ventured out into the dark and watched from a distance, and to our amazement, we saw men dancing in the firelight and heard them shouting.

  Bayliss was incensed and has decided to go confront the men who live around the campfire outside the Keseberg lean-to. I have begged him not to, for I fear that those men have lost their minds––and their humanity. I cannot conceive of how they remain so strong and vital when all of the rest of us are failing… unless they are no longer like the rest of us.

  CHAPTER 24

  Diary of Virginia Reed, December 15, 1846

  Bayliss is gravely injured. I cannot believe I am writing this, nor can I believe what happened. I want to hide beneath my blankets and let the world fade away. I didn’t realize, before, how much I love Bayliss. Until now, I thought of him as a gentle companion whom I cared for as a dear friend.

  He has turned into a reliable and steady man, like Father: someone who always strives to do the right thing.

  And I love him.

  Three nights ago, I moved my blankets next to his, and since then, we have spent the nights sharing each other’s warmth. Nothing improper has happened; nor could it have, for neither of us has had the strength––though Bayliss might have been willing to try.

  For a time, I managed to dissuade him from going to Keseberg’s camp. The men in the German encampment continued to raise a ruckus at night, as if they were celebrating. With every shout, I could feel Bayliss tensing.

  Last night, I woke up to find him gone. “Where’s Bayliss?” I inquired.

  Mr. Stanton rose from his corner, where he was sitting with his two Indians. “He left a short time ago. What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t answer, but hurriedly threw on the blanket I also use as a poncho and ran out. In my haste, I forgot the rifle, which seems inexplicable to me. All the times I lugged that rifle around camp, prepared for an attack, and the one time I needed it most, I left it behind!

  “I’m coming with you,” Stanton said. He motioned to the Indians to follow him.

  I followed Bayliss’s tracks in the snow. Stanton lumbered behind me, along with the two silent Indians.

 
We arrived just in time to see the fight.

  #

  Keseberg was there, egging the others on, as usual. A group of men surrounded Bayliss: Spitzer and Reinhardt, Dutch Charlie, and several of the Donner hired men. William Hook, Jacob Donner’s stepson, was on the fringes, and beside him, I was distressed to see, was Jean Baptiste, who had apparently joined the German contingent.

  Bayliss tried to leave, but Keseberg pushed him back into the center of the group. Spitzer stepped out to face him. Bayliss pulled out his knife. It was a nearly useless thing, chipped and dull, but it was all he had.

  Spitzer didn’t draw a weapon. He simply grinned, and as he grinned, his teeth began to grow and hair sprouted all over his body. He took his shirt off, and I saw that he was covered with fur, and then he removed his shoes and trousers. By then he was fully beast, as big as the wolf that had attacked Father. The muscles of his ropy limbs quivered and he snarled, dripping foam from his muzzle.

  I remembered Father facing down just such a creature. That memory gave me hope: these werewolves can be defeated. But Bayliss is a slight fellow, and has been starving like the rest of us. He has never been to war, as Father has. He’s probably never been in a fight before in his life.

  The Indians were talking in low, excited voices. Stanton seemed to understand them. “Luis and Salvador say they are Skinwalkers, evil spirits,” he said. “I believe our European ancestors would call them werewolves.”

  It was strange to hear that word spoken aloud, though I’d been thinking it for weeks, and in fact, it had crossed my mind mere moments before. How many of the others know? I wondered. And why aren’t they doing anything about it?

  But none of that mattered just then.

  The werewolf was toying with Bayliss, closing his jaws over his victim’s face, then opening them, rearing back, and howling. Bayliss’s cheeks were wet with tears, but he was stoic, refusing to cry out.

  “Help him!” I screamed at my companions.

  Stanton looked at the Indians, who shook their heads. They were very still and quiet, even more so than usual. They seemed to be blending into the darkness; in fact, they were slowly backing away.

  “I’m sorry, Virginia,” Stanton said. “I didn’t bring my gun. Even if I had, they outnumber us.”

  “You’re just going to let this happen?” I cried.

  Stanton flushed and looked at the ground. I knew I was being unfair to the old man. Of all the men in the party, only he had escaped and returned with supplies; only he had been willing to put his life at risk a second time. What I was asking was too much, but I didn’t care: I had to save Bayliss.

  “Get the others!” I insisted. “Surely there are more of us than there are of them.”

  “Perhaps,” Stanton said. “But how do we know which are which?”

  It was already too late. The Skinwalker leaped for Bayliss, who stood his ground. He raised his knife, trying to emulate Father, trying to plunge the blade into the monster’s chest.

  The knife snapped off at the handle. It had barely penetrated the creature’s fur. The Spitzer-thing landed on Bayliss, pushing him to the ground.

  I ran toward the confrontation and had nearly reached the circle of men when someone grabbed me from behind.

  “You can’t help him!” a familiar voice said in my ear. It was Jean Baptiste, his breath smelling like a charnel house, his body reeking of spoiled meat.

  I fought Jean’s restraining arms with all my strength, but I could barely budge them. He pulled me back out of the firelight, but several of the men, including Keseberg, had seen me.

  “Leave him alone!” I shouted at the top of my voice. “I will bear witness!”

  “Quiet, you fool!” Jean hissed. “They let us live because we are trapped. They want fresh meat, so they pick us off one at a time. Some of us may yet escape this fate, but you mustn’t challenge them!”

  I stopped struggling, and he let me go. I turned and slapped him as hard as I could. “Why have you joined them?” I demanded.

  He rubbed his jaw, looking wounded, though not from the blow I had inflicted. The pain in his eyes was emotional, not physical.

  “I haven’t!” he hissed loudly. “I’m trying to keep an eye on them.”

  “Then help Bayliss,” I implored. “I thought he was your friend!”

  Jean stared at me. I was asking him to risk his life for his rival. Reluctantly, he turned and started to move toward the struggling figures.

  Bayliss was trying to get up, but the creature kept casually pushing him back down and huffing into his face. Then, slowly, as Bayliss struggled to hold it off, the werewolf fastened its jaws onto its victim’s shoulder and bit down. Bayliss’s shoulder blade cracked, and he started screaming. Jean froze in his tracks. The creature seemed to be maddened by the sound, overcome with bloodlust, its eyes rolling and foam dripping from its muzzle as growled and closed its jaws more tightly.

  “Let him go, Spitzer,” Keseberg commanded.

  The werewolf ignored him at first, then shook itself and released poor Bayliss. It stood up on its hind legs and began to turn back into a man.

  “Come and get him, girl!” Keseberg shouted. “You can have him back!”

  I started toward them. Jean tried to stop me. I shook him off and marched into the center of the circle of men. They were silent, but not out of respect for my bravery, for they were leering at me as if it was all a big joke. By the time I reached him, Bayliss had risen to his knees. Without thinking, I started to lift him on the side with the wounded shoulder, and he shrieked and fell to the ground. His face turned white, and he rolled onto his side and heaved. By then, Stanton had appeared next to me, and between the two of us, we got him to his feet.

  We stumbled out of the firelight, not stopping until we reached the dubious safety of the darkness beyond. Only then did Jean come and help us.

  We started back toward our cabin. I held off speaking until we were halfway there, then couldn’t restrain myself any longer. “Why are you with them, Jean?” I demanded.

  “I need to find out what they’re up to,” he replied.

  “Aren’t you afraid of them?” I was trying to decide if his actions were the most cowardly or the most courageous I’d ever seen.

  “Afraid? You don’t know how much! But… they feed me well. They can find the dead livestock: they sniff out the bodies even though they’re buried in the snow. And I’ve discovered that there are factions among them. Some wish to feed only on animals, while Keseberg and some of the others have no qualms about eating humans––indeed, they prefer human flesh. They have hinted that they might try to turn me into one of them, but I will run away before I let that happen.”

  “Why did they let Bayliss live?” I asked, fearing the answer.

  Jean gave me a questioning look, as if to say, Haven’t you figured it out?

  Stanton spoke up. “The Indians are right. We must leave this place. I’m going to organize a party to go for help as soon as possible. It may be a forlorn hope, but we can’t simply wait to starve to death… or worse, become a meal for those creatures.”

  About then, Bayliss stopped moaning and fell unconscious. We made the rest of the trek to the cabin in silence. We carried Bayliss’s motionless body inside, and Jean turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I have to go find out what they’re planning,” he said.

  “They saw you, Jean. They know you helped us.”

  “I’ve made no secret of how I feel about you, Virginia,” he said, staring at the floor. “They won’t hurt me; they’ll just mock me for it.” Again he turned to go.

  “Jean.” He looked back. It was the first time he’d looked me full in the face since the incident with Hardkoop. “You are welcome here. You have a place to come when you need to.”

  He nodded, then ducked through the hole and went out into the darkness.

  #

  The night’s travails were not yet over. Later, as the moon dropped below
the horizon, I got out of bed. I picked up the rifle and went outside. The night was as cold as any I’ve ever endured. I heard someone stirring beside the cabin, and in the starlight, I could see that the Indians were awake and watching me.

  Near the door, there was a small stack of branches that we had gathered for firewood. I ducked down behind the woodpile, and it gave me some cover from the wind. Though I was shivering violently and my teeth were chattering, I dozed off after a time.

  The snapping of a twig woke me, and I strained to see into the darkness. A low-slung shape was moving toward the entrance of the cabin. I lifted the rifle and waited until the creature was broadside to me, then fired at it.

  It jumped into the air and ran wildly away, then turned and ran in the opposite direction, as if its body was moving without direction from its head. Then it stiffened, fell onto one side, and lay still. I walked up to it, holding my knife, though I knew if I had missed and it was only playing possum, the blade wasn’t going to do me much good.

  The pall of smoke that hung over the camp had muffled the sound of the shot, but I had little doubt that it had been heard by the Germans––the werewolf’s friends. Would they try to take revenge? Or would they consider their compatriot’s death justice for disobeying orders?

  I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to wait to be a victim. I vowed to be vigilant from that moment on, and decided to seek out the others and find out who is part of the threat and who is aware of that threat and willing to confront it. We must act; otherwise we are little more than cattle, waiting to be slaughtered.