Led to the Slaughter Read online

When I reached the body, I found a naked man lying motionless on the ground. It was Spitzer. He had come back to finish the job, as I’d expected. I had seen the creature’s reluctance to let Bayliss live.

  I sensed someone beside me and whirled with knife in hand.

  It was Luis and Salvador. They nodded to me, as usual, then went over to the body and dragged it off into the darkness. This morning, there was a fresh layer of snow and no sign that anything had happened.

  Bayliss is so still. I had to put my hand on his chest to see if his heart still beat.

  Where are you, Father? I cry out inside. Why aren’t you here?

  CHAPTER 25

  Diary of James Reed, Sutter’s Fort, October 28, 1846

  The very day I arrived at last at Sutter’s Fort, haggard, buffeted by the wind, and worn down by my fears, Charles Stanton was preparing to head back into the mountains on a rescue expedition. I wanted to join him, but I could barely stand. I had to admit to myself that I was in no shape to conduct a rescue; that indeed, I would likely end up in need of rescue myself if I attempted such a thing.

  I helped provision Stanton as much as I could. Two Indians are going with him, but other than that, he is alone. William McCutchen is still recovering from their arduous journey and cannot accompany him.

  I clasped Stanton’s hands perhaps a bit too tightly as I made him swear he would take care of my family. He little resembles the robust businessman I first met in Independence. He is raw and lean, and there is more determination in his eyes than I would have expected from him. In contrast, my companion Walter Herron, who steadfastly helped me over the mountains, has disappeared entirely. I suspect I will never see him again.

  Charles Stanton is a brave man, to return to the depredations of the Donner Party when he has no family there of his own. I am forever in his debt.

  Having secured his promise to look out for my family, I released his hands. “It is not only the cold and hunger that stalks our people,” I ventured.

  He nodded, eyes gleaming, and I could tell he knew to what I was referring. “I am returning with rifles and ammunition as well,” he said.

  Again I clasped his hands, this time in gratitude. I had the urge to embrace him, for at that moment he was as dear to me as family, but refrained.

  And with that, I saw him off.

  I have not told anyone at Sutter’s Fort about what I saw in the mountains. The everyday bustle of activity in this settlement makes what I witnessed seem an impossibility, a fever dream. They would likely think me mad, but if by some miracle they did believe me, they would assuredly be unwilling to accompany me into the wilderness. Yes, it is better to keep what I have seen to myself.

  But I know what I saw, and Stanton has confirmed it. I fear for my family, with such creatures around them.

  I am already much recovered, and hope to leave in the next few days.

  October 30, 1846

  McCutchen has recovered enough to accompany me. I say recovered, though in truth we both look like skeletons with a thin layer of skin stretched over our bones, but food and two days’ rest have put me back on my feet, and I cannot sit idle while my family suffers.

  We managed to find three mules for sale and weighed them down with supplies before setting forth. The trek up the western slopes was almost easy. It is a much gentler incline than the other side of the Sierra. Near the summit, we encountered snowdrifts that were beyond our ability to push through. We went around them where we could, but a few hundred yards from the summit, we found that the snow was equally deep in all directions.

  We have fallen back and made camp, and will make another attempt tomorrow.

  November 1, 1846

  It is hopeless. A snowstorm blew in overnight, so we made even less progress today than we did yesterday. We need snowshoes with which to tamp down the path; but what we truly need is more men. After only a few hundred feet, I was exhausted beyond all endurance. My heart pounded as though it longed to escape my chest.

  It was even worse when I stopped to rest; then the full toll of my futile exertions became clear. Though I am not yet an old man, I felt a tightness across my chest and a weakness in my limbs that left them shaking. McCutchen tells me my face turned bright red and I was moaning as I walked, though I was not aware of it at the time. But I was aware that my companion looked as though he was near death. He couldn’t move without grunting, as if taking each step was the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

  It is clear to me that this won’t do. It was perhaps a selfish endeavor, anyway, for we had only enough supplies to feed our own families. I hadn’t thought how that would be for all the others.

  We must have help. We need a fully manned and provisioned party that can see the rescue to completion.

  November 15, 1846

  It has taken me weeks to make any progress in assembling a rescue party. Unbeknownst to us, while our wagon train was crossing the Great Desert, America was preparing to go to war with Mexico. California is the prize, and a Colonel John C. Fremont and his men have arrived in Sutter’s Fort under the pretense of being a surveying party.

  I know that it is a pretense because I have spoken to Colonel Fremont several times in the last few days, after waiting nearly a week for him to meet with me. He knew what I would ask and was prepared to refuse me.

  I had failed to convince any of the men here to join me on my rescue mission, even though I was willing to pay them handsomely. This was incomprehensible to me until one of the teamsters took pity on me and explained that Fremont has forbidden anyone to leave the fort until the situation with Mexico is resolved. When I spoke to Colonel Fremont, it became clear that there will be no resolution without conflict. Fremont is determined to gain the California territory for the United States of America.

  Several members of the Harlan-Young wagon train, who are well acquainted with the difficulties of the journey over the Sierra Nevada, finally agreed to help me, but at the last minute, the mules and horses I purchased were requisitioned by the military.

  I stormed into Fremont’s office, brushing past a rough-looking man who moved to stop me.

  “My family is starving,” I shouted, “and you play at being a soldier!”

  “I assure you, sir,” Fremont said in a low, even voice, “I play at nothing.”

  The lack of emotion in his response drained me of mine. I saw that I could not reach him by appealing to his better nature.

  “They call you the Great Pathfinder,” I said. “What will they call you if you let an entire party of settlers starve to death without attempting to help them?”

  “I have no care for how history will regard me,” he said.

  I was speechless. I knew it wasn’t true. This man cares for nothing so much as his fame, except perhaps his fortune. This thought was a reminder to me to swallow my own pride. I tried to reason with him, then begged for his help, but he was adamant in his refusal.

  Walking away from that meeting was the lowest point of my life. I felt I had failed my family. I pictured Margret lying in the snow with Virginia and Patty in her arms and young Jimmy and Tommy at her feet. I closed my eyes and, unbidden, a vision came to me of a pack of wolves with red eyes and bloody teeth slinking toward my loved ones.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I heard a voice say.

  I turned to see the man who had tried to stop me outside Fremont’s office. He was dressed in buckskins and wore a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. He was short and weathered-looking, and his blue eyes were bright and lively. He could’ve been anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. I surmised that he was an experienced traveler and outdoorsman familiar with these western lands.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion with the colonel,” he continued.

  “Yes?”

  “If you’ll allow me to offer some advice?”

  I nodded, curious.

  “If you suggest to the colonel that you’ll convince the other settlers to join our volunteer military force, I think he might be more
agreeable to your rescue effort. Have you had military experience?

  “I fought in the Black Hawk War.”

  “I thought so,” the man said. “The colonel needs experienced men. Offer your services and see what happens.”

  “I will do so,” I replied. “I thank you, Mister…?”

  “Carson,” the man said over his shoulder as he walked away. “Kit Carson.” Then he turned back to me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t mention to the colonel that I said anything. We aren’t on the best of terms just now. He’s a great man, and I owe him my life, but he can be a stubborn cuss.”

  So it was that I joined the volunteer brigade. I was given the rank of lieutenant, for as soon as Fremont heard that I had served in the Black Hawk War, he insisted on promoting me.

  “You know Mister Abraham Lincoln, then?” he asked.

  “Very well,” I said.

  “He’s an… interesting man. Not quite committed to the cause, I believe. Are you committed to the cause, Mister Reed?”

  “If you speak of abolition, then yes, with all my heart.”

  He examined me closely, as if skeptical. Since I am not accustomed to lying, I was a little offended. Perhaps he saw that in my face, for he seemed amused. “Very well, Reed. We’ll get you your rescue party. All I ask is that you return within the month.”

  “If we haven’t succeeded in a month, sir,” I said, “then it will be too late.”

  November 20, 1846

  Good news! We have been told that there are emigrants camped at Bear Valley, on the western side of the mountains. We should reach them within a day or two. I long to see my dear wife and children. I hope that we are near the end of our travails.

  Past the accursed mountains, California is everything we were led to believe, with mild weather and fertile soil. I have already inquired about purchasing land. We can have a fulfilling life here, I believe, God willing. Soon, dear family!

  Colonel Fremont was as good as his word and outfitted us with thirty mules laden with provisions. A dozen men have agreed to accompany us: several of the Harlan-Young Party as volunteers, and three men I have hired to take care of the pack animals, as well as McCutchen and myself.

  We are well prepared, and I have every hope of success.

  November 21, 1846

  Bitter disappointment.

  Only a few hours into the trip, McCutchen informed me that six of the mules and two of the mule drivers had disappeared. Just like that, nearly a quarter of our supplies were gone.

  We reached Bear Valley only to find that the rumored survivors were a young couple, strangers to us, who had gotten separated from a larger party. They were starving, huddled under a leaky canvas lean-to, and would have died without our help. We left them with provisions and a mule and pushed on.

  The others are losing faith already. I am not listening to their complaints, but continuing forward and upward. The others have fallen behind, floundering in the deep snows, but McCutchen and I loaded what we could into our backpacks and continued on to the Yuba Bottoms.

  We are a mere ten miles from the summit. We will make a final push tomorrow.

  December 2, 1846

  I have not had the heart to write further in this diary until now. I fear that my family may already be lost. I will not stop until I reach them, but it appears that the Fates are conspiring against me.

  William McCutchen and I tried to reach the pass from the Yuba Bottoms, but went barely a mile before we realized it was impossible.

  In my despair, I tried to go on anyway, which would have been the end of me. McCutchen grabbed me and held me down until I came to my senses and agreed to turn back.

  We returned to Bear Valley to find that the rest of our party had already departed for Sutter’s Fort. It seems that while others may want to help, only those of us with loved ones in jeopardy are willing to risk our lives––save for Charles Stanton, God bless him.

  When we reached the fort, we discovered that everyone’s attention has been turned to a new danger.

  The citizens of the Sacramento Valley in are a state of anticipation. Talk of war is everywhere. Fremont immediately requisitioned the horses and mules we’d taken and insisted that we fulfill our promise to join his expeditionary force. He expressed no concern for the lost Donner Party.

  I will keep my word to him, for it is clear that I will have no help until this crisis is resolved. I hope that my efforts will be rewarded. I reject the nightmares that come to me. I think of Virginia––that indomitable little girl––and envision her as the protector of my dear wife and my younger children. She will fight to the end, I know. How I wish I was there to fight in her stead!

  CHAPTER 26

  Diary of Virginia Reed, December 18, 1846

  This morning, we found Bayliss naked and rolling around on the cold dirt of the cabin floor, having thrown off his blankets. He was feverish, the bite mark on his shoulder festering and oozing yellow pus. All of us were disturbed by the crude animal grunts we heard emanating from him in his fever. I couldn’t wake him enough to give him water, but I dribbled some into his mouth and he gulped it unconsciously.

  Stanton and the two Indians had an argument in the afternoon, and though I couldn’t overhear everything, it was clear that the Indians were insisting that Bayliss be put out of his misery, as if he were a sick ox. I saw Salvador make a savage sawing motion with one hand.

  “I will not do anything so barbaric!” Stanton shouted, then flinched when he realized everyone in the cabin was listening.

  “What are they saying?” I asked him.

  “They say Bayliss will turn into one of them––a Skinwalker.”

  I realized as he said it that I already knew; that I’d feared just such a thing from the moment I saw the bite marks. “What do they suggest we do?”

  “They insist we must kill him and cut off… ” Stanton broke off, his voice cracking. “What they suggest is unthinkable, and we will not do it.”

  “Are they so certain he will change?”

  “No,” Stanton said, shaking his head. “Apparently, it doesn’t always happen. Don’t worry, Virginia: we will make our best effort to keep him alive. No one is going to be killed because of superstition.”

  It is more than superstition, I thought, clutching Father’s rifle. But they will have to get by me first.

  I stayed with Bayliss through the day, and glared at Luis and Salvador every time they came inside.

  December 19, 1846

  Last night, I stayed awake and tried to soothe Bayliss with soft murmurs of friendship and love. “I’m sorry,” I said when I thought everyone was asleep. “You are a good friend, dear Bayliss, please awaken. Awaken, dear Bayliss… ”

  I saw my mother’s eyes gleaming in the firelight and knew she had overheard me. Once, she would have objected to me saying such things to a mere servant, but we are all equals now, all of us destitute and laid bare before God.

  The cabin is stultifying at the best of times, but Bayliss’s moans and thrashing have become too much for most of us to endure. Today, despite the danger, everyone left the cabin for as long as they could stand to be outside. It was better to hear the howling of the wind than to listen to Bayliss cry out again and again.

  This evening, we had enough firewood for once, as everyone returned from their wanderings with a few branches.

  December 20, 1846

  I couldn’t stay awake last night, but Stanton was at Bayliss’s side when I fell asleep and was still sitting there patiently when I woke to the sound of Bayliss’s screaming early this morning.

  This evening, as we supped on the thin soup Mother makes every night, even if it is only hot water with a few pieces of bark in it, Patty informed us that, to escape Bayliss’s screaming, she had wandered as far as the Donner camp.

  “Don’t you ever go there alone!” my mother admonished. She didn’t quite shout, for she didn’t have the energy, but she showed more emotion than I have seen from her in weeks.

  “Luis
went with me,” Patty objected.

  I waited for my mother to become even angrier at this, her second daughter wandering off in the company of an Indian, but instead it seemed to mollify her. “Don’t do it again,” Mother warned, then cleared her throat and fell silent.

  “What is the news?” I asked.

  “Mister Donner’s arm has become infected,” Patty said. “He can’t move from his bed. The others are, if anything, worse off than we are.”

  A mixture of emotions crossed my mother’s face: satisfaction that we were not the only ones suffering, quickly followed by more charitable feelings of disappointment and sadness at this news.

  In the late afternoon, Bayliss stopped moving for a time and I rushed to his side, fearing the worst. He was sleeping peacefully. His bite marks are healing and his fever is receding.

  This should have been reassuring, but when he opened his eyes, he stared at me as if he didn’t recognize me. His gaze roamed about the cabin without alighting on anything, and he didn’t say a word; then he fell into a deep slumber.

  I hope that the worst is past and that he will awake in the morning, but I wonder if he will ever again be the Bayliss I have known, or indeed, whether he will be human at all.

  December 21, 1846

  Bayliss has disappeared. I let myself fall asleep last night, though I had intended to stay awake at his side. No one saw him leave. His tracks go as far as the tree line and disappear: that is, the human tracks disappear, and animal tracks continue on.