Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  There were grunts of agreement with Spitzer’s words. I was furious. Bayliss grabbed my arm tightly, tugging me backward. I resisted, wanting to march in and set them straight about Father, to tell them that he only wanted what was best for everyone.

  “Don’t!” Bayliss whispered in my ear, holding me by both arms now, pulling at me insistently.

  “Then we are decided,” Keseberg said. “Time to eat, boys.”

  I saw several shapes lift something from the ground and start tearing it apart. I thought I saw limbs, oddly shaped. Had they shot a deer? No one had said anything about a kill. It was impolite for them not to have offered venison for the communal meal.

  Then I caught a whiff of what they were eating and gagged. Whatever it was was long dead. Beside me, Bayliss covered his nose and mouth with one hand. We staggered away, not sure what we had just seen and heard, but unsettled by it nonetheless.

  What had we seen and heard? I wondered as we neared the safety of our own camp. Nothing, really. Nothing that can’t be explained. It had to have been the darkness, and the nervous energy from our interrupted moment of romance, that had cast things in a sinister light.

  Late that night, just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard the howl of another wolf, this one sounding even closer, as if it was staring into my tent.

  Father stirred and his hand drifted toward to his rifle, but he didn’t awaken.

  I dreamed that night of creatures that sounded like humans but were shaped like animals. I vowed to tell Father everything in the morning.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Reed family, Fort Laramie, 1846

  “Father?” I hesitated at his elbow while he hitched the oxen to the wagons.

  “Yes, Gina?” Only he called me Gina. Once Patty had called me that, and I’d nearly torn her hair out.

  “I saw something yesterday,” I began.

  “Is this another one of your tall tales, Virginia?” he asked. His using my full name was a warning that he wasn’t in the mood for tomfoolery.

  Was it a tall tale? I wondered. What did I hear, after all? I asked myself. I had simply heard the Germans making the same arguments amongst themselves that they had made in front of the rest of the party. I’d been offended by how they’d talked about Father, but I saw no point in wounding his pride further.

  The rest of what I thought I had seen and heard, the uneasy sensation that something unnatural was happening––I could not talk about that. Father would scoff. And also, I was a young girl who’d been on a moonlight walk with a boy unescorted, which I knew that Father would not approve of. Whatever I had sensed could be attributed to the wild imagination my mother was always telling me I had. My parents would say, “There goes Virginia, telling stories again.”

  “I saw a flock of crows attack a hawk,” I said.

  He nodded. “Some birds will do that, if their nest is threatened. But crows, they might do that just to be ornery.” He smiled at me, and I tried my best to summon a genuine smile in return.

  We lost another week, bogged down by the rains, before we reached Fort Laramie. It only took one wagon getting stuck in the mud to delay us all, and all too often, it was my family’s big wagon that caused the problems. Sure enough, within sight of Fort Laramie, it slid into a culvert, and it took all the able-bodied men in the wagon train to pull it out.

  Keseberg started shouting at Father, who, for once, didn’t respond, but turned his back on the German. I saw Keseberg reach out to grab Father’s shoulder, and for a moment I imagined his fingers becoming claws. Then Keseberg thought better of it and walked off.

  It seems amazing now to realize that at that point, we were only halfway to our destination. As we reached the end of our stamina and our tempers grew short, the men argued and the women watched them fearfully. All along the way, there had been rumors of shortcuts, of ways to avoid the most difficult parts of the trail. At this moment, we were most susceptible to these illusions.

  That night at the campfire, Mother sat with her head down, toying with the locket containing Frank’s hair, as she did when she was worried. “We must get there soon,” she said. The fire had died down, and I got up so I could stir the coals––and so I could get close enough to hear my parents’ quiet conversation. “Mister Hastings told us we could save time if we took his route.”

  “Yes, Margret,” Father said gently. He always talked in a low voice with Mother these days, as if afraid she would shatter if he spoke loudly. “But the route is unproven.”

  “I don’t care,” she said petulantly. She held the locket up to her lips and kissed it. It was a superstitious gesture that I noticed her making more and more often. “I want this journey to be over.”

  Father didn’t answer. I had to move away before I was noticed, but after that night, he became the strongest proponent for the shortcut.

  After a short rest in the safety of Fort Laramie, the main group of wagons went on without us while our smaller contingent decided to take the short detour southwest to Fort Bridger. We could delay the decision about which direction to go for a short time longer. It would cost us only a few days to go to Fort Bridger, and if we chose the new route, it might save us time. Or so we hoped.

  #

  After our brief dalliance, Bayliss seemed to be avoiding me. He wouldn’t meet my eyes or converse with me. I did not know if he was embarrassed, or whether he disliked me, or… I didn’t know what to think. Was he ashamed of having shown fear in front of me? Surely he didn’t think I cared that he’d been frightened, for what kind of fool would not have been?

  I spent more than one afternoon lying in the back of our wagon, dreaming of another walk with Bayliss, imagining how it would have been if we hadn’t heard that wolf howl. If only he would speak to me, or even smile in my direction. But he was usually nowhere to be seen, and when we crossed paths, he didn’t acknowledge me.

  #

  I walked beside our huge wagon most mornings, because I liked the smell of the new dawn. On our first day out of Fort Laramie, I sensed someone walking up next to me and glanced over to see that it was a handsome young man I had begun noticing a few days before.

  “My name is Jean Baptiste Trudeau,” he said, giving his name a good French twist, though I never heard him speak a word of his native tongue, and the more I spoke to him, the more his accent faded. I suppose he had hoped to intrigue me.

  Without thinking why, I looked around to see if Bayliss was near. The wagon he was driving was far ahead of us, so my conversation with Jean could not be overheard. I still felt a twinge of guilt, as if I already understood that this new boy in my life was going to be important.

  Had I been a year older, I would perhaps have flirted with Jean Baptiste––or perhaps I would have given him the cold shoulder. At thirteen years old, I was already considered a young lady, and I would soon be fourteen. But I was still young enough not to play games, and I gave him a straightforward smile. “I am Virginia Reed.

  “I know,” Jean said, then added bluntly, “We should not take this new route. You should tell your father so.”

  I could not hide a frown at this. “What do you know of it, sir?” I asked, quickening my pace and hoping he’d fall behind. “Father is an expert on the Oregon Trail.”

  “I worked for a man at Fort Laramie,” Jean said breathlessly, catching up. “A Mister Bryant. He was a reporter, and he checked out the Hastings Cutoff on horseback and found it to be unused and unusable for wagons. He said that if we stick to the regular route, it will be difficult, but if we stray from it, it will be impossible.”

  “Then why did he not speak up?” My voice was shrill with both alarm and irritation as I faced him, heedless of the rumbling wagons creeping past. “Why did he not warn us?”

  Jean stopped too, frowning. “He said he was going to leave cautionary letters. Perhaps he forgot.”

  Or someone intercepted the messages, I thought. It seemed suspicious, and for some reason, an image of Keseberg’s shrewd, calculating face poppe
d into my mind. I couldn’t imagine why he would steal the letters, but I suspected him nevertheless.

  I wished I could talk to Bayliss. I wanted to know if he had heard the same thing I had when we were hidden outside the German camp. Was it my imagination that they were trying to delay us? That the route they wanted us to take––for Father to advocate––was some kind of trap?

  But Bayliss still wasn’t speaking to me, and I couldn’t fathom why Keseberg would want such a thing.

  There was no help for it. We were on our way. No one was going to listen to a thirteen-year-old girl and a destitute orphan boy. Besides, I told myself, it will not be too late to join the regular trail even after we reach Fort Bridger. We would have gone out of our way by only a few days. I suppose that even then, I hoped the adults would make the right decision. I decided to speak with Father at the first opportunity.

  I promptly forgot that resolution, so enamored was I with this new and intriguing young man. Jean Baptiste was not as tall as Bayliss, nor as lanky, but he had fine, sharp features––a narrow nose and sharp chin––and dark brown eyes. He was the handsomest boy I had ever seen. Furthermore, he was a mature and worldly sixteen years old. We seemed to understand each other from the start, though we came from very different backgrounds. He was an orphan, and was already an experienced traveler of the West, having come from New Mexico for the trip to California.

  As Bayliss continued to ignore me, I found myself seeking out Jean Baptiste’s company more and more. We were of like mind, both seeing the world through stories. We told each other tales around the campfire at night, making each other laugh with our outrageous imaginings.

  He told wild stories about Indians and the trails out West that I suspected were fanciful, but he didn’t mean any harm by it. I liked that he told stories––it made me feel less alone, and he never shamed me for my own exaggerations.

  Three days out of Fort Laramie, the families of the wagon train decided, almost independently of one another, it seemed, to stop for a full Sunday. The weather was mild, and it appeared we were getting back on schedule. We were perhaps a little behind, but not so much so that we couldn’t catch up.

  We camped by a lake where the mosquitoes were so bad that the only relief to be found was in hiding beneath a blanket or walking until you got away from them. Jean and I found ourselves on the other side of the small lake, where we were forced to climb a hill, as the banks of the lake were impassible because of the thick bushes that grew there. For the first time in days, we were out of sight of the wagon train.

  We both stopped dead in our tracks at the same moment, staring in stunned amazement at the majestic vista before us. More than at any other time during the long journey, I had a true sense of the immensity of the wilderness. On the other side of the hill rose distant mountains, and leading up to them were dark foothills, rolling like the waves of an ocean, with huge valleys between them, each large enough for our wagon train to become lost in. There were mists in those mountains, even on this hot day. I sensed that man had never walked on some of those hills.

  As we contemplated this soaring vastness, Jean Baptiste’s hand reached out for mine, and I clasped it eagerly, my heart giving a sudden leap. We were but two small humans confronting the enormity of nature. As we continued to gaze around us, our fingers interlaced and his hand slowly squeezed mine.

  This is the moment for us, he seemed to be saying with his touch. These are the sights we must never forget.

  We heard the howls of the wolves before we saw them. There is a primitive instinct in man that knows from whence danger is approaching, and we quickly spotted the animals. They were running through the small glade below us, moving so fast through the undergrowth that I couldn’t count them. A dozen or more, I thought. They were mostly gray or brown, with a few of mixed colors. I felt an instinctive rush of fear and a desire to flee, but Jean held me still with another squeeze of his hand.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements,” he whispered. “They will leave us alone if we leave them alone.” He was trying hard to sound calm, but I heard the nervousness in his words.

  The lead wolf caught sight of us and stopped, the pack coming to a halt around it. With great casualness, the wolves sat on their haunches and gazed up at us.

  And then, from the other side of the glade, there came a lone wolf, emerging silently out of the brush. He was bigger than the others, with a solid black pelt. He stopped and bayed to get the pack’s attention.

  The lead wolf responded with a low growl and the others joined him, their fur bristling and fangs showing. Fear washed over me as I realized that nothing would stop these creatures from tearing us apart if they chose.

  The lone wolf was silent now, seeming nonchalant. He sat with his tongue lolling.

  The pack attacked en masse, no doubt expecting the stranger to run. But he leapt up and streaked toward the other wolves, and all at once he was in their midst, and their growls turned to yelps. A big gray wolf flew through the air and hit a tree. Another wolf lay unmoving on the ground, its neck at a strange angle. The pack’s swarming attack fell apart, individual wolves flying in every direction. It seemed there must be more than a single wolf battling them. The lone wolf appeared to be in several places at once, moving faster than my eyes could follow.

  The pack broke ranks and ran, until only their leader stood facing the strange wolf. He growled one last time, then lowered his head. His tail drooped and he rolled onto his back. The larger wolf trotted over and sniffed at the belly of the submissive wolf dismissively, then raised his head and howled in triumph.

  Then the lone wolf started back the way he had come. Before he left the glade, he stopped, turned, and looked directly at me. His eyes were a bright orange, almost red, and there was an almost human intelligence in them. I know you are there, the creature seemed to be saying, and I don’t care. I will attend to you later. He raised his muzzle into the air and howled, and the sound seemed to strike directly at my heart and mind, stopping both for an instant. From the distance came other howls, answering. With one last toss of his head, the wolf loped out of sight.

  We walked back to camp in silence. Jean Baptiste held my hand the whole way.

  CHAPTER 11

  Virginia Reed, Fort Bridger, 1846

  We reached Fort Bridger a few days later. There, our party had to make a final decision about which path to take. We could go back to the main route through South Pass in Wyoming and north to Fort Hall, and from there, take the well-established trail to California. This was the safer and better-known route. Or, we could take the new, unproven shortcut. On the map, the former option appeared to take us far out of our way, whereas the latter, which ran due west, looked as if it would cut weeks off our trip.

  The temptation to follow Lansford Hastings’s new route was almost irresistible.

  All the adults were on edge, so much so that the children noticed and grew subdued. It was dangerous to be traveling so late in the season, whichever trail we took. We needed to cross the mountains soon, or we would be forced to wait until spring. I suspected that most of those in the party did not have the money, supplies, or inclination to spend another season on the trail. Most felt there was no choice but to push on.

  I trusted that the adults––especially Father––would arrive at the right decision and deliver us safely to our destination.

  #

  That evening, our leaders gathered to make the final decision. The fateful meeting was held inside the walls of Fort Bridger. They called it a fort, but it was barely more than a hovel surrounded by crude mud bulwarks. It was owned by Jim Bridger and his partner, Pierre Louis Vasquez, who ran a small trading post within it.

  As he had many times before, Father spoke strongly in favor of the Hastings Cutoff. I wanted to stop him, to take him aside and tell him what I’d heard, especially when I saw Keseberg exchanging a smirk with another German, but I hesitated to interrupt Father in front of the others, especially when he was so certain of his position
.

  The argument seemed to go on forever, and my attention started to stray. I looked for Bayliss in the crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jean Baptiste caught my eye, then rolled his own in exaggerated exasperation at how long the meeting was taking.

  The adults’ discourse was insistent and intense, but as the discussion dragged on, their voices became merely a droning in my ears. Then, suddenly, some of those voices were being raised in anger, and I began to pay closer attention.

  “We should go with the others,” Hardkoop was arguing loudly. He was an older man, and his Belgian accent made it hard to understand him. He had missed the chance to join the bigger wagon train, and now he was stuck with us.

  “You old coward,” Keseberg snapped at him. “Why didn’t you leave with the others, if you wanted to go that way?”

  “You know why!” Hardkoop yelled. “I gave all my money to you. You will not give it back!”

  “I would never have agreed to carry your old carcass if I had known you were so feeble,” Keseberg growled, looming over the smaller Hardkoop as if ready to strike him down. Keseberg was a big, harsh man, and as the trip went on, he was becoming harsher.

  Father stepped between them, and Keseberg backed away. I was never so proud of Father as at that moment. He looked so tall and handsome, and had such a commanding presence compared to these petty-seeming, bickering men.

  “I believe we should take the alternate route,” Father reiterated. “Mister Hastings has promised to meet us along the trail and show us the way. We will save weeks.”

  Tamsen Donner spoke up. “I do not trust that man,” she said. “I think he’s nothing more than an adventurer.” Her husband frowned at her, but she ignored him. Several of the other women were listening and nodding silently. Her servant girl, Eliza, was sitting next to her, wide-eyed at her mistresses’ forwardness.