Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  “What do you think, Mister Bridger?” George Donner asked. “How passable is this route?”

  Old Jim Bridger spoke up. “I think you will find it an easy trip,” the rugged-looking mountain man said. And who could doubt him? You could tell just by looking at him that he had a wealth of wilderness experience. His face was wrinkled and weathered, with lively blue eyes whose intensity was piercing when he looked at you directly.

  Of course, if any of us had thought about it, we would have realized his “fort” would make much more profit if more emigrants chose the southern route.

  “There are few hostile Indians left in the area,” he said in a cracked, dry, but confident voice. “Best of all, there is water along the way.”

  “What about the desert?” Breen asked, tension making his voice hard.

  “I admit, there are two small deserts,” Bridger said. “But you should be able to cross those in less than two days.”

  “If that is true,” said Breen, “why haven’t others taken this route before us?

  “They have,” Bridger said. “As a matter of fact, Mister Hastings left Fort Bridger with a group of forty wagons only ten days ago. You need only follow his tracks to get where you want to go.”

  Doubt still filled the air. I could see that even Father sensed that something wasn’t quite right. Bridger was making it sound too easy.

  “You will save 350 miles.” Bridger dropped the words into the ensuing silence like meat to a pack of hungry dogs.

  The men exchanged glances, and the women looked momentarily hopeful.

  “If it is so easy, why has it taken so long to be discovered?” Breen persisted, raising the question that was on everyone’s minds.

  There was some muttering at that, and the enthusiasm that had begun to build for the new route began to dissipate. Once again, it appeared as if there would be a stalemate. Without a nearly unanimous decision, we would probably turn back to the established trail. No one was fool enough to strike out on his or her own.

  It was at that moment of indecision that Charles Stanton stepped forward. He had been with the wagon train almost from the beginning, and had hired three wagons to carry goods westward. He was a prosperous businessman, plump and a little older than most of the men, but with great stamina. He was also a very thoughtful fellow, rarely expressing an opinion without strong, hard evidence to back him up, so when he spoke, the others listened.

  “My goods are growing stale on this trek; some of the merchandise is beginning to rot,” he said forcefully. “I simply cannot wait to take an extra month to get to my destination. I say we take a chance on the shortcut.”

  That seemed to sway the tide of opinion. It wasn’t long before the rest of the family groups decided to join the expedition through Hastings Cutoff.

  #

  “Well, that’s it, then,” Father announced, breaking the silence that had followed the party’s decision. “All that is left is to name our leader.” He propped a booted foot up on the log next to Tamsen Donner, who looked affronted. “What say you?” He nodded at George Donner as if expecting a show of support. His face fell when no one spoke up. There was an awkward silence.

  At this point in the journey, the party was divided into two main camps. There were the German families, who stuck together, and there was everyone else, and no clear leader had emerged.

  Outside these two groups was the Reed family. Father seemed to feel that our family was different from the others, and everyone else seemed to share that feeling––but for a different reason. There was no doubt in Father’s mind that he was the best equipped to lead. There was no doubt in anyone else’s mind that he was overbearing and overconfident. The slow progress of our giant wagon had often delayed the entire party, and more than once, some of our fellow pioneers had threatened to leave us behind. Father had antagonized too many people. I knew that he was the right man for the job, but that didn’t seem to matter. It was obvious that few would support a German leader, but neither would they pick Father.

  Finally, Jacob Donner, in his diffident way, suggested that his brother, George, should be elected leader. From the relief that swept through the others, it was clear that this was a popular choice.

  For reasons I couldn’t explain, I did not trust George Donner. He came across as good-natured and easygoing, but I saw something cold and calculating in his eyes. It was the first time I realized that people will trust the friendly more than the stalwart, the mild-mannered more than the righteous. The choice, however, was not mine to make.

  It wasn’t even put to a vote, the decision was so clear.

  Our leader having been decided by the adults, we were to leave early the next morning.

  Everyone went back to his or her own camps, resolute and hopeful now that a route had finally been decided on. When I returned to the shadows of our great coach, I found Father alone. He was eating some of the pie that Mother had managed to bake in her spare Dutch oven. She and Patty had spent hours picking bucketsful of berries in the gullies around the camp.

  Mother had gone to bed early, as usual, joined by Patty, as was her wont. Tommy and Jimmy were underfoot of the younger drivers and single men, who were drinking hard cider around their own fire. The boys had become something of a good-luck charm to them.

  Father was stirring the coals with a frown on his face, the piece of pie neglected in his hand. He glanced up and gave me a tired smile. “Hello, Gina.”

  I sat at his feet. “They are fools, Father.”

  He looked ready to deny it, then shook his head ruefully. “Being right isn’t always enough, Gina. Remember that. A pleasant and agreeable demeanor can take you much farther in this life. As you likely know by now, being spirited isn’t always appreciated either, especially in a woman.”

  He saw that I was about to take offense and quickly added, “You have a pleasant demeanor and a strong will, dear girl, which is the best combination of all. As for myself, well… I never learned to say the right things.”

  His compliments gave me a warm glow. I leaned closer to him, and he reached out and put his hand on my head. It was comforting, something I’d been missing. Sometimes I was too independent for my own good.

  “Father?” In that moment of closeness, I found myself daring to speak of my worries.

  There must have been something in my tone, because he looked me in the eye and said sternly, “Yes, Virginia?”

  “Can we not wait for another group to join?”

  “Why would we do that?” he asked.

  “I don’t trust Keseberg and the others.”

  “Don’t trust them?” he asked. “Whatever do you mean, Gina?”

  “I… I don’t think they are… quite human,” I said hesitantly.

  A look of disappointment crossed his face, which I could not bear. “I’ve tried to teach you, Virginia,” he said, and sighed. “Just because they are foreigners doesn’t mean they are not deserving of respect. It’s true that we don’t always agree; but remember, all men are equal, and should be treated equally.”

  “I mean, Father,” I persisted, “I don’t think they are men at all!”

  “Not men?” He looked at me with puzzlement, which quickly turned into exasperation. “I thought we were done with your wild flights of imagination, Virginia. You are getting much too old for that.”

  I wanted to tell him what I had seen––or what I thought I had seen––but the disappointment in his voice stopped the words on my lips. “I’m sorry, Father. They just… make me uncomfortable.”

  He softened immediately. “I understand, Virginia. They are rough men. But we couldn’t join another party even if we wanted to. I think we are the last group on the trail. We will simply have to try to get along.”

  “Yes, Father.” I was far too old to climb into his lap, as I used to do, but that didn’t keep me from longing to. Instead, I sat next to him and leaned my head against his shoulder. Sitting with him thus, I felt secure, and was almost relieved that he would not have to
be the leader of the wagon train, and could spend more time with his family. As long as Father was with us, I felt I had nothing to fear.

  I must have fallen asleep there by the campfire, leaning against him. In the morning, I found myself snug beneath my blankets, where Father must have lain me down so gently that I had not awoken.

  CHAPTER 12

  Personal notes of Jacob Donner, Secretary of the Wolfenrout, July 4, 1846

  “I hope this is the right thing to do,” George said as we walked through the camp this evening. We halted our westward progress early in the day for once, in observance of the Fourth of July holiday. Everyone was dressed in his or her best. Sweets had been extricated from traveling cases, saved by mothers and fathers for just this occasion. Some of the younger men were creating fireworks displays out of the gunpowder they carried, and the younger children ran around excitedly.

  The atmosphere was festive, but George was too worried to appreciate it.

  “You mean the detour?” I said. “We all agreed that we wanted to slow the wagon train down, and this is the best way to do it.”

  “But it is counter to what I’m trying to accomplish,” he said, sounding exasperated. “I believe that we should live in peace with humans. It seems an ill omen that we are leading them to disaster.”

  “It was the price of getting the others to go along,” I said. “If you want enough Wolfen to attend the Foregathering to make it a success, you need not only those who believe as you do, but at least a few of those who disagree as well. Otherwise, it will appear to be a scheme by one faction.”

  George stared at the ground, frowning. It was strange to behold, as he is so practiced at keeping up the appearance of amiability that I rarely see him with a downcast or disagreeable countenance. “Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps I should never have called the Foregathering of the Clans in the first place; but I saw no choice. We have to find a way to live among mankind or we will be destroyed.”

  “So why do you doubt?” I asked. It wasn’t like him to second-guess his decisions.

  “Because once you get all the Wolfen together, there is no telling what will happen,” he said. “Imagine the Americans convening a new Constitutional Convention! What a disaster that would be!”

  I laughed. It is so like George to pay such close attention to human politics. Most Wolfen barely pretend to be human, doing just enough to pass as normal folks. Many of us still think of mankind as nothing more than livestock; certainly, we have little interest in human institutions like religion or politics.

  “Perhaps I should be satisfied with the rules being voluntary,” George mused. “That’s served us well, most of the time.”

  A band of children ran between us, screaming, Wolfen and human mixed together. I saw my Mary and Isaac among them, as well as George’s girls Frances and Georgia. Some Wolfen families don’t tell their young ones what they are until they are close to their first Turning. As far as these children are concerned, they are all the same.

  I could see that George was thinking along the same lines.

  “I especially regret bringing our families,” he said. “I didn’t even tell Tamsen why we are on this trip. She believes we are simply moving to the West.”

  I, on the other hand, have discussed these matters at some length with my wife Elizabeth, who is a strong supporter of George’s views. I suspect she’d rather live as a human and never change again, if it was up to her.

  “Well, it is too late now, brother,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. But we are all of us feeling that something is amiss. For hundreds of years, we have lived by the rules of the Foregathering––well, most of us, anyway. It has never occurred to us that they could change.

  “What’s he doing?” I heard George murmur.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the giant Reed wagon. In the growing darkness, standing perfectly still, was a tall Wolfen. Crouching by the campfire in front of the wagon, cooking alone while the rest of her family enjoyed the festivities, was young Virginia Reed.

  “That’s Keseberg,” I said. The instant his name came out of my mouth, I realized what he was planning to do.

  My brother realized it as well. “Idiot,” George breathed.

  As Keseberg bent down, bunched up his muscles, and started to transform, George took off for the campfire at a near-run, speaking loudly as he went. I followed on his heels.

  “There you are!” he called out, nearly shouting.

  Keseberg froze, then faded into the shadows.

  Virginia looked up, puzzled. “Sir?”

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, young lady,” George continued, lowering his voice as he realized how loud it was. I could tell he was trying desperately to think of something to say.

  “Sir?” she repeated, even more confused.

  “Virginia… I saw your disappointment when I was elected leader of the wagon train instead of your father,” George said, gaining confidence as he went along. “I want to tell you that I think your father is a fine man and would have made a good leader.”

  She smiled brightly, though the puzzlement never completely left her eyes. “He is a good man,” she said.

  “Yes… yes, he is,” George said, running out of steam. He turned to me. “Isn’t he, Jacob?”

  “Errr… yes,” I stuttered, half alarmed and half amused at my brother’s bumbling intercession. “A fine man indeed.”

  “Well, then! Uh, that’s all I had to say… ” George trailed off. As neither of us could think of anything further to say, we turned abruptly and walked away, with Virginia Reed staring after us. My brother’s face was red, whether from embarrassment or anger, I wasn’t quite sure.

  “Where is that confounded Wolfen?” he growled. “Keseberg has gone too far.”

  Whatever Keseberg had been planning––perhaps to snatch Virginia and take her into the woods, never to be seen again––he’d apparently given up. We both knew that the German had been obsessing over the girl since she’d interrupted the Wolfenrout weeks ago. George had warned him then to leave her alone. “That’s a brave little girl,” George had said. “I don’t want her harmed.” Keseberg had just shrugged, as if it made no difference to him one way or the other.

  We found him back at the German camp, strolling along nonchalantly as if nothing had happened.

  George didn’t hesitate: he walked up to Keseberg and pushed him roughly against the back of a wagon. “I warned you, you damned fool!” he shouted. “Leave Virginia Reed alone! We need James Reed to be on our side. If he goes along with us, the whole train will follow.”

  “Who says I was going to do anything?” Keseberg said innocently.

  “I saw it in your eyes,” George growled. “It looked to me as if you were starting to Turn, and as though you didn’t care whether anyone saw you. You cannot do that, Keseberg. You must quit acting Wolfen until it is safe!”

  “Quit acting Wolfen?” Keseberg echoed. With a sardonic expression, he looked around at his followers, who were watching from the campfire. The men chuckled. “But that’s just it, Donner. That’s your problem. You’ve quit acting Wolfen. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how.”

  George snorted dismissively and turned away. One thing my brother has never lacked is confidence in his Wolfen abilities. We were walking away when Keseberg called out after him, “Donner? That’s the last time you’ll ever push me. You hear? Next time you’ll answer for it.”

  We kept walking.

  “That man almost makes me long for the old days,” George said beneath his breath. “I swear, a good old-fashioned fight to the death, and half our problems would be solved.”

  Or all of them, I thought. The problem is, I am not so sure that George can win a duel with Keseberg.

  I didn’t say that out loud, of course.

  CHAPTER 13

  Virginia Reed, Hastings Cutoff, July 15, 1846

  At first, everything seemed fine. The trail was rougher than promised, but we made good time. On some of the
steeper slopes, I had to grab at nearby branches as I lost my footing, and I was certain that the men behind me got a good look at my undergarments. I tried not to blush.

  When we reached the foothills, instead of finding an easy trail, we were forced to construct our own path over difficult and steep terrain, sometimes mere inches from steep drop-offs. We all helped pitch stones out of our path and down the mountain, and the men struggled to lever huge boulders out of the way.

  While we were thus slowed, a final group of wagons joined us, led by the Graves family, whose lead teamster was a man named John Snyder. “We were the last to leave Independence,” he declared.

  Those of us who had left late in the season looked at each other uneasily.

  “We’ll be fine as long as we get over the mountains by November,” Father said confidently. More and more, he was stepping into the leadership vacuum left by George Donner, who had grown strangely silent and withdrawn, so different from his earlier good-natured manner.

  “Then we’d best get on with it,” said Charles Stanton. “The sooner we continue, the sooner we arrive.”

  #

  I started to spend more and more of my evenings with Jean Baptiste. He was full of stories, and though many of them were questionable, it couldn’t be denied that he had traveled more widely than I. He’d been alone since he was a young boy, and he seemed much more mature than most young men I knew.

  One night, Jean and I wandered away into the woods. There, he kissed me. My first kiss! He was bold, not hesitant like Bayliss. I let his hand linger perhaps a little too long on my blossoming bosom.

  I was thrilled. Having my first real kiss was an experience I’d been longing for since we’d left Springfield. I don’t suppose I thought more of it than that: as something to experience, to savor, but not necessarily a promise of anything more. I’m not sure how Jean Baptiste or Bayliss thought of it. I suspect they had higher expectations than I.