Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  “I arranged credit at Mister Sutter’s settlement before leaving,” I said. My voice sounded more confident than I felt. “I’ll use my credit for supplies and hire some men to bring them back. All I ask is that I get repaid.”

  Everyone agreed to this plan. William McCutchen volunteered to accompany me, since Bill Pike was still recovering. I hadn’t seen Pike much after we’d rejoined the main group. He was spending his time over in the German encampment, though I’d rarely seen him socialize with them in the months before. But his had been a life-altering experience, I thought. Perhaps he was changing alliances.

  There was no doubt it was going to be a dangerous trip. There is safety in numbers, we’d been told by all the experts. That’s why the larger wagon trains had the best success. We’d been warned by Lansford Hastings before we left Fort Laramie not to wander off alone, as there were hostile Indians in the area––though a warning from Lansford Hastings had little credibility anymore.

  McCutchen and I left the next morning with two weeks’ worth of provisions. We caught up to the Donner family wagons two days later and gave them the news. They were already camped at the base of the pass. The party seemed in relatively good shape, though obviously worn out.

  When George Donner heard our plans, he gave us his blessing. Not that I would have been dissuaded from my goal in any case.

  #

  We encountered few difficulties along the way. Alarmingly, snow started falling on us about halfway up the Sierra Nevada pass, but the white flakes melted upon touching the ground.

  We were nearing the summit when I sensed someone watching us.

  Have we been followed? I wondered. I couldn’t imagine why, or by who, yet I glimpsed movement behind me. Something primitive inside me reacted as if I was being stalked. McCutchen was looking all around nervously. Silently, we checked our rifles and gave them fresh dry loads. From then on, we carried the weapons in our hands, though it was inconvenient and awkward on the steep slopes.

  Those last few nights, neither of us could sleep. When night fell, we’d build the fire high, and I swear I saw eyes gleaming from the darkness, though when I tried to focus on them, they disappeared. One night, however, I must have drowsed off, because the sound of a rifle shot took me completely by surprise. I was on my feet before I knew it, my own rifle already at my shoulder. I stared into the darkness as smoke curled out of McCutchen’s rifle barrel.

  When he lowered the gun, I saw that his face had gone white, his eyes wide with fear. “I could swear I saw… ”

  “Saw what?” I said, though I thought I knew.

  “Wolves,” McCutchen said forcefully, as if he expected me to object. “A whole pack of them. But they were not moving right, Stanton. I’m telling you: I’ve seen wolves before, and they weren’t moving right at all.”

  I didn’t answer, but he could tell I believed him.

  That was the last of my catnaps. We both stayed awake the rest of the night. McCutchen reloaded his rifle and we sat as close to the bonfire as we could as night eased into morning. We spent it staring into the darkness.

  In the first light of day, I spotted wolf tracks surrounding the site, many of them, and huge. Even stranger, we saw human tracks as well. We didn’t say anything about that to each other, because it seemed too crazy. We simply exchanged a wondering look.

  We reached the summit about midday, without further incident. It was only after we crossed that divide that I felt as though I’d reentered the real world, as if the previous months had been some kind of dream. We slept well that night. We both sensed we were safe.

  With civilization near, I vowed to waste as little time at Sutter’s Fort as possible and to return with all the supplies I could afford. Between my credit and the cash Donner and Reed had given me, I felt confident of success.

  It wasn’t until I returned that I found out that things had gone very wrong for the Donner Party.

  CHAPTER 17

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

  As I suspected, George is having difficulty keeping a majority of the Wolfenrout on his side. As we progress west, we are being joined by more of our kind, but the Wolfen who are willing to travel so far from home are turning out to be the most aggressive among us.

  My brother called the Foregathering of the Clans in hopes of strengthening the rules, of making them mandatory on pain of death. Instead, I fear the opposite will happen: that the Wolfen will renounce the rules that have kept us safe for so long.

  #

  “I don’t understand it!” George shouted at me one night, as if it was my fault. “Humans have invented a device that can communicate information with the tapping of a finger. At a time like this, these dunderheads want to rescind the rules that have kept us safe for generations!”

  “Only a few telegraph lines exist… ” I began to object.

  “It’s only a matter of time, Jacob!” he shouted. “Humans are far too clever to allow themselves become our victims––not without retaliation. Where are the wolves, the bears, and lions east of the Mississippi? When was the last time a human in England was killed by a predator? You can walk all the roads of Europe, and the most dangerous creature you will encounter is man!”

  “You needn’t shout at me, brother,” I said. “I agree with you.”

  “Even the frontiers will eventually be settled. Those Wolfen who continue to hunt humans put us all in jeopardy!”

  “Our Kind must hunt, George,” I said. “If we try to impose too many rules, they’ll be disregarded. You must give the Wolfen––and that includes us––the occasional chance to hunt and to kill.”

  George was venting to me in private as he cannot lose his temper in public, but the decision has already been made.

  After much discussion, the Wolfenrout reached a compromise. We decided we will prey upon the humans of this one wagon train while the Foregathering of the Clans is being held. George agreed, but only reluctantly, probably because he suspected he would be outvoted. If we must kill humans, then killing them while they are isolated is the best solution. We are doing everything we can to delay the wagon train, in hopes that they will get caught in the mountains when the snows come.

  I’m not certain that a vote against Keseberg and his confederates would have been honored in any event. But George has decided to try to maintain the illusion of order for as long as possible, hoping that enough moderate voices will arise in time to make a difference at the Foregathering.

  Meeting of the Wolfenrout, August 1846

  George was compelled to call for a vote of the Wolfenrout for the first time since leaving Independence. Keseberg was out of control, and we needed to reassert our authority. But I fear that even having to call for a vote is a sign that our control is slipping.

  The disagreement started over whether a couple of humans should live or die.

  “We’ve almost convinced them to take the Hastings Cutoff,” Spitzer said. “But if Stanton and Pike return with reports that the crossing is impassable, they may yet turn back.”

  “So we kill them,” Keseberg said. “Dead men tell no tales.”

  “No,” George insisted. “It is too soon to show ourselves.”

  “The others will never know.” Keseberg growled. The two men glared at each other, and in my mind’s eye I saw them in wolf form, hackles raised, lips snarling.

  “I think we can confuse them,” I offered. “We can trick them into taking the wrong route, make sure they don’t get back in time to warn the others.”

  “That’s good,” George agreed. “We need to keep these humans in the dark for as long as possible.”

  “Just as I said,” Keseberg said. “All we have to do is kill them.”

  “I say we let them live,” George snapped. “I call for a vote.”

  When it comes to voting, we mimic the humans. We used a ballot box, with red and white beans.

  The vote was a tie, six to six––which meant that George cast the deciding vot
e. Still, the outcome was a shock. Sometime after we left Independence, he lost a supporter among the Wolfenrout––I suspect Dutch Charley. With the growing influence of the German contingent, I fear it is only a matter of time before George loses another vote; and once that happens, the stalemate will be broken and humans will be fair game.

  “I still say we kill them,” Keseberg insisted. “Who knows, maybe they’ll meet with an accident on their return. And while we’re at it, I say we kill the little Reed bitch, too. She’s a snoop.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. George likes Virginia Reed, as much as he can like any human.

  “You will leave her alone, Keseberg,” George said, and the tone of his voice stopped everyone in their tracks, reminding us all that he is leader of the Wolfenrout because he is the strongest.

  It is rare these days that we choose our leaders through combat. We don’t need to. Everyone knows from childhood play and contests who is strongest. But Keseberg is a full decade younger than my brother, the strongest of his generation. He will have only heard rumors, old and half-forgotten stories, about George’s legendary fights.

  Everyone but George seems to know that it is only a matter of time before these two Wolfen settle things the Old Way.

  “What does it matter?” Keseberg ignored George’s warning tone. “We’re going to eat her during the Foregathering anyway.”

  “When the time comes, if that is the way it must be,” George said. “But not until then.” I knew then that he still hopes to settle things at the Foregathering so that we don’t hunt the humans. I shook my head. I am certain that opinions are turning against him.

  “You heard the boss,” McTeague said. He is the strongest of my brother’s supporters and the most hotheaded among us. Keseberg delights in getting him angry.

  “You really ought to join our side, McTeague,” Keseberg said. “Let a little of that anger come out.”

  “The vote has been taken,” George said. “The Wolfenrout has decided. You will obey.”

  Keseberg stood stock-still for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well. Lead the humans astray. They’ll probably die anyway. It’s a waste of good meat.”

  Personal notes of Jacob Donner, Secretary of the Wolfenrout, September, 1846

  We’ve had our first fight to the death among the Wolfen on this journey. Fights are rare these days. There are so few of us; everyone is aware that we can ill afford to lose any of our number.

  When Stanton and Pike emerged like ghosts out of the whiteness of the salt flats, it was clear that Pike had been bitten. I saw my brother flush and glance at Keseberg, who couldn’t quite hide his smirk.

  I feared George would attack the German right then and there, with everyone watching, including the humans.

  The tension steadily built among the Wolfen as the day wore on. We all know that attacking a human and Turning him is at least as much a defiance of the Wolfenrout’s edicts as killing him would have been, perhaps more so. Such insubordination can’t go unpunished.

  #

  The Wolfen gathered that night after the humans were asleep. We’d arranged for all the guards to be Our Kind.

  We didn’t start a fire. Wolfen can see perfectly well in the dark, and it wasn’t cold enough for us to need one. Fires are camouflage for us: unnecessary in reality, but necessary for the illusion of humanness. Indeed, the light can be blinding to us when we Turn, and we avoid fire when we can. Humans discovered that weakness long ago.

  The two factions lined up behind their leaders, George on one side of the clearing and Keseberg on the other. I tried to do a quick count, but the Wolfen kept milling about, so I couldn’t get an accurate number. With a sense of foreboding, I saw that the two sides were about equal.

  Keseberg stood waiting for my brother to say something. Everyone expected the situation to explode.

  Instead, that hothead McTeague entered the clearing, stomped over to Keseberg and slapped him in the face. It grew utterly quiet, and then there were soft growls of anticipation.

  “McTeague, no!” George cried.

  Keseberg looked at my brother with what appeared to be regret, and the message was clear: it should be George who was getting ready to fight, not McTeague. But once a challenge was offered, it could not be rescinded. McTeague was on his own.

  Keseberg began removing his clothes.

  Already Turning, McTeague nearly tore off own his clothes in his haste, and it was obvious that he was afraid. Wolfen can smell fear, and McTeague was filling the clearing with his fright. He didn’t wait for Keseberg to completely change, which was bad form. He attacked, obviously hoping to catch his opponent off guard, going for a strike to the head to end it quickly. Keseberg easily dodged the blow, then managed to fend off a second attack.

  I was standing next to my brother, and I could smell the aggression on him. It isn’t unheard of in such cases for another fight to break out, but I knew George would think it unfair to attack an already exhausted and wounded Wolfen, and George is nothing if not fair.

  As I thought this, I realized I was already conceding the battle to Keseberg. He radiates confidence: a healthy wolf sure of his prowess. It is obvious from the scars on his body that he’s been in more than one duel.

  The two Wolfen circled each other in the clearing, the slimmer, rangier red-furred Keseberg, and the large, almost round gray-furred shape of McTeague. Ordinarily we would have been howling encouragement from both sides, but we were conscious of the humans––and their guns––just a few hundred feet away.

  McTeague initiated most of the attacks, trying for the decisive blow and missing again and again. Occasionally, thanks to the sheer number of swipes he took at the nimbly dodging Keseberg, McTeague managed to inflict a few small wounds. What he lacked in technique and size, he made up for in ferocity.

  But Keseberg was coolheaded, and I could see he was letting his opponent wear himself down while saving his own strength. With each attack, he sliced McTeague on some part of his body––small wounds, but ones that bled profusely.

  McTeague’s chest was heaving in exhaustion. He was no longer snarling, and the fierce light of battle had dimmed in his eyes. Blood flowed over his gray fur in so many places that he looked like Keseberg’s twin.

  Then, in the middle of one of McTeague’s most furious onslaughts, Keseberg landed a blow to his enemy’s side that seemed to come from nowhere. There was a blur, and suddenly McTeague was staring down at a huge, gaping wound. I glanced at George, but my brother didn’t do anything. He looked sad.

  After that, McTeague took one blow after another, none of them enough to kill him, but each weakening him further, and I realized that Keseberg was toying with him, delaying the inevitable.

  McTeague didn’t look angry now. He looked frightened.

  End it! I wanted to shout. I could almost hear the other spectators shouting the same thing in their minds.

  As if in response, Keseberg shot his claws straight into McTeague’s chest, digging deeper and deeper while his victim flailed his arms harmlessly against Keseberg’s back. The thrashing became weaker and slower, and then, as if Keseberg had cut his strings, McTeague slumped and fell to the ground.

  I looked toward my brother again. I wished George would set aside his respect for the proprieties for once and attack while his opponent was weakened. Not that Keseberg looked weakened in the slightest. The blood that covered him was mostly his adversary’s, not counting the small, superficial wounds from blows he had allowed to reach him.

  Keseberg stood there with that smirk, staring at George as if waiting for my brother to step forward and challenge him.

  If George had responded, it would have been the first officially sanctioned duel for the leadership of the Wolfenrout since the Foregathering of Clans was created millennia ago. There were fights all the time, of course, but they weren’t authorized. We fancied ourselves a civilized species. Disagreements were supposed to be decided by a vote of the Wolfenrout.

  In the far distant past, such du
els settled all our disagreements. I fear that soon, this will once again be our way of deciding things. If so, the strongest will rule, not the wisest or the most experienced. Such habits nearly led to our extinction in the Middle Ages, and now that wild streak that is always just below the surface is reemerging.

  My brother turned away without a word and went back to his tent. I followed him. The Germans were raucous in their celebration behind us, though most of the Wolfen were respectfully silent. I saw George’s shoulders stiffen in shame.

  We all know, now, that it is only a matter of time before he and Keseberg fight to the death––and the result of this duel will decide the future of not only the Wolfenrout, but the entire Wolfen race.

  CHAPTER 18

  Virginia Reed, Humboldt River, September 26, 1846

  After Stanton and McCutchen left, taking the two strongest horses left to the wagon train, we continued across the salt flats. The trip across this last stretch of desert was long but uneventful. For once, it proved more arduous in our imaginations than in the doing, and it was with a great surge of relief that we made it to the other side, finding shade, water, and grass for the livestock.

  The “shortcut” had cost us nearly a month, but we were rapidly approaching the last leg of the trip. I was still optimistic, though I could see my elders were worried.

  Tempers were running short.

  Father tried to organize expeditions to go back into the desert and retrieve as many supplies as possible. No one wanted to go, and no one wanted to take orders from Father. Only a few small groups ventured out and returned with some of the scattered provisions.