We met a band of Paiute Indians, and they seemed friendly, but that night they stole some of our horses and oxen. From then on, whenever livestock went missing, the Indians were blamed––though I wasn’t so sure that blame was always warranted. Most of the Indians I met on the trail seemed kind and helpful, though I’d hear the men sitting around the campfires at night talk about how we were surrounded by fierce savages.
Fear of Indians had accompanied us on this long journey, and now it manifested itself in nightly alarms. The cry would go up: “Indians!” and the men would rise and load their rifles, the women would gather up the children and take shelter behind the circled wagons, and no one would sleep.
After several nights of this, the response became lackluster, and I fear that if an Indian attack had truly been underway, we would have been quickly overwhelmed. Still, in the mornings, we would discover that more livestock had gone missing. Though the Indians were undoubtedly responsible for some of our losses, I suspected there was also a more sinister explanation.
By this time, our group had splintered into factions, many of whom wouldn’t even speak to each other. At a time when we most needed to cooperate with one another, we were divided, sometimes working at cross-purposes.
I was barely aware of these troubles. Two handsome young men were courting me, apparently having decided to take turns and let the best man win. Each night, one of them would arrive to escort me on a walk, and the next night, the other would come calling.
It was very exciting. They were so different, and yet equally attractive in their own ways. Jean Baptiste was talkative, funny, easygoing, and assertive. Bayliss was serious, and when he spoke I had to pay attention, for there was always a deeper current running beneath the surface of his words. We never talked about how he had disappeared on me the night he had nearly kissed me. He muttered something once about how he didn’t feel he deserved me, to which I laughed and agreed.
I was too young, of course, to really choose either one of the boys. I suppose one or both of them thought something longer-lasting would come of our flirtations, but it was never my intention to lead them on.
One night, when it was Bayliss who was escorting me, he gave me a short, chaste kiss. It was what I had been waiting for, and I was surprised by how exciting it was. I wanted more, but Bayliss broke away––unlike Jean, who always gave me passionate kisses that I had to curtail.
We were returning from our romantic excursion when we heard shouting near the livestock. We ran toward the tumult.
What I saw then, I will never forget. I had been aware that something strange was happening, but now I saw evidence of it in broad daylight for the first time. There was no denying what I saw, and Bayliss was there to see it too.
Up until then, I had thought our wagon train was having the usual difficulties. We’d been warned how arduous the journey would be, after all. I knew that it was late in the season, and that there was a chance we could run into trouble in the mountains. We had taken a disastrous cutoff, but that was behind us now. We were perilously short of supplies––but we were so close to our goal!
But after that day, nothing went right. From that moment on, we descended into a hell on Earth that few humans have had to endure.
There, at the center of the livestock stockade, was a giant gray wolf that looked as big as one of the mules. But this wolf was standing on his hind legs like a man. He was facing my father, who held only his Bowie knife. Even as I cried out, the wolf leaped for my father’s throat.
Father had been in the Black Hawk War. He never talked about his military exploits, but I knew that he had experienced hand-to-hand combat. He managed to sink the blade into the chest of the wolf, which howled in pain and anger, waking the rest of the camp.
The howls brought people running from every direction, but only Bayliss and I had seen the wolf. The others saw only the aftermath.
The Donners, the Breens, and the Reeds surrounded my father, who still held the bloody knife in his hand. At his feet, instead of a wolf, was the naked body of John Snyder, bleeding from the heart.
#
“Hang him,” Keseberg said.
My father stood in a circle of pioneers, his hands tied behind his back. He had yet to speak. I could see him thinking furiously: I knew that he was weighing all the factors, because I’d seen him with that expression, with furrowed brow and half-closed eyelids, many times before. When he was done thinking, he would make a pronouncement, and that would be that.
“We don’t know what happened here,” Breen said, almost pleadingly. The crowd was angry because John Snyder had been a friendly, helpful man, while my father was demanding and unforgiving. Now, his stern attitude was being reflected back at him.
“He killed an unarmed man, that’s what he did.” Keseberg and Snyder had been cronies, but there was more to it than that. I saw bloodlust in the German’s eyes, surging just below the surface.
“He wasn’t unarmed!” I blurted. “And he wasn’t a ma––”
“Daughter!” Father shouted in his most commanding voice. “You will stay out of this!”
“But I saw him––”
“No! You came too late. You didn’t see anything, understand?”
Keseberg was staring at me speculatively. Then he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what she says. She’ll say anything to save her precious father.”
“I was here too,” Bayliss spoke up. “I saw it too!”
“No,” Father said again. He turned and addressed the crowd. “I will tell you what happened. These children only arrived when it was all over. I don’t know what they think they saw, but … ” He straightened and cleared his throat. “Snyder was whipping one of my horses because it had gotten into his feed. When I tried to stop him, he turned the whip on me. He was advancing toward me, as if he intended to strike me again.” He turned and pointed at a whip handle, half buried in the dust. It was about ten feet away from the body, lying near the fence.
“Look, some of the horses are bleeding!” someone in the crowd exclaimed.
There were red slashes on the hindquarters of two of our horses, but where the crowd saw the marks of a whip, I saw claw marks. I looked questioningly at my father, who was staring back at me with unblinking eyes, as if willing me to go along with his story.
“I… I saw… that is, I heard the horses screaming,” I said, and as I spoke, my voice got stronger and more certain. “Both of us did, didn’t we, Bayliss?”
The boy looked confused, but seeing my father’s glower and my pleading expression, he gulped and nodded.
“How was he going to kill you with a whip?” one of the women shouted. “Why didn’t you run away, or try to get help?”
Father flushed. “No man whips me.”
At his words, the crowd grew silent. On one hand, it was an admission of guilt. On the other, everyone had to wonder if he or she would accept a whipping without retaliation.
“We are the law here,” Keseberg said. “We have no way of imprisoning him. I say we hang him now instead of later.”
Again there was silence. I think if anyone had spoken up at that moment, Father’s fate would have been sealed. Before anyone could, I ran to his side and hugged him tightly. “Daddy!” I cried. I always used the more formal title “Father,” but I knew that the situation was desperate and uncertain. I hoped that those gathered would take sympathy on the poor daughter of the accused.
He laid his hand on my head, and I felt it shaking. Then I was crying and clutching him with all my might––and it was not an act.
“Well, we can’t very well haul him along with us,” Breen said. “Even the able-bodied are having trouble. But I won’t see a hanging.”
“So what do we do?” Eddy asked.
“I say we banish him,” Breen said. The man with the huge family rarely spoke, so when he did, people listened. There was a murmur of agreement, and I knew it was decided: my father had been spared.
#
Mother cried late into t
he night. I heard Father’s low, reassuring voice trying to calm her down. Patty and the boys slept close to me that night, and I woke up with Tommy’s head on my shoulder. I got up early the next morning, and with Patty’s help did all the cooking and morning chores. I suppose I used too many of our remaining provisions for that meal, but none of us knew when––or if––we’d see Father again.
After breakfast, Father was sent off into the wilderness, alone and unarmed. He was given the weakest of the horses and a few days’ rations.
Mother didn’t even emerge from the wagon to see him off. Our sense of loss was so great that in a way, it was as if he had actually been hanged. But I was certain that though he’d been banished, he’d find us again soon enough.
What no one knew was that in the night, I had snuck into Snyder’s abandoned camp. I knew that the men who had sent Father off would check to see that his rifle remained in camp, so I took Snyder’s rifle and what little food he had stashed in his tent. I rode ahead and met Father just out of sight of the camp as he passed by dispiritedly. I trotted out to him with a rifle in one hand and a pack in the other.
“Virginia,” he growled. “You take too many chances.”
I could tell he was proud of me, so I only grinned.
He shook his head. “If you were a man,” he said, then stopped and laughed. “Nay, it doesn’t matter. You are one of those people with the strength of will to get what they want. Whatever else happens, I’m proud of you, Gina.”
I felt myself blushing with pleasure at his praise. Father was never outwardly sentimental. But it made me sad, too: it was as if he was saying goodbye.
“Why didn’t you tell them what really happened, Father?” I asked.
“Tell them what?” he countered. “That I was attacked by a wolf and when it died, it turned into a man?” He shook his head. “They would think me off my head. No… I would rather they believe I am capable of killing self-defense than that I am insane. I fear that before this journey is over, harsh measures will have to be taken, and I want them all to know that I am the one willing to take them.”
He reached out and rested his hand on the top of my head. It was the one sign of affection that Father showed, though I never doubted that he loved me. His huge, knobby hand always felt immensely reassuring––never more so than now. “You will be a magnificent bride for some lucky man someday. But, Gina… Jean Baptiste will never be that man. Nor will Bayliss. You will have a dowry, if I have anything to do with it, that will attract a respectable man.”
“They are good men, Father.”
He smiled sadly. “Yes, they are. Perhaps you’re right. I shouldn’t judge. I only want the best for you––and I am not sure either of these young fellows can provide that.”
I was saddened, because I knew my father was probably right. I hated to think I was merely toying with the affections of a couple of handsome boys, experimenting with them, learning to hold hands and flirt and kiss. It was at times like this that I felt like a child again––and I wasn’t ready to settle down. I wanted to explore the world first, to experience it, before I became a wife and mother.
“Best get back to camp before they miss you, Gina,” Father advised. “Tell your mother I will rejoin you further along the trail, when the anger has faded. When the trail grows hard, they’ll be happy enough to take me back.”
“Can’t I go with you?” I implored.
“Gina, I’m counting on you to take care of the family while I’m gone. The others aren’t as strong as you… not even your mother. You’ll have to act as the head of the household Now, off you go.”
Reluctantly, I started to ride back to camp.
“Virginia,” I heard Father’s deep voice call.
I pulled back on the reins and coaxed my horse around.
“There is something very strange going on. You saw it. Keep an eye on the Germans. Especially, watch Keseberg.”
He didn’t need to tell me that, but I nodded obediently.
“Take care of your mother and sister,” he said. “Watch after the boys. Keep them out of mischief.”
We spurred our horses in opposite directions, but I kept glancing back. Just before he rode out of sight, Father turned and gave me a wave.
With a sigh, I returned to camp.
#
Everything had changed. I had been happy during the first part of the trip, counting its difficulties an adventure. Until recently, we hadn’t lost anyone on the journey who hadn’t already been sick before we left. Father had always been there, strong and confident. Now, as we neared the Sierra Nevada, I felt a deep sense of trepidation, though I tried not to show it. Father had left me in charge of the family, but I felt anything but strong and confident.
Suddenly, everyone seemed suspicious of everyone else. Even though most folks didn’t know exactly what was wrong, they sensed that something wasn’t right. Families were closing ranks, shunning outsiders. The single men were told to look after themselves, sent away from family campfires they used to share in the evenings. They set up their own camp, away from everyone else.
The livestock began to disappear in greater numbers, and soon no one was allowed to ride in the wagons. Everyone had to walk on their own two legs.
So I kept my head down and trudged forward. I was almost afraid to look back, afraid that I would see yet another abandoned wagon or dead ox, another family sitting desolate beside the trail.
I started to feel more sympathy for my mother. She’d tried so hard to keep up the proprieties she knew, the civilized customs she thought was her due. But now, she felt as though she was the hired help, and that all that had separated her from the savages was gone.
It would have been easier for her to don men’s clothing to do her chores, as a few of the other women had begun to do, but she clung to her petticoats and bonnets. Even then, she attached beautiful ribbons and bows to my sister’s clothing, as if the dirty urchins we had become would somehow be civilized by the little touches of color. She always wore a white apron, as clean as she could make it, as if asserting that though she might be doing a man’s work, she was still a respectable small-town woman with her dignity intact. She might wear a pair of Father’s boots while tramping in the mud, but she saw to it that her apron was still clean.
It was easier for me. I found enjoyment in the company of young men I might not have been allowed to get to know back in Springfield. We sang around the campfires and told each other stories, and to me, the future still seemed promising and full of potential.
On our fifth day out from the Humboldt River, someone noticed that Hardkoop was missing. The Belgian with the thick accent was the oldest man in the party. His feet had been swollen for days. He’d been complaining so much that everyone had ceased to listen to him. He had been riding in Keseberg’s wagon, having paid for the privilege, so no one noticed him missing at first.
“I made him walk, just like everyone else,” Keseberg said casually when asked about the old man. Now that Father was gone, none of the other men seemed capable of standing up to the German.
“He couldn’t walk,” I objected. “Did you abandon him?”
“He was sitting by a stream when I left him,” Keseberg said, shrugging. “He was alive the last time I saw him, looking happy, dipping his toes in the cold water. I’m sure he’ll come along any minute now.”
All of us had seen Hardkoop’s feet and knew the old man couldn’t walk far.
Only William Eddy was willing to speak up, despite his lack of influence. “We need to go back and find him.”
It had been a particularly hard day. The fodder for the livestock was almost gone. Several of the horses had died in harness, delaying the journey as they were cut loose from the traces and hauled to the side of the trail.
No one had the energy to go back for the old man. Everyone looked down at the ground, as if too tired or ashamed to face one another.
It isn’t my problem, I told myself. I must take care of Mother and the children. But
once camp was made, my conscience got the better of me and I went looking for help. Jean Baptiste was sitting at the edge of the single men’s campfire, his boots off, kneading his swollen feet. I ignored the attention I was getting from the other men, though I blushed at the speculative looks they gave me.
“I’m going to search for Hardkoop,” I announced. “Will you come with me?”
Jean sighed and started putting his boots back on.
It was dark by the time we left. The wagon tracks were still visible in the light of the half moon. I had taken possession of my father’s rifle without asking anyone for permission to do so. Mother had grimaced and looked the other way. I took the rifle with me everywhere. Earlier on in the journey, the men might have thought it amusing and the women might have been scandalized. Now no one raised an eyebrow. All of us had learned that living in the wilderness required some changes.
Jean carried a walking stick. He offered to take Father’s heavy gun, but I shrugged him off.
We walked for an hour, covering the same ground that it had taken the wagon train half a day to travel. When we reached the top of a steep hill, we heard the sound of running water. We looked down into the darkness with foreboding. We’d find Hardkoop here if we found him anywhere, but what kind of condition he might be in conjured up visions of horror. Indians followed our wagons, picking off the livestock. Bears and cougars infested these woods. But having come this far, I was determined to press on. Jean’s hand found mine, and I could see him nod in the darkness.
We went down the hill quietly, though one might think we’d be calling out by then: after all, we were unlikely to stumble across the old man unless he answered a hail. Yet we stayed silent.
We reached the spot where the stream ran along the side of the trail. The bank was steep. We went to the side of it and looked down.
Led to the Slaughter Page 12