BEWILDERING GUIDE BOARD--SOUL-TRYING STRUGGLES--FIRST SNOW--REED-SNYDER
TRAGEDY--HARDCOOP'S FATE.
Our next memorable camp was in a fertile valley where we found twenty
natural wells, some very deep and full to the brim of pure, cold water.
"They varied from six inches to several feet in diameter, the soil
around the edges was dry and hard, and as fast as water was dipped out,
a new supply rose to the surface."[2] Grass was plentiful and wood
easily obtained. Our people made much of a brief stay, for though the
weather was a little sharp, the surroundings were restful. Then came a
long, dreary pull over a low range of hills, which brought us to
another beautiful valley where the pasturage was abundant, and more
wells marked the site of good camping grounds.
Close by the largest well stood a rueful spectacle,--a bewildering
guide board, flecked with bits of white paper, showing that the notice
or message which had recently been pasted and tacked thereon had since
been stripped off in irregular bits.
In surprise and consternation, the emigrants gazed at its blank face,
then toward the dreary waste beyond. Presently, my mother knelt before
it and began searching for fragments of paper, which she believed crows
had wantonly pecked off and dropped to the ground.
Spurred by her zeal, others also were soon on their knees, scratching
among the grasses and sifting the loose soil through their fingers.
What they found, they brought to her, and after the search ended she
took the guide board, laid it across her lap, and thoughtfully, began
fitting the ragged edges of paper together and matching the scraps to
marks on the board. The tedious process was watched with spell-bound
interest by the anxious group around her.
The writing was that of Hastings, and her patchwork brought out the
following words:
"2 days--2 nights--hard driving--cross--desert--reach water."
This would be a heavy strain on our cattle, and to fit them for the
ordeal they were granted thirty-six hours' indulgence near the bubbling
waters, amid good pasturage. Meanwhile, grass was cut and stored, water
casks were filled, and rations were prepared for desert use.
We left camp on the morning of September 9, following dimly marked
wagon-tracks courageously, and entered upon the "dry drive," which
Hastings and his agent at Fort Bridger had represented as being
thirty-five miles, or forty at most. After two days and two nights of
continuous travel, over a waste of alkali and sand, we were still
surrounded as far as eye could see by a region of fearful desolation.
The supply of feed for our cattle was gone, the water casks were empty,
and a pitiless sun was turning its burning rays upon the glaring earth
over which we still had to go.
Mr. Reed now rode ahead to prospect for water, while the rest followed
with the teams. All who could walk did so, mothers carrying their babes
in their arms, and fathers with weaklings across their shoulders moved
slowly as they urged the famishing cattle forward. Suddenly an outcry
of joy gave hope to those whose courage waned. A lake of shimmering
water appeared before us in the near distance, we could see the wavy
grasses and a caravan of people moving toward it.
"It may be Hastings!" was the eager shout. Alas, as we advanced, the
scene vanished! A cruel mirage, in its mysterious way, had outlined the
lake and cast our shadows near its shore.
Disappointment intensified our burning thirst, and my good mother gave
her own and other suffering children wee lumps of sugar, moistened with
a drop of peppermint, and later put a flattened bullet in each child's
mouth to engage its attention and help keep the salivary glands in
action.
Then followed soul-trying hours. Oxen, footsore and weary, stumbled
under their yokes. Women, heartsick and exhausted, could walk no
farther. As a last resort, the men hung the water pails on their arms,
unhooked the oxen from the wagons, and by persuasion and force, drove
them onward, leaving the women and children to await their return.
Messrs. Eddy and Graves got their animals to water on the night of the
twelfth, and the others later. As soon as the poor beasts were
refreshed, they were brought back with water for the suffering, and
also that they might draw the wagons on to camp. My father's wagons
were the last taken out. They reached camp the morning of the
fifteenth.
Thirty-six head of cattle were left on that desert, some dead, some
lost. Among the lost were all Mr. Reed's herd, except an ox and a cow.
His poor beasts had become frenzied in the night, as they were being
driven toward water, and with the strength that comes with madness, had
rushed away in the darkness. Meanwhile, Mr. Reed, unconscious of his
misfortune, was returning to his family, which he found by his wagon,
some distance in the rear. At daylight, he, with his wife and children,
on foot, overtook my Uncle Jacob's wagons and were carried forward in
them until their own were brought up.
After hurriedly making camp, all the men turned out to hunt the Reed
cattle. In every direction they searched, but found no clue. Those who
rode onward, however, discovered that we had reached only an oasis in
the desert, and that six miles ahead of us lay another pitiless barren
stretch.
Anguish and dismay now filled all hearts. Husbands bowed their heads,
appalled at the situation of their families. Some cursed Hastings for
the false statements in his open letter and for his broken pledge at
Fort Bridger. They cursed him also for his misrepresentation of the
distance across this cruel desert, traversing which had wrought such
suffering and loss. Mothers in tearless agony clasped their children to
their bosoms, with the old, old cry, "Father, Thy will, not mine, be
done."
It was plain that, try as we might, we could not get back to Fort
Bridger. We must proceed regardless of the fearful outlook.
After earnest consultation, it was deemed best to dig a trench and
cache all Mr. Reed's effects, except such as could be packed into one
wagon, and were essential for daily use. This accomplished, Messrs.
Graves and Breen each loaned him an ox, and these in addition to his
own ox and cow yoked together, formed his team. Upon examination, it
was found that the woodwork of all the wagons had been shrunk and
cracked by the dry atmosphere. One of Mr. Keseberg's and one of my
father's were in such bad condition that they were abandoned, left
standing near those of Mr. Reed, as we passed out of camp.
The first snow of the season fell as we were crossing the narrow strip
of land upon which we had rested and when we encamped for the night on
its boundary, the waste before us was as cheerless, cold, and white as
the winding sheet which enfolds the dead.
At dawn we resumed our toilful march, and travelled until four o'clock
the following morning, when we reached an extensive valley, where
grass and water were plentiful. Several oxen had died during the night,
and it was with a caress of pity that the surviving were relieved of
their yokes for the day. The next sunrise saw us on our way over a
range of hills sloping down to a valley luxuriant with grass and
springs of delicious water, where antelope and mountain sheep were
grazing, and where we saw Indians who seemed never to have met white
men before. We were three days in crossing this magnificent stretch of
country, which we called, "Valley of Fifty Springs." In it, several
wagons and large cases of goods were cached by our company, and secret
marks were put on trees near by, so that they could be recovered,
should their owners return for them.
While on the desert, my father's wagons had travelled last in the
train, in order that no one should stray, or be left to die alone. But
as soon as we reached the mountainous country, he took the lead to open
the way. Uncle Jacob's wagons were always close to ours, for the two
brothers worked together, one responding when the other called for
help; and with the assistance of their teamsters, they were able to
free the trail of many obstructions and prevent unnecessary delays.
From the Valley of Fifty Springs, we pursued a southerly course over
more hills, and through fertile valleys, where we saw Indians in a
state of nudity, who looked at us from a distance, but never approached
our wagons, nor molested any one. On the twenty-fourth of September,
we turned due north and found the tracks of wagon wheels, which guided
us to the valley of "Mary's River," or "Ogden's River," and on the
thirtieth, put us on the old emigrant road leading from Fort Hall. This
welcome landmark inspired us with renewed trust; and the energizing
hope that Stanton and McCutchen would soon appear, strengthened our
sorely tried courage. This day was also memorable, because it brought
us a number of Indians who must have been Frémont's guides, for they
could give information, and understand a little English. They went into
camp with us, and by word and sign explained that we were still far
from the sink of Mary's River, but on the right trail to it.
After another long day's drive, we stopped on a mountain-side close to
a spring of cold, sweet water. While supper was being prepared, one of
the fires crept beyond bounds, spread rapidly, and threatened
destruction to part of our train. At the critical moment two strange
Indians rushed upon the scene and rendered good service. After the fire
was extinguished, the Indians were rewarded, and were also given a
generous meal at the tent of Mr. Graves. Later, they settled themselves
in friendly fashion beside his fire and were soon fast asleep. Next
morning, the Indians were gone, and had taken with them a new shirt and
a yoke of good oxen belonging to their host.
Within the week, Indians again sneaked up to camp, and stole one of Mr.
Graves's saddle-horses. These were trials which made men swear
vengeance, yet no one felt that it would be safe to follow the
marauders. Who could know that the train was not being stealthily
followed by cunning plunderers who would await their chance to get away
with the wagons, if left weakly guarded?
Conditions now were such that it seemed best to divide the train into
sections and put each section under a sub-leader. Our men were well
equipped with side arms, rifles, and ammunition; nevertheless, anxious
moments were common, as the wagons moved slowly and singly through
dense thickets, narrow defiles, and rugged mountain gorges, one section
often being out of sight of the others, and each man realizing that
there could be no concerted action in the event of a general attack;
that each must stay by his own wagon and defend as best he could the
lives committed to his care. No one rode horseback now, except the
leaders, and those in charge of the loose cattle. When darkness
obscured the way, and after feeding-time, each section formed its
wagons into a circle to serve as cattle corral, and night watches were
keenly alert to give a still alarm if anything unusual came within
sight or sound.
Day after day, from dawn to twilight, we moved onward, never stopping,
except to give the oxen the necessary nooning, or to give them drink
when water was available. Gradually, the distance between sections
lengthened, and so it happened that the wagons of my father and my
uncle were two days in advance of the others, on the eighth of October,
when Mr. Reed, on horseback, overtook us. He was haggard and in great
tribulation. His lips quivered as he gave substantially the following
account of circumstances which had made him the slayer of his friend,
and a lone wanderer in the wilderness.
On the morning of October 5, when Mr. Reed's section broke camp, he and
Mr. Eddy ventured off to hunt antelope, and were shot at a number of
times by Indians with bows and arrows. Empty-handed and disappointed,
the two followed and overtook their companions about noon, at the foot
of a steep hill near "Gravelly Ford," where the teams had to be doubled
for the ascent. All the wagons, except Pike's and Reed's, and one of
Graves's in charge of John Snyder, had already been taken to the top.
Snyder was in the act of starting his team, when Milton Elliot, driving
Reed's oxen, with Eddy's in the lead, also started. Suddenly, the Reed
and Eddy cattle became unmanageable, and in some way got mixed up with
Snyder's team. This provoked both drivers, and fierce words passed
between them. Snyder declared that the Reed team ought to be made to
drag its wagon up without help. Then he began to beat his own cattle
about the head to get them out of the way.
Mr. Reed attempted to remonstrate with him for his cruelty, at which
Snyder became more enraged, and threatened to strike both Reed and
Elliot with his whip for interfering. Mr. Reed replied sharply that
they would settle the matter later. This, Synder took as a threat, and
retorted, "No, we'll settle it right here," and struck Reed over the
head with the butt end of his whip, cutting an ugly scalp wound.
Mrs. Reed, who rushed between the two men for the purpose of separating
them, caught the force of the second blow from Snyder's whip on her
shoulder. While dodging the third blow, Reed drew his hunting knife and
stabbed Snyder in the left breast. Fifteen minutes later, John Snyder,
with his head resting on the arm of William Graves, died, and Mr. Reed
stood beside the corpse, dazed and sorrowful.
Near-by sections were immediately called into camp, and gloom,
consternation, and anger pervaded it. Mr. Reed and family were taken to
their tent some distance from the others and guarded by their friends.
Later, an assembly was convened to decide what should be done. The
majority declared the deed murder, and demanded retribution. Mr. Eddy
and others pleaded extenuating circumstances and proposed that the
accused should leave the camp. After heated discussion this compromise
was adopted, the assembly voting that Mr. Reed should be banished from
the company.
Mr. Reed maintained that the deed was not prompted by malice, that he
had acted in self-defence and in defence of his wife; and that he would
not be driven from his helpless, dependent family. The assembly
promised that the company would care for his family, and limited his
stay in camp. His wife, fearing the consequence of noncompliance with
the sentence, begged him to abide by it, and to push on to the
settlement, procure food and assistance, and return for her and their
children. The following morning, after participating in the funeral
rites over the lamented dead, Mr. Reed took leave of his friends and
sorrowing family and left the camp.
The group around my father's wagon were deeply touched by Mr. Reed's
narrative. Its members were friends of the slain and of the slayer.
Their sympathies clustered around the memory of the dead, and clung to
the living. They deplored the death of a fellow traveller, who had
manfully faced many hardships, and was young, genial, and full of
promise. They regretted the act which took from the company a member
who had been prominent in its organization, had helped to formulate its
rules, and had, up to that unfortunate hour, been a co-worker with the
other leading spirits for its best interests. It was plain that the
hardships and misfortunes of the journey had sharpened the tempers of
both men, and the vexations of the morning had been too much for the
overstrained nerves.
Mr. Reed breakfasted at our tent, but did not continue his journey
alone. Walter Herron, one of my father's helpers, decided to accompany
him, and after hurried preparations, they went away together, bearing
an urgent appeal from my father to Captain Sutter for necessary teams
and provisions to carry the company through to California, also his
personal pledge in writing that he would be responsible for the payment
of the debt as soon as he should reach the settlement. My father
believed the two men would reach their destination long before the
slowly moving train.
Immediately after the departure of Messrs. Reed and Herron, our wagons
moved onward. Night overtook us at a gruesome place where wood and feed
were scarce and every drop of water was browned by alkali. There,
hungry wolves howled, and there we found and buried the bleaching bones
of Mr. Sallé, a member of the Hastings train, who had been shot by
Indians. After his companions had left his grave, the savages had
returned, dug up the body, robbed it of its clothing, and left it to
the wolves.
At four o'clock the following morning, October 10, the rest of the
company, having travelled all night, drove into camp. Many were in a
state of great excitement, and some almost frenzied by the physical and
mental suffering they had endured. Accounts of the Reed-Snyder tragedy
differed somewhat from that we had already heard. The majority held
that the assembly had been lenient with Mr. Reed and considerate for
his family; that the action taken had been largely influenced by rules
which Messrs. Reed, Donner, Thornton, and others had suggested for the
government of Colonel Russell's train, and that there was no occasion
for criticism, since the sentence was for the transgression, and not
for the individual.
The loss of aged Mr. Hardcoop, whose fate was sealed soon after the
death of John Synder, was the subject of bitter contention. The old man
was travelling with the Keseberg family, and, in the heavy sand, when
that family walked to lighten the load, he was required to do likewise.
The first night after leaving Gravelly Ford, he did not come into camp
with the rest. The company, fearing something amiss, sent a man on
horseback to bring him in. He was found five miles from camp,
completely exhausted and his feet in a terrible condition.
The following morning, he again started with Keseberg, and when the
section had been under way only a short time, the old man approached
Mr. Eddy and begged for a place in some other wagon, saying he was sick
and exhausted, and that Keseberg had put him out to die. The road was
still through deep, loose sand, and Mr. Eddy told him if he would only
manage to go forward until the road should be easier on the oxen, he
himself would take him in. Hardcoop promised to try, yet the roads
became so heavy that progress was yet slower and even the small
children were forced to walk, nor did any one see when Mr. Hardcoop
dropped behind.
Mr. Eddy had the first watch that night, and kept a bright fire burning
on the hillside in hopes that it would guide the belated into camp.
Milton Elliot went on guard at midnight, and kept the fire till
morning, yet neither sign nor sound of the missing came over that
desolate trail.
In vain the watchers now besought Keseberg to return for Hardcoop. Next
they applied to Messrs. Graves and Breen, who alone had saddle horses
able to carry the helpless man, but neither of them would risk his
animals again on that perilous road. In desperation, Messrs. William
Pike, Milton Elliot, and William Eddy proposed to go out afoot and
carry him in, if the wagons would wait. Messrs. Graves and Breen,
however, in language so plain and homely that it seemed heartless,
declared that it was neither the voice of common sense, nor of humanity
that asked the wagons to wait there in the face of danger, while three
foolhardy men rushed back to look for a helpless one, whom they had
been unable to succor on the previous day, and for whom they could make
no provision in the future, even if they should succeed then in
snatching him from the jaws of death.
This exposition of undeniable facts defeated the plans of the would-be
rescuers, yet did not quiet their consciences. When the section halted
at noon, they again begged, though in vain, for horses which might
enable them to do something for their deserted companion.
My father listened thoughtfully to the accounts of that harrowing
incident, and although he realized that death must have ended the old
man's sufferings within a few hours after he dropped by the wayside, he
could not but feel deeply the bitterness of such a fate.
Who could peer into the near future and read between its lines the
greater suffering which Mr. Hardcoop had escaped, or the trials in
store for us?
We were in close range of ambushed savages, lying in wait for spoils.
While the company were hurrying to get into marching order, Indians
stole a milch cow and several horses belonging to Mr. Graves.
Emboldened by success, they made a raid on our next camp and stampeded
a bunch of eighteen horned cattle belonging to Mr. Wolfinger and my
father and Uncle Jacob, and also flesh-wounded several poor beasts with
arrows. These were more serious hindrances than we had yet experienced.
Still, undaunted by the alarming prospects before us, we immediately
resumed travel with cows under yoke in place of the freshly injured
oxen.
[Footnote 2: Thornton.]