Bitterness against Mr. Reed grows. Lansford Hastings is not here to take the blame, so many put it upon Mr. Reed. Our alienation from others in the party grows noticeably each day. Part of this now festers from months ago when Mr. Reed confronted Keseberg, a haughty German, about mistreating his wife. Keseberg, a man with a great temper, still seethes over what he saw as his humiliation.
Seeing more signs of Indians. Shoshannees, or something like that. Uncle George (Donner) lost two horses several days ago. Assume Indians stole them.
Six days ago we rejoined the California Trail. Mr. Reed totaled up the mileage from his journal. He calculates that instead of saving three hundred miles as Mr. Hastings promised, in actuality we have likely come an extra one hundred twenty-five miles. Someone suggested we rename the route “Hastings’s Long Trip.” Though we are now on the California Trail, there are no wagons in sight. We are alone, so far as we know. Notes and sign boards left by parties ahead confirm that this was a terrible mistake. At the Weber River, we were just four days behind Hastings and his group. Now we are at least eighteen days behind them. Some of us now remember—not without pain—Tamsen Donner’s deep melancholy when we chose this new route. Standing guard each night on livestock. Have lost two oxen and several horses to Indians. We have none to spare! Making better time. Company still split. Donners are now about a day in the lead. The heavy family wagon so artfully constructed back in Illinois now slows us considerably, since we have insufficient oxen. My thoughts are constantly of Kathryn and the baby. It is now just three months from coming into the world. Oh, how I wish I could be there when it comes!
It was not that steep a hill. Compared to what they had come over in the Wasatch, especially that last killer ridge that had nearly broken their teams, this was barely more than a long rise. They had seen worse coming across the desert. But that had been a long time ago and when their teams were stronger. This hill, long and with deep sand, had stopped them again. Along the river it was too marshy. Fording the river to go around the hill wasn’t an option either. Their teams, down in number and almost utterly wasted, simply could not pull them alone. So once again the fragmented, straggling company known as the Donner Party had to stop and double team in order to get their wagons up and over the top.
Peter shook his head grimly. Why did he still refer to it as the Donner Party? George Donner was the elected captain, that was true enough, but after the loss on the Salt Desert the Donners had the strongest teams, and in the last few days they and their party had gradually pulled ahead of their companions. Judging from the signs they left behind, they were now at least a day ahead of the others, more likely two. That was too bad, for at times like this, the Reeds and their fellow travelers desperately needed the extra oxen.
But that was wishful thinking and won them nothing. Peter sighed and walked back to James Reed’s wagon. Milt Elliott was just finishing the yoking up of the extra team borrowed from one of the Graveses’ wagons. “You want me to take this one up?” Peter asked.
Reed’s lead teamster shook his head. He and Peter were the only Reed drivers still with the family. With most of Reed’s oxen lost and two wagons abandoned, Reed had sent the others on with the Donners, who had more provisions. “You took the last one. I’ll take this one,” Elliott answered.
“All right.” Peter moved past him around to the back of the wagon. Pushing at the back of this heavy wagon wouldn’t give the oxen much help, but it was something to do and perhaps it helped enough to give the animals some relief, even though small.
Once in place, he turned and looked up the hill, then shook his head. The wagon that had started ahead of them was now stopped about halfway up. John Snyder, a teamster for the Graves family, was now blocking the trail.
“Milt,” Peter called. “Look.”
Elliott turned, then swore. “Come on, Snyder,” he yelled. “Keep it going.”
Peter heard the sound of a horse and turned. Mr. Reed approached, riding his mare. During the noon stop he had gone out on a brief hunting trip. Peter saw that he had bagged nothing. Reed surveyed the situation quickly, then swung down and tied Glaucus on the back of the wagon. Peter couldn’t help but notice the difference in the once proud thoroughbred. Its ribs could be easily counted. Its coat was dull and dirty. The spirit was largely gone.
Reed came over to stand beside Peter, peering up the hill. “What’s going on?”
Peter shrugged. “We took Pike’s wagon over first and now we’ve got his team. Mr. Graves was going to send his teams back for his last wagon, but Snyder said this one was lighter and he could make it without the extra help.”
Reed snorted. “What was he thinking? That sand is like adding on a thousand pounds.”
“Well, as you can see, he was wrong. Looks like he’s stuck now and is going to have to wait for the extra teams anyway. So, here we sit.”
Margret Reed had been standing with the children on the other side of the wagon to get some relief from the sun. She came around now to see what they were talking about. Reed squinted up at the wagon that was ahead of them, then made up his mind. “Milt,” he called irritably, “we’re not waiting any longer for that fool. Let’s go.” Then he cupped his hand and shouted. “Move out of the way, Snyder, we’re coming up.”
Peter was a little surprised. There was no love lost between Franklin Graves and his family and James Frazier Reed. Graves was now openly blaming Reed for convincing them to take the Hastings Cutoff, even though the Graves party hadn’t been at Fort Bridger when the decision had been made and only joined the Donner group when they were two or three days into the Wasatch Mountains. But John Snyder and Reed had quickly struck up a friendship, and it had been Snyder who had convinced Graves to lend a yoke of oxen to Reed after his were lost in the Salt Desert. So Reed’s anger at the teamster was a little unusual.
Up the hill, Snyder was standing by his team. He spun around and shouted back. “There’s no room. Wait your turn. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
“Only a fool would think you could pull that hill without help,” Reed shouted back. “Now, move over.” To Elliott he snapped. “All right, let’s go.” He stepped over beside Peter and prepared to help push. “Margret, you take the children and stand back.”
As she did so, Milt gave Peter a startled look. The road up the hill was pretty narrow, and it wouldn’t take much to tip their wagon if they got too far to the side. Reed saw that look and swore. “Are you deaf, Milt? I said let’s go.”
Elliott had still not fully recovered from the shame of being the one who had lost the oxen, and so without another word he turned and lifted his whip. It popped over the lead yoke. “Ho, boys! Let’s go!”
The animals hit their yoke and the heavy wagon began to move. Snyder, seeing what was happening, started waving his arms and yelling at them, but they couldn’t distinguish his words over the sounds of the wagon and team.
The wagon slowed as the large wheels sank into the sand. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Reed shouted at Elliott. “We’ll never get them going again.”
Peter looked around the wagon and saw that they were closing on John Snyder. Snyder was waving furiously now, screaming for them to stop.
“There’s not enough room,” Peter yelled at Mr. Reed. “He’s not moving.”
Reed leaped around Peter to see for himself. He let fly with an expletive, running forward, shouting furiously. “Give way. We’re coming through.”
Now Snyder’s voice carried over the noise of the wagon. “You bullheaded idiot! Wait your turn.” Then when he saw they were still coming on and that he would be trapped between the oncoming oxen and his wagon, he darted forward, grabbing at the yoke of his oxen, yelling at them to move. They hit their yokes, but it was like trying to pull a barn. Nothing happened. No longer pushing Reed’s wagon but running alongside and urging the animals, Peter saw that Snyder, in a fury, was beating at the heads of his oxen with the butt of his whip to try and get them to move.
Suddenly Peter was angry. That was no way to treat your animals. Snyder was punishing them for his own stupidity. Peter shouted and started to run forward.
Milt Elliott, trotting alongside the oxen on their left side, saw that when the wagons came together he was going to be caught in the same squeeze that Snyder had scrambled away to avoid. He hurried around the front of the oxen to the off side, screaming profanities at Snyder. Peter darted forward, swinging around so that he could pass around the other side of Snyder’s wagon and stop the teamster from beating the oxen.
All three men—Reed, Elliott, and Peter—reached Snyder’s wagon at the same moment. They didn’t have to look back. On its current course Reed’s family wagon was going to collide with Snyder’s. “Watch out, Milt!” Peter shouted.
But Milt Elliott had already seen what was coming. “Gee! Gee!” he screamed, giving the oxen the command to turn to the right.
“Not too far!” Reed shouted, running up to grab the yoke of the lead oxen and stop them from turning too sharply. “We’ll go over the side.”
Peter’s attempt to stop Snyder was forgotten. He dropped back behind Reed’s wagon to size up the space between it and Snyder’s. The Reed wagon was turning, but it was going to be close. “More,” he yelled.
But Elliott’s commands now created another problem. Snyder’s lashing fury had driven his oxen into a frenzy. They couldn’t move forward, but they couldn’t stand still under the beating. When they heard Elliott’s cries to turn right, they responded as well. The off ox jerked to the right just as Reed’s lead yoke came up alongside. There was a loud bawl of protest as the two teams collided and tangled up in a mass of kicking, struggling animals. Yoke locked against yoke, feet fought for the same ground, and one ox nearly stumbled.
“Get out of there,” Snyder snarled at Reed. “Pull back. Pull back.” Then he leaped sideways and began raining blows on the heads of the Reed team, shouting, cursing, slashing downward with his whip again and again.
Stunned at the ferocity of the teamster’s attack, Reed rushed forward, grabbing at Snyder’s arm. “What are you doing?” he yelled. “Let them alone. Let us through.”
The teams, hopelessly entangled now, came to a stop and the Reed wagon sank down in the sand. Snyder jerked free from the older man’s grasp and stepped back, raising his whip. “Get back, Reed. Wait your turn.”
Reed took a step toward him, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “You miserable fool. Now you’ve stopped us. If you can’t make it, then get out of the way for those who can.”
The hand holding the whip rose high above Snyder’s head. His face was flushed and his mouth working. “I’ll teach you who can make it and who can’t.”
Elliott and Peter started forward at the same moment. “Stop, John!” Elliott shouted.
But James Reed was not a man lacking in courage. With a blur, his hand dropped, then swung up again. In it was the large hunting knife he kept in a scabbard at his side. “Put down the whip, John,” he exclaimed.
“No, James.” It was Margret Reed, and it came out as a strangled cry of pure terror.
For one long second Snyder stared at the naked blade in astonishment; then with lightning speed he lunged forward, bringing his hand downward. The butt handle of a bullwhip was usually made of a solid piece of hardwood, like oak or ash, or was made of a softer wood hollowed out so that melted lead could be poured into it. Either way it was heavy and more like a club than a handle. Reed was so startled, he didn’t even have time to step back. The butt caught him just above the left temple. He staggered back, blood gushing from a four-inch wound.
“No!” Margret Reed hurled herself forward as Snyder raised his hand to strike again. She threw herself between her husband and his assailant. Snyder was in a black fury and barely perceived who had jumped in front of him. Down came the whip again, the butt hitting Mrs. Reed alongside the head and knocking her sprawling. Reed stared in stupefied shock. He had one hand to his head, trying to staunch the bleeding. Snyder moved in, swinging hard, and struck him twice more. The second blow knocked Reed to his knees.
Then the rage swept over James Reed as well. With a cry of pure animal instinct, he leaped upward, diving at Snyder, the blade of the great knife flashing in the sun. His aim was true and the knife struck Snyder in the left breast, just below the collarbone.
There was a startled, strangled “Oh!” and Snyder fell back against one of the oxen, clutching at the wound. The whip slipped from his fingers and fell to the sand. He turned, staggering away for several steps; then he sank to his knees, staring at Reed in total disbelief.
Reed flung the knife away and took a step forward. “John?” He seemed as dazed as Snyder.
The rest of the party, who were at the top of the hill, had started running toward the two wagons as soon as they saw what was happening. They arrived just in time to see the final blow. Patrick Breen, the Irishman, ran to Snyder and dropped to his knees, reaching out to steady him. Snyder gazed into the Irishman’s face, totally bewildered. “Uncle Patrick,” he said, struggling now to speak. “I am dead.”
His head slowly dropped to his chest. After a moment, his eyes closed. Breen laid him down gently in the sand and took his hand. There was not a sound. No one moved. And then finally, there was a final gasp—the death rattle, as many called it—and a momentary shudder, and then the teamster’s body rolled against the big Irishman.
Breen looked up, his eyes filled with tears and with shock. “He’s gone,” he said, his voice sounding very much like Snyder’s just a few moments before.
Lewis Keseberg was a big man, and very German. In his early thirties, he was blond, handsome, and highly educated. He often bragged that he spoke three languages fluently. He had come from Germany only two years before and spoke with a heavy accent. He never spoke of why he had come to America and then almost immediately decided to embark on a journey such as this. Many speculated that there was something in his past that he wanted to escape.
He was not well liked. He was loud, brash, eccentric, opinionated. Worse for a company that when traveling together was like a tiny village community, there had been strong suspicions that he beat his wife. A wagon cover offers little privacy. One night it had become so bad that James Reed had publicly rebuked him and threatened him physically if it happened again. He made Keseberg walk at the rear of the company for several days.