That had started a festering bitterness in Keseberg against the aristocratic Reed. And now finally, James Reed had done something that provided a chance to get even.
After the tragedy, the Graves family took Snyder’s body up the hill, and then they quickly made camp. The Reeds followed, placing their wagon some thirty or forty yards away. William Eddy chose to camp with the Reeds, making a clear statement where he stood in this matter.
The Eddy family was not part of the Reed-Donner group. A carriage maker in his late twenties, Bill Eddy was married and had two small children. He too was from Illinois, and so he had naturally drawn closer to the Reeds and the Donners than to the others. But he was not one of them, and everyone knew that. They also knew of his expertise with a firearm and that of all the company he had the greatest skills as a frontiersman. He had some rudimentary tracking skills, was an excellent hunter, and seemed able to fix about anything that got broken. His skills had served the company well many times, and he was greatly respected by all. It was therefore of great significance that he chose to bring his family with the Reeds now. The Donners were not there, of course, being a day or two ahead of the rest.
Margret Reed, injured herself, was still in a state of shock, so plucky Virginia took scissors to her father and snipped away the hair from the three cuts, then bathed and bandaged them. That afternoon the Graveses held a funeral for John Snyder. Reed, totally shattered by what he had done, went over to Franklin Graves and tried to explain what had happened. He offered wood for a coffin. He was coldly rebuffed.
As the evening wore on, it was clear, even though the two groups were camped some distance from each other, that the Graves family was building an emotional head of steam and wanted vengeance. The Reeds and the Eddys stayed close to their wagons, trying not to listen to the angry shouts and the wailing of the women. Reed seemed far away, so distraught that he barely noted what was going on around him. Then, on the still night air, the harsh voice of Lewis Keseberg sounded clearly.
“Vhere is de justice?” he cried. “A man is dead. A good man. An honest man. Vhere is his murderer? He sits by his fire drinking coffee as though nothink had happened.”
James Reed shot to his feet, but Margret grabbed his hand and pulled him down again. “No, James,” she said softly. William Eddy had also jumped up to block his way. He sat down when Reed sank back again.
“Vhere is dis reech man who is too good to drive his own vagons? Where is dis man who is so qvick to condemn others?” He swung around and, in what looked very much like a staged maneuver, grabbed an ox yoke and held it up high. “You know what vee do vith murderers in my country? Vee hang them so dey cannot kill again.”
In other circumstances it would have sounded so bizarre and so ridiculous that it would have brought smiles or open guffaws. No one laughed now. Beside Reed, Margret gasped and clutched at his arm. Eddy, looking grim, stood and went to the wagon. When he came back, he had his rifle and was loading it. Milt Elliott nodded and did the same.
Peter felt like he was going to throw up. He had been no more than five feet from John Snyder when he saw the blade plunge into his body and the horrified look which crossed his face. The image was burned in his mind and against the back of his eyelids, so that every time he closed his eyes the scene unfolded again. He glanced at Reed. He wasn’t looking at anyone. But then Peter saw that Reed had sometime in the last hour strapped his pistol on. Elliott jerked his head at Peter, his eyes demanding.
Peter’s mind was racing even as his stomach churned. Would it come to that? he wondered. Would they take up arms against each other now? But he already knew the answer. Out on the plains there were only two things that provided justice—the will of the majority and sheer firepower. Near Independence Rock one of the men in the Oregon company had killed another man. A quick trial had been held. Some argued for leniency because the man had a wife and children. The company agreed that leniency was needed, so they promised to care for the family and promptly hanged the man from a wagon tongue while his wife looked on.
What was frightening was that with the Donners being a day or so ahead of them, James Reed did not have a majority. His other hired men were with the Donners as well. Besides his family, he had only Peter and Milt Elliott. Eddy’s siding with them helped, but those in this camp who would stand for James Reed were in a distinct minority.
With a sigh, Peter stood up, went to his bedroll, and found the pistol that James Reed had given him back in Illinois. He came back and sat down beside the fire, feeling more ill than he had before.
Keseberg was still on his feet, but all they heard now was the angry muttering of his audience. Then the German spun around, still holding the yoke high above his head. He strode to his wagon and in a quick movement lashed the yoke to the wagon tongue. Then he lifted the tongue until it stuck straight up in the air. “Dere!” he cried. “Dere is our gallows. Now, vhere is de murderer?”
James Reed got to his feet again, only this time slowly, with great weariness. Margret tried to hold him down, but he shook her off. He looked at Elliott, then William Eddy, then Peter. “There’s no running from it. We have to face it.”
They nodded, knowing the inevitability of it as well as he. What had happened today had torn the whole fabric of their company. Something had to be done, if not to mend it, then to stop it from ripping further. They were too far from civilization and in too desperate a strait to hope it would heal itself.
Mrs. Reed stood up, but her husband turned to her and took her by the shoulders, gently, tenderly. “It will be all right, Mother,” he said softly. “You stay here with the children.”
She sat back down slowly, then put her face in her hands and began to cry.
As they crossed the creek, Keseberg saw them and cut off his harangue in midsentence. Everyone turned and a great silence fell over the camp. Several of them were armed as well, Peter saw. If they couldn’t settle this reasonably . . . He shuddered, not wanting to finish his thoughts on the matter.
“Sit down, Keseberg,” Reed said flatly.
The man reared back, starting to sputter, but then Patrick Breen turned on him too. “Sit down, Lewis.”
And then it began. No formal meeting was called. No one asked for order. James Reed simply and with deep sorrow told in his own words what had happened. Faces went grim and eyes turned angry, but no one spoke. As soon as Reed sat down, Franklin Graves leaped to his feet. This was not a case of self-defense, he cried. Reed had been too impatient to wait his turn. When Snyder had tried to reason with him, Reed had pulled his knife in a fit of temper and stabbed him. Only then did Snyder hit Reed with the butt of his whip.
Breen motioned to Milt Elliott, noting that he had been the closest to the event. Milt completely contradicted Graves. Midway through, as he told them how Snyder, in a rage, had struck Mrs. Reed, John Breen, Patrick’s fourteen-year-old son, leaped up, his voice so filled with anger that he could barely speak. “That is not true,” he shouted. “You are the one who started all this. John Snyder was a gentleman. He would never strike a woman.”
Breen, who made little bones about the fact that he stood squarely against Reed on this, had nevertheless become the acknowledged judge, or at least the adjudicator. He waved his son down and turned to Peter. Peter confirmed all that Milt Elliott said and what James Reed had testified. It was not enough. Keseberg said he had seen it clearly from the top of the hill and that Reed had struck first. Others angrily blamed Elliott for not waiting his turn.
It raged on like that for a quarter of an hour. Finally Breen raised his hands. The group fell silent. When he spoke, his Irish accent was as distinctive as Keseberg’s German one, and yet so much softer. “Shall we call for a vote?” he asked. “The question at hand is whether James Frazier Reed is guilty of murder and should be hanged.”
There were murmurs from the larger group, and several cried out for a vote.
William Eddy, rifle held easily in the crook of his arm, raised his hand. “I say that a vote is not the answer in this case. Those who are unfriendly to Mr. Reed—and I am speaking of your feelings before what happened today—outnumber those of us who take his side. If the full company were together, a vote might be appropriate.”
“Vote! Vote!” Keseberg cried. “Hang him.”
Reed swung around, baring his neck. “If that’s what you want,” he said hotly. “Come on, gentlemen. Here I am.”
No one moved, and Keseberg fell back a step in the face of Reed’s daring anger.
Eddy turned back to Patrick Breen. “We believe that Mr. Reed is totally innocent of the charge of murder. What happened today was a tragedy, a tragedy caused by hot tempers and difficult circumstances. If you vote to hang Mr. Reed, know that Mr. Elliott, Mr. Ingalls, Mr. Reed, and myself shall defend him to the death.”
There were gasps and quick indrawn breaths. He was defying the law of the majority.
Eddy went on calmly. “We cannot—” He stopped, waiting for every eye to turn to him. “We
cannot
afford any more deaths in this company. We shall need every man if we are to reach California before winter comes. Therefore, I suggest that we put this matter aside for now. Let it rest until we get to California. Then we shall have a formal trial and justice will be done.”
“No!” A couple of the Graves men had jumped up to stand beside Keseberg. “We will not travel with a murderer. Hang him!”
Eddy watched them for several seconds, then raised his hand again. “Feelings clearly run deep on this matter.” He glanced quickly at Reed, who stood with his head down, staring at the ground. “Therefore I suggest a compromise.” He hesitated, and finally Reed’s head came up. “I suggest that Mr. Reed be banished from the company.”
“What?” Reed cried, his face draining of color.
“I see no other way,” Eddy said softly, meeting his eyes directly.
“I will not leave my family,” Reed cried hoarsely. “This is not right.”
Eddy turned to him. His voice was sad. “You have our word that we shall care for your family and bring them on, Mr. Reed. If we don’t do this, there will be further bloodshed.” He was pleading now. “Do you think you will be safe if you stay? Every day you will have to watch your back. At night you won’t dare sleep. This is the only way.”
Others cried out in protest as Reed and Eddy stared at each other for a long moment; then finally Reed’s head dropped again. But then it nodded silently.
Breen called for silence. “The sentence of banishment is acceptable,” he said finally, “but on these conditions. Mr. Reed is to have no weapon, no food, no horse.”
Peter whirled. “What? That is the equivalent of a death sentence,” he cried. “We are hundreds of miles from civilization.”
“It is that, or he shall hang. And if we cannot agree, then we shall stand to our weapons,” Breen said evenly.
Peter started to speak again, but William Eddy reached out and grabbed his arm. “It’s all right, Peter.” He peered into his eyes and Peter saw pleading there. “Let them have it,” his eyes said.
Peter clamped his mouth shut and stepped back again. Eddy looked around the circle one last time, letting his eyes stop on Patrick Breen. “Agreed,” he said.
Without another word, Reed and his companions turned and walked back to their camp.
“I’m going with you, Mr. Reed.”
James Reed didn’t look up, but just shook his head. “No.”
“I’m not asking, Mr. Reed,” Peter said quietly.
Now his employer’s head came up sharply and there was fire in his eyes. “What did you say?”
“I hired on to go with you to California,” Peter answered, perfectly calm. “And that’s what I’m going to do. No one will know I’m gone until it is too late.” As Reed started to speak again, he rushed on. “Mr. Eddy and Milt are needed here with your family, Mr. Reed. You know that they are better qualified to care for them than I am.”
Milt Elliott was staring at Peter, and then he slowly nodded. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “That is an answer. We know that George and Jacob are just a day or two ahead of us and will help you. But the Indians here are not friendly. A day or two is all they would need to kill a solitary man.”
“Did you say you’re not asking for my permission?” Reed asked Peter, ignoring his other teamster. His voice was cool and distant.
Peter didn’t flinch. “That’s what I said.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going yet,” Reed said bitterly, giving Eddy a baleful glance.
Mrs. Reed, who had sat quietly through all this, her eyes red and swollen, now looked up. “James?”
He turned to her.
“I want you to go.” That took him aback. She rushed on. “If you stay, there will be great trouble. But even if you do, what then? Do you want to be here as you watch your wife and children slowly starve to death?”
“But, Margret—”
Her voice was strong now, hard with determination. “No, you listen to me, James. Mr. Stanton and Mr. McCutchen rode on ahead for supplies. There has been no sign of them. Perhaps something has befallen them. If you go, you can ride ahead to California and get help and supplies. It is a way that you can save us.”
Eddy broke in eagerly. “She’s right, Mr. Reed. It could be our only hope.”
“And I want Peter to go with you,” Margret Reed said evenly. “I don’t want you out there alone.” Now she looked directly at her husband. This woman might be devastated by what was happening, but this was not a woman who was broken. Her eyes held his, daring him to disagree. “You don’t say one more word. You just do it.”
William Eddy was nodding. “When you catch up with the Donners, in addition to supplies I’d ask for Walt Herron or Baylis to go with you too. Three of you will stand a much better chance.”
Through all of that, Reed’s eyes had never left Peter’s face. “You’re a little cheeky, aren’t you, boy?”
Peter, surprised at the sudden use of a good old English phrase, smiled. “Yes, sir. I suppose I am.”
Then Reed’s mouth softened and his eyes relaxed. “Thank you, Peter. I would be honored to have you along. Why don’t you leave before first light and I’ll meet you down the trail a mile or two.”