The Hunger(23)

He was still reeling from the events of three nights ago, when Donner had confessed to Stanton that he knew Tamsen was up to something. It wouldn’t be the first time, he’d admitted; Tamsen was a fragile woman, and certain past “occurrences” were part of the reason for the move west. Her latest affair had been on the verge of going public, a scandal that would’ve made a laughingstock of him—and her. As they staggered home, Donner so drunk that he had to lean on Stanton for support, he swore that he would kill whoever Tamsen was seeing this time. Stanton was surprised by the ferocity with which Donner seemed to defend his wife, despite it all. Though he generally seemed like a harmless enough man, Stanton had no doubt Donner would do what he said.

And so he kept the night watch, even though it meant barely being able to keep his eyes open during the long, hot, dusty days.

When he first caught sight of Fort Bridger, he imagined it might be a mirage. There were the roofs of a few log cabins, and buildings on the verge of collapse. Stanton hadn’t realized how eager he’d been to get here—to find a little relief from his own thoughts—until their party approached the fort. Now he was surprised by the weight of his disappointment. This place could almost be mistaken for deserted.

Unease grew and spread: Stanton could feel it like a wind touching down, rippling through the group. This couldn’t be Fort Bridger, they told each other. Where was the stockade fence, the stout gate, the cannon? In the distance, a handful of smaller outbuildings cowered together. Two Indians chopping wood in a muddy courtyard looked up as the wagon train rolled past but quickly returned to their work.

They found Jim Bridger, the proprietor, inside one of the dilapidated log cabins. It was dim and so smoky that you could barely see. The cabins were low and long, with few openings for windows, though chinks between the logs let in plenty of drafts. The floors were packed dirt, covered here and there with ragged hides. Two Indian women sat in the corner, hunched over baskets and seemingly oblivious to the smoke from the fireplace. A child played at their feet, scrubbing a thumb in the dirt.

Stanton had heard about Bridger at Fort Laramie, stories of his temper and impatience, all blamed on the many years he spent alone in the wilderness. He had been a mountain man roaming the area for a decade before setting up the fort with his partner, a restless Mexican named Luis Vasquez. Paranoid, prone to take the law into his own hands, was how he’d been described by one of the men at Fort Laramie.

Bridger might once have been strong, even intimidating, but now he was wizened, hollow-cheeked, diminished, as if something had sucked out a good part of his insides. He was dressed in tattered and filthy buckskins. His hair was long, thin, and gray. When he looked up, there was no mistaking the strange brightness in his eyes; the man was crazy.

Donner was so tall compared to Bridger that when he thrust out his hand, he nearly struck the man in the face. “I need to speak to the proprietor of this establishment,” he said in that expansive, confident tone that Stanton had come to know as completely false.

“You found ’im,” Bridger said, without glancing up. Next to him behind the counter was a short, younger man with skin the color of caramel and a dirty apron tied about his waist. They appeared to be taking inventory.

“We’ll be staying here for a couple days to rest the animals,” Donner explained after they’d exchanged names.

“That’s fine. Let us know if you need anything. We got pretty good stocks of supplies,” Vasquez said, wiping his palms on the greasy apron, streaked rust-red and brown as though he had been butchering. “Which way you planning to go? North or west?” Both men seemed keenly interested in the response.

“West, of course,” Donner said. “We’ve come to meet up with Lansford Hastings. He said he’d be waiting here to guide settlers down the cutoff.”

Bridger and Vasquez exchanged a look that Stanton couldn’t decipher. “Hastings was here, but he moved on,” Vasquez said. “A wagon train come through two weeks ago and he set off with them.”

“Two weeks ago!” Donner repeated. “But he promised to wait.”

Stanton resisted the urge to point out to Donner that he’d been warned. Donner had convinced the party to make the journey down Hastings Cutoff, said that Hastings would wait for them. Now everyone would see that they’d taken a gamble—and possibly lost.

“No need to fret,” Bridger said, squinting in a way Stanton assumed was meant to suggest a smile. “Hastings left instructions. Said any wagons that came through should follow their trail. They’re marking it. You won’t be able to miss it.”

Donner frowned. “And what’s your opinion of this trail? Is it any good? We have ninety people in our party, most of them women and children.”

Stanton wasn’t sure why he bothered to ask. Fort Bridger’s fortunes depended on the success of this trail. He hoped Christian decency would keep these men from lying to them outright, but he’d been disappointed by Christian goodness in the past. Few men valued the lives of strangers over profit.

Both Bridger and Vasquez hesitated. “Well, that route is pretty new,” Vasquez said finally.

“That it is,” Bridger interrupted, his tone brighter than Vasquez’s. “But Hastings is keen on it. He’s been down it with Bill Clyman, you heard of him? Clyman is probably the most famous mountain man in this territory, and old Bill give it his stamp of approval.”