The Hunger(24)

Donner beamed stupidly. Undoubtedly he would repeat this endorsement to everyone in the party. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Tell you what, I’ll saddle up myself and take you to the start of the pass,” Bridger said. “But you’ll want to take a few days to rest up, make sure your animals are well fed and in good shape. We got oats, a little feed corn, too. Nothing between here and John Sutter’s fort in California. This here’s your last chance to fatten ’em up before you head into the mountains.”

“And we’ll make the best use of it, too, sir, you can count on that,” Donner said, beaming at each man in turn as he departed.

Stanton let Donner go alone. He turned to Vasquez. “Do you have a letter for me from Edwin Bryant? He should’ve passed through here a week or so ago.”

He thought he saw a flicker in Vasquez’s dark eyes before Bridger spoke up. “What was that name again?”

“Bryant. A few years older than me, wears spectacles most of the time. A newspaperman.”

Bridger shook his head. “Don’t recall anyone by that name came through this way. There’s nothing here for you, anyway.”

Stanton felt a quick seize of dread. “He was just ahead of us on the trail,” he said. When Bridger said nothing, he went on, “He intended to stop here. He told me so himself.” He didn’t want to think about what could have waylaid him: Bryant injured, dead, or dying.

“No, no, you’re right. He was here, I remember him now,” Vasquez said slowly.

Stanton was relieved to hear that Bryant had come through the fort after all. But there was something that rang false about the way the two men were acting. “Bryant was going to leave a letter for me. Are you sure there’s nothing?”

“Nothing, sir,” Vasquez said. Stanton knew that he was lying.

“Well—you heard Donner. We’ll be here for a few more days. I’ll check back just in case something turns up,” he said as he turned to leave. But Bridger only gave him a stony smile, showing all his teeth.



* * *



? ? ?

A GRAY RAIN SETTLED OVER them for the next two days. It would help with the drought so no one complained, but it was just heavy enough to make life miserable. Fires sputtered and smoked; families hunkered down in their tents, shivering out their evenings in mud-spattered clothing and boots, scratching at lice and other vermin that seemed to have infested half the wagon party’s bedding and clothes. It was hardest on the older members of the party like Mathis Hardkoop, an elderly Belgian traveling on his own. Hardkoop, no judge of character, had (inexplicably, as far as Stanton could see) come to depend on Keseberg for help, but Keseberg had tired of the old man and—against his quiet wife Philippine’s wishes—thrown him out of his wagon. Weakened by the demands of the trail, Hardkoop quickly developed a bad cough and could be found slinking around the fort with his near-empty satchel and bedroll, looking for a dry place to sleep.

A couple of families escaped the wet and mud by renting rooms from Bridger and Vasquez. James Reed moved his large brood into a bunkhouse that had stood unused since the garrison had moved on the year before. George and Jacob Donner went one better by offering Vasquez enough money to move his family out of their log cabin. The two Donner clans would escape the drizzle, be able to enjoy hot meals and boil water in Vasquez’s big copper cauldron for hot baths. Stanton was still too much of a Yankee to spend good money when he had a sturdy tent at hand.

Finally, on the third morning of their stay, the rain cleared. Stanton knelt by the river, stripped to the waist, his clothing piled nearby. The water was so cold it took his breath away. Punishingly cold, but again something he had a perverse liking for, no doubt thanks to his grandfather. He washed quickly, only the exposed parts. Donner had promised that it was to be their final day at the fort and everyone was hurrying to get through the last of their chores. He had a long list: inspect the axle and wheels for signs of wear or weakness; clean the harnesses, which had become stiff with sweat; check on the oxen’s and his saddle horse’s hooves. A beast of burden was only as good as its hooves, and no one could afford to lose one of their animals.

He felt the scream as much as he heard it. He knew her voice, felt her cry in his body, as if it were a message meant for him. He reached for the pistol lying on top of his clothing but didn’t stop for anything else. He sprinted in the direction of her voice.

Mary Graves.

She was on her back in the dirt, scrabbling backward. The shock of seeing her that way was nothing compared to the surprise of seeing a man standing over her. He was filthy, his skin nearly leprous from neglect, his eyes red and wet. The stink coming off him was overpowering and nearly made Stanton choke.

These thoughts passed through Stanton’s mind in an instant. Later he would remember nothing but a vision of two scabrous hands gripping Mary’s shoulders, before he drew a bead and squeezed off two shots automatically.

The bullets caught the man—if he could be called that—in the back. He released his grip on Mary, then toppled forward. Mary had to shove him hard to keep him from rolling on top of her. She tried to stand but sank down in the dirt again. She was very pale, and Stanton could see she was doing everything not to cry.

Stanton was surprised that the man was still alive; he was pretty sure that he’d put both bullets in him. He crouched next to him to see if there was anything he could do. “Don’t thrash, you’ll only bleed more,” he ordered, but when he held a hand out to get the man to lie still, the stranger lunged toward him, nearly taking off Stanton’s fingers with rust-colored teeth. Stanton struck him hard in the face; his bones felt spongy, almost rotten.