Will gave a low whistle. “Have they got a place to stay? Everyone says the passes are closed by now.”
Peter shook his head, his eyes troubled. “Me and Mr. Reed—he’s the man who hired me—came ahead to get supplies. We’re leaving as soon as possible to go back and help them.”
Will was reeling. “But—”
“I know, Will, but we have no choice. We’ve got to try.” He stopped, looking haunted. “It’s been terrible, Will. Mr. Reed is talking with Mr. Sutter. He’s promised to help. We need men, Will.”
Will glanced quickly at Alice, who nodded silently after only a moment’s hesitation.
“I’ll go, Peter. I’ll talk to Mr. Sutter this afternoon about it.”
Peter closed his eyes and leaned back. “Thank you,” he whispered.
The day after the arrival of James Reed and Peter Ingalls at Sutter’s Fort, a light rain started to fall. The next morning there was snow on the mountains. Captain John Sutter was grim. It was the earliest he had seen snow down that low.
It took them three days to put everything together. Sutter gave them bags of flour and a quarter of beef, several horses and a mule. He also gave them a letter of introduction to Mr. Cordway, who lived near Johnson’s Ranch, about twenty-five miles up the Bear River.
By the time they left Johnson’s Ranch, they were well equipped—thirty horses, a mule, two Indian drovers to help them. There were only four white men—Reed and Peter, Will Steed and William McCutchen. McCutchen had been left behind by Charles Stanton because of illness. Now he was well enough to go, but it was Walt Herron who was too ill to return. The reason for the dearth of others was not that no one cared, but rather that almost all of the white adult males in this part of Upper California had already been enlisted in the war with Mexico.
They moved up the Bear River making good time, though they were worried about how often the mountains ahead of them disappeared behind heavy clouds. As they approached the head of the river, which was where their serious climbing would begin, the clouds descended and a heavy rain mixed with sleet began to fall. By morning the sleet had turned to snow and there was nearly eighteen inches on the ground. They pressed forward in light but steady snowfall all that next day, and by the time they reached the head of the valley, they were pushing through close to two feet of snow. A deepening dread weighed in on all of them as they pitched their tent. Snow was still falling steadily and covered everything with a white shroud.
They made slow progress the following day. The snow continued unabated, and soon the horses were battling for every yard. The lead horses would stop for a moment to get their breath, then rear up on their hind legs and leap forward, breasting the snow. But as soon as they came down again, they would sink in the powdery fluff until only their heads, necks, and the tops of their backs were visible. By nightfall, after making less than ten miles, they camped again. As they huddled around their miserable little fire, they talked about leaving the horses and carrying what they could on their backs.
No one spoke of the question that was on everyone’s mind. Had the emigrant group made it over the pass? How far ahead of them were they now? five miles? ten? James Reed and William McCutchen sipped their coffee and stared out into the snowy night. For them, this was much more than just making a noble effort. Their families were somewhere out ahead of them, waiting.
Will jerked his head up as he felt Peter roll away from him. When they had gone to bed, the sky was still overcast and showed no stars, but with all the snow it was as though there were a soft moon out. Now the whiteness permeated the canvas of their tent enough that Will could see Peter in silhouette. He was sitting up, his head cocked to one side.
Will reached out and touched him. “What’s the matter?” he whispered.
“Listen!”
There was the sound of muffled hoofbeats.
The four of them were sleeping in one tent. The two Indians had made their bed in the snow, refusing shelter. Reed and McCutchen were both sitting up now. A horse whinnied. Another made that curious ruffling sound that horses made when they blew out breath. There was no question about what they were hearing. It was horses on the move.
“They’re taking the horses,” Reed shouted. In a second the tent was a scramble of men grabbing for trousers, boots, and coats.
They might have saved themselves the trouble. By the time they were dressed and ducked out of the tent into the night, about half the horses were gone, back down the trail that they had so painfully broken during the day. McCutchen swore and immediately began to saddle his horse.
“You won’t catch them,” Reed said, muttering angrily.
“Maybe they’ll stop once they reach the valley,” McCutchen growled. He slapped his rifle into the scabbard. “If they do, I think I can persuade them to come back.”
“You’ll get lost,” Peter said.
“Not in this snow. There’s only one trail to follow.”
He swung up and, without looking back, started down the trail.
It had been light only about half an hour when Bill McCutchen appeared on the trail below their camp. His breath and that of his horse made great clouds as they rode up to the tent. He shook his head curtly, then dismounted. “They stopped in the valley, but only long enough to get the horses in a line again. They’re long gone.”
The tent was down and packed away, but they had a small fire going with a coffeepot in the coals. Reed poured a cup of coffee and handed it across the fire. “Our horses can’t go any farther in this. Maybe it’s just as well. Now that we’ve lost half the herd, we’ve got more than we can possibly carry anyway.”
McCutchen grunted, but said nothing.
“Even with packs, we’ll be quite a bit lighter than the horses. Hopefully the snow will hold our weight.”
McCutchen turned, eyeing over the top of his cup the deep snow around them. Then he nodded. “I’m ready. Let’s get going.”
They went no more than a hundred yards before they had to admit defeat. The snow was chest deep, and it was so light and powdery that it didn’t hold them at all. It was like wading through deep water, only water didn’t resist you the way this did. And no water was as cold.
Reed, who was breaking trail, stopped, his chest heaving. He backed up a step, then leaned over, hands on his knees, gasping heavily.
“We can’t do it,” Peter said in despair. “There’s no way we can go on.”
“We have to,” McCutchen cried. “My wife and daughter are waiting for me.” Cursing steadily, he pushed around Reed and took the point, thrusting his body forward with great leaps. He went maybe ten feet, then had to stop, like Reed, gasping for every breath.
Reed slowly straightened. Despair haunted his eyes. “We’re too late. Sutter said if the pass closes now, there’ll be no getting over it until February or March.”
Now Will spoke up. “I don’t want to discourage you, Mr. Reed, but Mr. Sutter called me over to his home before we left there. He told me he didn’t think there was a chance we’d make it, not with the storm.”
“He said that?” McCutchen cried. “Why didn’t he tell us that?”
“First, because he knew you wouldn’t believe him. Not with it being your families and all. Second, because it was important to try. The storm might have blown over and we could have made it.”
“Well, it didn’t,” Peter said shortly. “And now we’ve proven him right.”
“But,” Will went on earnestly, “he said that if we didn’t make it, that doesn’t mean all is lost. He was quite optimistic, in fact.”
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Reed told him that your group has almost fifty head of oxen and cattle, plus a few horses and mules. They also have more than a dozen dogs.”
“Yes,” James Reed said. “That’s right. He quizzed me at length about that.”
“So, how many people are there?” Will continued.
“Around eighty-five, more or less,” McCutchen answered.
“I know they’re low on other supplies,” Will went on, repeating the observations John Sutter had made, “but with that many cattle, they’re not going to starve.”
Reed considered that, brightening a little. “That’s almost half a beef per person, not counting the horses, mules, and dogs.”
“And a good many of those eighty-five or so people are children. They won’t eat half that much. Remember, you said Stanton took seven pack mules to them. He must have made it over the pass, or we would have heard from him by now. With what he brought, plus all the stock, they can see it through the winter.” Will forced a smile. “That’s how Mr. Sutter sees it.”
After several moments, Reed began to nod. “There’s some good reasoning in that way of thinking,” he admitted.
Peter jumped on that. “Better to save our strength, and then come February or March we’ll mount a real rescue effort. It won’t do your families any good if we all perish here in the snow.”
James Reed looked at William McCutchen and then at Peter. For the moment, Will was excluded. And that was all right. He was the outsider here. He didn’t have family waiting, and he hadn’t come across the mountains to find help. He stepped back, letting them have their moment together.
“What do you think?” Reed said.
McCutchen was staring at his gloved hands, his face twisted with dark emotion. Peter seemed far, far away. Reed waited. Finally, McCutchen looked up. “I told my Amanda that I would do everything possible to come back for them.” He turned and looked at the wall of chest-deep snow that had finally stopped him. “This is not possible.”
Reed’s head bobbed once. “I told Margret that I would either come back for her or die trying.”
“I think,” Peter said slowly, realizing with sharp pain what the implications of his words might be for Margret Reed and the Reed children. “I think Mrs. Reed would rather have us come back for them than have us die trying.”
For several more seconds they stood there, the three of them, snow-covered and cold, breath coming in clouds of steam, eyes staring balefully up at the leaden sky above them. Then finally James Frazier Reed turned around and faced back the way they had come. “All right,” he said in a tortured voice. “Until spring, then.”
Kathryn Ingalls straightened wearily, pushing at her back to relieve the ache there. She felt her stomach push against the tightness of her dress and chided herself again for not working on that new, larger skirt she had been sewing for almost two weeks. But then, Kathryn did not like sewing. She much preferred teaching the children. Perhaps she could trade one of the mothers some extra tutoring for the sewing she needed.
She moved among the children’s seats—a ragtag collection of stools, benches, sagging chairs, and wooden boxes—picking up the papers that had been dropped in haste when she lifted the little handbell and signaled the end of the day.
She had sixteen pupils now, including four from the trappers’ families at Fort Pueblo and the new one she had picked up when the sick detachment from the Mormon Battalion arrived. It was a good thing that they had moved into this little one-room log cabin, which also served as Kathryn’s home. It was mid-November now, and Pikes Peak, glittering and majestic sentinel of the plains, was crowned with snow. The brilliant yellows and reds of fall had long since disappeared. Even the days were getting uncomfortably cold now, and she was grateful that they were not still trying to meet out under the trees where she had started their first class.
Outside, there was a sudden commotion. She stopped, looking out the window. She couldn’t see anything and moved to the door. As she opened it, she saw people running and pointing toward the south. One of her students came darting by.
“What is it, Sarah?” she called.
The girl barely stopped. “Another company from the Mormon Battalion is coming in,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Another company? Kathryn looked doubtful. The arrival of the one detachment early last month had come as a wonderful and incredible shock to the group of Saints at Pueblo and had been a wonderful addition to their little settlement. She could scarcely believe there would be a second one. She reached behind the door, grabbed her shawl and her cane, and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. Even if it wasn’t the battalion, the arrival of anyone new out here was exciting enough to warrant an investigation. And if it was, perhaps . . .
She shook her head, not daring to hope. The first group had brought a long letter from Derek and Rebecca. She had been stunned. Josh and Derek in the battalion was surprise enough, but to learn that Rebecca and the children were with them as well was a real shock. She hurried on, not daring to hope, but unable not to.
As she came out of the trees, she was surprised to see a whole line of people coming up the trail toward their settlement. This wasn’t a small group. There were several wagons, numerous men on horseback, and quite a few walking alongside the wagons. A man shot out of the trees behind her, spurring his horse to go out and meet them. People were pouring out of their cabins now as the word spread rapidly. Off to her right she saw that even those at the fort had heard the news and were coming across the shallow river to see who it was.
When she reached the back of the crowd, she stopped. By some unspoken signal, those of the Mississippi Saints held back, letting those who had been with the battalion race forward to meet their comrades. As Kathryn watched them fall on each other, she finally had to accept the fact that it was true. It
was
a battalion detachment. Over a hundred people, came back the report, with several children. That was wonderful news. She might have to ask for a larger room for her school.
She searched the nearest faces of the new arrivals as they came up to the crowd. Then suddenly her eyes widened. She closed her eyes once to clear her vision, then leaned forward, peering at the third wagon in the line. “Rebecca?” It came out as an incredulous whisper.
She started forward, half-dazed, unable to believe what her eyes were seeing. Rebecca had a baby in her arms. Then she saw Derek walking alongside the wagon. She broke into a hobbling run, waving one arm high in the air. “Rebecca! Derek!”
They too had been scanning the waiting crowd anxiously, and when they heard her cry, Derek stared for a moment, then started waving wildly as well. “Kathryn!”