"Feb. 12. Warm, thawy morning."
"Feb. 14. Fine morning, but cold. Buried Milton in the snow; John Denton not well."
"Feb. 15. Morning cloudy until nine o'clock, then cleared off warm. Mrs. —— refused to give Mrs. —— any hides. Put Sutter's pack hides on her shanty, and would not let her have them."
"Feb. 16. Commenced to rain last evening, and turned to snow during the night, and continued until morning; weather changeable, sunshine and then light showers of hail, and wind at times. We all feel unwell. The snow is not getting much less at present."
Chapter IX.
The Last Resort
Two Reports of a Gun
Only Temporary Relief
Weary Traveling
The Snow Bridges
Human Tracks!
An Indian Rancherie
Acorn Bread
Starving Five Times!
Carried Six Miles
Bravery of John Rhodes
A Thirty-two Days Journey
Organizing the First Relief Party
Alcalde Sinclair's Address
Captain R. P. Tucker's Companions.
It is recorded of Lewis and Salvador that they came willingly to the relief of the emigrants. Two of Sutter's best trained vaqueros, faithful, honest, reliable, they seemed rather proud when chosen to assist Stanton in driving the mules laden with provisions for the starving train. Now they were dying! Horrified at the sight of human beings eating the flesh of their comrades, they withdrew from the whites at the "Camp of Death." After that they always camped apart, but continued to act as guides until they became certain that their own lives were in danger. Then they fled. Starving, exhausted, with frozen and bleeding feet, the poor wretches dragged their weary bodies onward until they reached a little streamlet, and here they lay down to die. Nine days, with no other food than they could find in the snow, was too much even for their hardy natures. They were unable to move when the famished "Seven" passed. Yes, passed! for the starving emigrants went on by the poor fellows, unable to deprive them of the little spark of life left in their wasted bodies. Traveling was now slow work for the dying whites. They only went about two hundred yards. In a few more hours, perhaps that very night, they would die of starvation. Already the terrible phantasies of delirium were beginning to dance before their sunken eyes. Ere the Indians would cease breathing some of the Seven would be past relief. There were two men and five women. William Foster could see that his wife—the woman who was all the world to him—was fast yielding to the deadly grasp of the fiends of starvation. For the sake of his life she had stifled the most sacred instincts of her womanly nature, and procured him food from Fosdick's body. Should he see her die the most terrible of deaths without attempting to rescue her? Reader, put yourself in this man's place. Brave, generous, heroic, full of lion-like nobility, William Foster could not stoop to a base action. Contemplate his position! Lying there prostrate upon the snow was Mrs. Pike, the woman whom, accidentally, he had rendered a widow. Her babes were dying in the cabins. His own boy was at the cabins. His comrades, his wife, were in the last stages of starvation. He, also, was dying. Eddy had not nerve enough, the women could not, and William Foster must-what! Was it murder? No! Every law book, every precept of that higher law, self-preservation, every dictate of right, reason or humanity, demanded the deed. The Indians were past all hope of aid. They could not lift their heads from their pillow of snow. It was not simply justifiable—it was duty; it was a necessity.
He told them, when he got back, that he was compelled to take their lives. They did not moan or struggle, or appear to regret that their lingering pain was to cease. The five women and Eddy heard two reports of a gun.
The "Forlorn Hope" might yet save those who were dying at Donner Lake.