"'Father!'
"No sooner had I said it than I thought, 'Perhaps it is an Indian camp-fire.' But common sense put that aside, for I was sure I had seen father's horse's hoofprints, and certainly they would lead to him. But suppose he had been captured by Indians, and this fire we were coming to should lead to horrible disclosures. All this went through my mind, but I said nothing of it to Milton. I just went walking steadily on. Oh, how far away the light was! Would we never reach it? It seemed as if the more we walked the farther from it we were. But no, it was he—it was—it was! With a glad cry of, 'Oh, father! father!' I rushed forward and flung myself in his arms.
"'My child, my Virginia!' he exclaimed, when surprise had let him find his voice. 'You should not have come here!'
"'But I am here,' I cried, 'and I've brought you some food and your gun, and a blanket, and a little coffee, and some crackers! And here's a tin cup, too, and your pistols, and some powder and caps. Oh, and here are some matches, too!' I exclaimed, holding out one after another of the precious articles to his astonished gaze, and laughing and crying as I talked.
"It was almost pitiful to see father's astonishment at the thought that some one had come to help him in his terrible plight, and as he took the things I had brought he kissed and fondled me like a little child, and said that, God helping him, he would hurry on to California and secure a home for his beloved family—and it seems conceited to mention it, but he called me his 'brave daughter' over and over again, until I was glad of the darkness to hide my burning cheeks. Then in the protecting darkness, with Milton to stand guard, we sat together and talked of mother and Patty and the boys, and of what we should do while we were parted from him. Father was the first to remember that dawn would soon flush the east, and rising, he kissed me again and tried to say farewell.
"'But I'm not going back!' I cried. 'I'm going with you. Milt will go back, but I am going on with you.' Seeing his stern, set face, I pleaded, piteously: 'Oh, don't send me back—I can never bear to see those cruel men again. Let me go with you?' He turned a white, drawn face to mine.
"'For mother's sake, dear,' he said, 'go back and take care of her. God will care for me.' Before I could cry out or make a move to go with him, he had gathered up the articles I had brought him, jumped on his horse, and ridden away into the solitude of the Western desert. Milton and I were left alone to find our way back to the encampment where mother was watching and waiting for me with an eager, aching heart. When my straining eyes had seen the last of that solitary figure riding off into the black desert, I turned abruptly away, and Milt and I crept back over the vast desert. Before there was a glimmer of dawn I was safely clasped in mother's arms, repeated my comforting news over and over again that we had found father, that he was well and on his way to that land toward which our own faces were turned."
In this simple, direct fashion has Virginia Reed told of a heroic deed in the history of brave pioneer girls—but as the story comes from her pen, it is scarcely possible to realize the anxiety, the torturing fear, the hideous danger of such an expedition as that one of hers when at midnight, on the great plains, she set out to find her father.
"After that," she says, "though we were obliged to travel on, and though the party tried to be friendly with us, our hearts were sore and our thoughts were centered on father, journeying on alone. But as we went on we found welcome surprises by the way. A note written by him, stuck on a forked twig by the wayside, feathers scattered over the path to show that he had killed a bird and was not hungry. When we had found such evidence of his being alive and well, mother would be light-hearted for a whole day. Then the signs ceased, and mother's despair was pitiful to see. Had he been killed by the Indians or perhaps died of starvation? Patty and I were afraid we would lose mother, too. But starvation was menacing the whole party, and she was roused to new strength in a desire to protect her children from that fate. And even more ominous in their portent of disaster, before us rose the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, which we must cross before the heavy snows fell, and the question was, could we do it? We left our wagon behind, which was too heavy for the mountain trip, placed in it every article we could do without, packed what we needed in another, and struggled on as best we could until the 19th of October, when we had a great joy. As we were wearily traveling along the Truckee, up rode Mr. Stanton and with him were seven mules loaded with provisions! No angel from the skies could have been more welcome, and, hungry though we were, better than food was the news that father was alive and pushing on to the west. Mr. Stanton had met him near Sutter's Fort, and had given him provisions and a fresh horse. Oh, how relieved mother was! I think she could not have eaten a mouthful, hungry as she was, without the glad tidings. Father had asked Mr. Stanton to personally conduct us across the Sierras before snow came, which he had promised to do, so with new courage we hurried on, keeping a close watch on those gaunt peaks ahead of us, which we must climb before realizing our dreams. Although it was so early in the season, all trails were covered with snow, but we struggled on, mother riding one mule with Tommy in her lap, Patty and Jim on another, behind two Indians who had accompanied Mr. Stanton, and I riding behind our leader. But though we did all in our power to travel fast, we were obliged to call a halt before we reached the summit, and camp only three miles this side of the crest of the mountain range.
"That night," says Virginia, "came the dreaded snow. Around the camp-fires under the trees great feathery flakes came whirling down. The air was so full of them that one could see objects only a few feet away. The Indians knew we were doomed and one of them wrapped his blanket about him and stood all night under a tree. We children slept soundly on our cold bed of snow, which fell over us so thickly that every few moments my mother would have to shake the shawl—our only covering—to keep us from being buried alive. In the morning the snow lay deep on mountain and valley, and we were forced to turn back to a lake we had passed, which was afterward called 'Donner Lake,' where the men hastily put up some rough cabins—three of them known as the Breen cabin, the Murphy cabin, and the Reed-Graves cabin. Then the cattle were all killed, and the meat was placed in the snow to preserve it, and we tried to settle down as comfortably as we could, until the season of snow and ice should be over. But the comfort was a poor imitation of the real thing, and now and then, in desperation, a party started out to try to cross the mountains, but they were always driven back by the pitiless storms. Finally, a party of fifteen, known in later days as the 'Forlorn Hopes,' started out, ten men and five women, on snow-shoes, led by noble Mr. Stanton, and we heard no more of them until months afterward.