"'Daughter,' he asked, 'do you think you can dress these wounds in my head? Your mother is not able and they must be attended to.' I said, promptly: 'Yes, if you will tell me what to do.' Then we went into the wagon, where we would not be disturbed, and I washed and dressed his wounds as best I could. When I had done what he told me to do, I burst out crying, and father clasped me in his arms, saying: 'I should not have asked so much of you!' I told him it was pity for him that made me cry. Then he talked to me quietly until I had controlled my feelings and was able to go back to the tent where mother was lying, weak and dazed by the happenings of the day. And there were worse things to come. In our party there was a man who had been in the habit of beating his wife until father told him he must either stop it or measures would be taken to make him. He did not dare abuse her again, but he hated father from that time, and now he had his chance for revenge. After Snyder had been buried, and father had sadly watched the last clod of earth piled on the grave, the men of the party held a conference from which our family were excluded. We waited a short distance away, in terrified suspense to know the outcome of it, as we were sure it concerned father. And it did. His plea of self-defense was not acceptable to them, they said, and we shivered as we saw such bitterness on the men's faces as seemed sure would lead to lynching.

Father saw it, but he was no coward. Baring his neck, he stepped forward, and proudly said, 'Come on, gentlemen!' No one moved, and presently he was told that he must leave the party, an exile--must go out in the wilderness alone without food or weapons. It was a cruel sentence, for it might result either in starvation or in murder by the Indians, and it is no wonder that mother was beside herself with fright, that we children knew not what to do or where to turn for help. Father heard the sentence in silence, then facing the group of old-time friends, with brave eyes, he said: 'I will not go. My act was one of self-defense, and as such is justified before G.o.d and man.'

"Meanwhile, my mother had been thinking, as she told me later, and she begged father to accept the sentence and leave the party, thinking it would be less dangerous than to remain among men who had become his enemies. He firmly refused until she pleaded that the whole party were now practically dest.i.tute of food, and if he remained, as an outcast, he would be obliged to see his children starve, while by going he might be able to meet them with food which he had procured somewhere.

After a fearful struggle with his own desires, father consented, but not until the men of the party had promised to care for his innocent wife and children. Then, after he had held mother in his arms for a long agonized moment, he turned to me, and I forced my eyes to meet his with such fearless trust that he looked less despairing as he picked up Patty for a last hug and gripped the boys with an emotion too deep for any words; then he went off, an exile in the desert.

"I had no idea what I was going to do about it, but I knew I must do something. Through the long hours of the day, while I was busy soothing and comforting mother, who felt it keenly that we were left as much alone as if we were lepers, I was thinking busily. Our wagon was drawn up apart from the others, and we ate our scanty evening meal in silence. Milt Elliott and some others tried to talk with us, and show their friendliness, but mother would only answer in monosyllables and commanded the children to do the same. We were an utterly desolate, frightened group as darkness fell over us. I was busy helping the children get to bed, and then I found mother in such a state of collapse that I could think of nothing but comforting and quieting her.

"At last she fell asleep, and I crept to my bed, but I could not sleep. I must act. At last, I made a decision. I was strong and fearless, and father had no food or light or supplies, out there alone in the trackless wilderness. I stole to my mother's side and she roused at my light touch.

"'Mother, dear,' I whispered, 'I am going out to find father and take him some food, and his gun, and ammunition.' She roused and exclaimed:

"'What do you mean, child? You cannot find your father!'

"'I'm not going alone,' I replied 'I've asked Milt and he says he'll go with me.'

"Without giving her a chance to say I must not go, I hurried to the supply-chest and found some crackers, a small piece of bacon, some coffee and sugar. I took a tin cup, too, and a dipper for father to make coffee in, and packed his gun, pistols, and ammunition with them.

His lantern was on the shelf, and I put a fresh piece of candle in it and matches in my pocket--then I was ready to start.

"Everything had to be done very quickly and quietly, for there would be a great risk if the children knew what I was going to do, or if any others of the party discovered my intention. So I did everything on tip-toe, and holding my breath for fear of being discovered.

"Mother called, 'Virginia!' and I went to her side. 'How will you find him in the darkness?'

"'I shall look for his horse's tracks and follow them,' I whispered.

At that moment Milton's cautious step was heard at the side of the wagon, and with a last hug mother released me, and Milt and I stole off on our dangerous expedition.

"Out into the darkness we crept. Stealthily we hid in the shadows cast by the wagons in the flickering light of the dying camp-fire--cautiously we stole up behind the unsuspicious sentinel who was wearily tramping back and forth, and we held our breath for fright as he suddenly looked over the sleeping camp, then peered out into the mysterious darkness of the desert, but he did not see us. For safety we lay down on the ground, and silently dragged our bodies along until we were well out of his sight and hearing; then we pushed our feet along without lifting them, to be sure they did not fall into some unseen hole or trap, and now and again we were startled by some noise that to our excited senses seemed to mean that a wild animal was near us. My eyes had been searching the darkness around and before us, and at last I whispered:

"'Stop, Milt. Let us light the lantern!'

"Then stooping down, I spread out my skirts so that not the slightest flash of a match or gleam of light could be seen by the sentinel or by any one in the encampment. Milton lighted the lantern. I took it in one hand, and with the other held my skirts up in such a way as to shield its beams, and in its feeble light I searched the ground still frantically for some trace of the footprints of father's horse.

Although I was nervous and excited enough to fly on the wings of lightning, I did not let the feeling get the better of me, but made a deliberate search of every inch of ground, making a complete circle around the outskirts of the camp, for I was determined to find those tracks. At last! There they were, unmistakable and clear. I gave a smothered cry and showed them to Milt. Then, still with the lantern carefully covered, so that no unguarded flash might bring a death-dealing shot from the sentinel's rifle, I followed where they led, Milt close behind, carrying the gun and provisions. Mile after mile we followed--followed, now seeing the tracks, now losing them. Oh what an agony was compressed in those awful hours!

[Ill.u.s.tration: VIRGINIA GOES FORTH TO FIND HER EXILED FATHER]

"Suddenly on the midnight air came the wild howl of coyotes. From the distance echoed an even more hideous cry--that of the panther, seeking for prey. At that sound Milton's hair literally stood on end, and if I had shown one sign of weakening he would gladly have given up the search. But I went on, closing my ears to the dreaded sounds. All of a sudden my heart beat so wildly that I was obliged to press my hand over it to quiet its hammering. What I heard or saw or felt I can never explain, but I know that all the terror of my thirteen years of life seemed to be condensed into one moment of dread. And yet go on I must, praying to G.o.d to protect us and let me find father. I pushed ahead, with panic holding me in its wild grip as I pictured a horrible death if we should be captured by Indians. Then suddenly with wide-strained eyes and fluttering heart, I forgot all weariness and fear. In the far distance a dim, flickering light. Gripping Milt's arm, I whispered:

"'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, G.o.d 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.

G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed, 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 n.o.ble Mr. Stanton, and we heard no more of them until months afterward.

"No pen can describe the dreary hopelessness of those who spent that winter at Donner Lake," says Virginia. "Our daily life in that dark little cabin under the snow would fill pages and make the coldest heart ache. Only one memory stands out with any bright gleam.

Christmas was near, and there was no way of making it a happy time.

But my mother was determined to give us a treat on that day. She had hidden away a small store of provisions--a few dried apples, some beans, a bit of tripe, and a small piece of bacon. These she brought out, and when we saw the treasures we shouted for joy, and watched the meal cooking with hunger-sharpened eyes. Mother smiled at our delight and cautioned:

"'Children, eat slowly, for this one day you can have all you wish!'

and never has any Christmas feast since driven out of my memory that most memorable one at Donner Lake.

"Somehow or other the cold dark days and weeks pa.s.sed, but as they went by our store of supplies grew less and less, and many died from cold and hunger. Frequently we had to cut chips from the inside of our cabin to start a fire, and we were so weak from want of food that we could scarcely drag ourselves from one cabin to the other, and so four dreadful months wore away. Then came a day when a fact stared us in the face. We were starving. With an almost superhuman strength mother roused. 'I am going to walk across the mountains,' she said; 'I cannot see my children die for lack of food.' Quickly I stood beside her. 'I will go, too,' I said. Up rose Milt and Eliza. 'We will go with you,'

they said. Leaving the children to be cared for by the Breens and Murphys, we made a brave start. Milt led the way on snow-shoes and we followed in his tracks, but Eliza gave out on the first day and had to go back, and after five days in the mountains, we, too, turned back and mother was almost exhausted, and we went back just in time, for that night there was the most fearful storm of the winter, and we should have died if we had not had the shelter of our cabins. My feet had been badly frozen, and mother was utterly spent from climbing one high mountain after another, but we felt no lasting bad effects from the venture. But we had no food! Our cabins were roofed over with hides, which now we had to take down and boil for food. They saved life, but to eat them was like eating a pot of glue, and I could not swallow them. The roof of our cabin having been taken off, the Breens gave us a shelter, and when Mrs. Breen discovered what I had tried to hide from my own family, that I could not eat the hide, she gave me little bits of meat now and then from their fast-dwindling store.

"One thing was my great comfort from that time," says Virginia. "The Breens were the only Catholics in the party, and prayers were said regularly every night and morning in their little cabin, Mr. Breen reading by the light of a small pine torch, which I held, kneeling by his side. There was something inexpressibly comforting to me in this simple service, and one night when we had all gone to bed, huddled together to keep from freezing, and I felt it would not be long before we would all go to sleep never to wake again in this world, all at once I found myself on my knees, looking up through the darkness and making a vow that if G.o.d would send us relief and let me see my father again, I would become a Catholic. And my prayer was answered.

"On the evening of February 19th, we were in the cabin, weak and starving, when we heard Mr. Breen's voice outside, crying:

"'Relief, thank G.o.d! Relief!'

"In a moment, before our unbelieving eyes, stood seven men sent by Captain Sutter from the fort, and they had brought an ample supply of flour and jerked beef, to save us from the death which had already overtaken so many of our party. There was joy at Donner Lake that night, for the men said: 'Relief parties will come and go until you have all crossed the mountains safely.' But," Virginia's diary says: "mingled with one joy were bitter tears. Even strong men sat and wept as they saw the dead lying about on the snow, some even unburied, as the living had not had strength to bury them. I sorrowed most for Milt Elliott--our faithful friend, who seemed so like a brother, and when he died, mother and I dragged him out of the cabin and covered him with snow, and I patted the pure white snow down softly over all but his face--and dragged myself away, with a heart aching from the pain of such a loss.

"But we were obliged to turn our thoughts to the living and their future, and eagerly listened to the story of the men, who told us that when father arrived at Sutter's Fort, after meeting Mr. Stanton, he told Captain Sutter of our desperate plight and the captain at once furnished horses and supplies, with which father and Mr. McCutchen started back, but were obliged to return to the fort, and while they were conferring with Captain Sutter about their next move, the seven living members of the 'Forlorn Hope' party who had left us the first part of the winter, arrived at the fort. Their pale, worn faces told the story and touched all hearts. Cattle were killed and men were up all night drying beef and making flour by hand-mills for us; then the party started out to our rescue and they had not reached us one moment too soon!

"Three days later, the first relief started from Donner Lake with a party of twenty-three men, women, and children, and our family was among them. It was a bright, sunny day and we felt happy, but we had not gone far when Patty and Tommy gave out. As gently as possible I told mother that they would have to go back to the lake and wait for the next expedition. Mother insisted that she would go back with them, but the relief party would not allow this, and finally she gave in and let the children go in care of a Mr. Hover. Even the bravest of the men had tears in their eyes when little Patty patted mother's cheek and said, 'I want to see papa, but I will take good care of Tommy, and I do not want you to come back.' Meanwhile we traveled on, heavy-hearted, struggling through the snow single file. The men on snow-shoes broke the way and we followed in their tracks. At night we lay down on the snow to sleep, to awake to find our clothing all frozen. At break of day we were on the road again.... The sunshine, which it would seem would have been welcome, only added to our misery.

The dazzling reflection made it very trying to our eyes, while its heat melted our frozen clothing and made it cling to our bodies. Jim was too small to step in the tracks made by the men, and to walk at all he had to place his knee on the little hill of snow after each step, and climb over it. Mother and I coaxed him along by telling him that every step he took he was getting nearer papa and nearer something to eat. He was the youngest child that walked over the Sierra Nevada.

"On their way to our rescue the relief party from Sutter's Fort had left meat hanging on a tree for our use as we came out. What was their horror when we reached the spot to find that it had been taken by wild animals. We were starving again--where could we get food? As we were trying to decide on our next move, one of the men who was in the lead ahead stopped, turned, and called out:

"'Is Mrs. Reed with you? If she is, tell her Mr. Reed is here!' There before us stood father! At the sight, mother, weak with joy, fell on her knees with outstretched arms, while I tried to run to meet him, but found myself too much exhausted, so I just held out my arms, too, and waited! In a moment he was where we could touch him and know that he was flesh and blood and not just a beautiful dream. He had planned to meet us just where we were, and had brought with him fourteen men and a generous supply of bread.

"As he knelt and clasped mother in his arms she told him that Patty and Tommy were still at the lake, and with a horrified exclamation, he started to his feet. 'I must go for them at once,' he said. 'There is no time to lose.' With one long embrace off he went as if on winged feet, traveling the distance which had taken us five days to go in two, we afterward heard. He found the children alive, to his great joy, but, oh, what a sight met his gaze! The famished little children and the death-like look of all at the lake made his heart ache. He filled Patty's ap.r.o.n with biscuits, which she carried around, giving one to each person. He also had soup made for the infirm, and rendered every possible a.s.sistance to the sufferers, then, leaving them with provisions for seven days, he started off, taking with him seventeen who were able to travel, and leaving at the lake three of his men to aid those who were too weak to walk.

"Almost as soon as father's party started out, they were caught in a terrible snow-storm and hurricane, and his description of the scene later was heart-breaking, as he told about the crying of the half-frozen children, the lamenting of the mothers and suffering of the whole party, while above all could be heard the shrieking of the storm king. One who has never seen a blizzard in the Sierras can have no idea of the situation, but we knew. All night father and his men worked in the raging storm, trying to put up shelters for the dying women and children, while at times the hurricane would burst forth with such fury that he felt frightened on account of the tall timber surrounding the camp. The party was almost without food, having left so much with the sufferers at the lake. Father had _cached_ provisions on his way to the lake, and had sent three men forward to get it before the storm set in, but they could not get back. At one time the fire was nearly gone; had it been lost, all would have perished. For three days and three nights they were exposed to the fury of that terrible storm; then father became snow-blind, and would have died if two of his faithful comrades had not worked over him all night, but from that time all responsibility of the relief work was taken from him, as he was physically unfit.

"At last the storm abated, and the party halted, while father with Mr.

McCutchen and Mr. Miller went on ahead to send back aid for those who were exhausted from the terrible journeying. Hiram Miller carried Tommy, while Patty started bravely to walk, but soon she sank on the snow and seemed to be dying. All gathered around in frantic efforts to revive the child, and luckily father found some crumbs in the thumb of his woolen mitten which he warmed and moistened between his own lips, and fed Patty. Slowly she came to life again, and was carried along by different ones in the company, so that by the time the party reached Woodworth's Camp she was quite herself again, and as she sat cozily before a big camp-fire she fondled and talked to a tiny doll which had traveled with her all the way from Springfield and which was her chosen confidante.

"As soon as father's party reached Woodworth's Camp a third relief party started back to help those who were slowly following, and still another party went on to Donner Lake to the relief of those who were still living. But many of that emigrant band lie sleeping to-day on the sh.o.r.e of that quiet mountain lake, for out of the eighty-three persons who were snowed in there, forty-two died, and of the thirty-one emigrants who left Springfield on that lovely April morning of 1846, only eighteen lived to reach California. Among them were our family, who, despite the terrible hardships and hideous privations we had suffered, yet seemed to have been especially watched over by a kind Providence, for we all lived to reach our goal, and were the only family who were not obliged at some part of the journey to subsist on human flesh to keep from perishing. G.o.d was good to our family, and I, Virginia, testify to the heroic qualities which were developed in even the youngest of us, and for my own part, I gratefully recognize the blessings which came to me from an unqualified faith in G.o.d and an unfaltering trust that He would take care of us--which He did.

"Mother, Jimmy and I reached California and were taken at once to the home of the mayor, Mr. Sinclair, where we were given a warm welcome and where nothing was left undone for our comfort. But we were still too anxious to be happy, for we knew that father's party had been caught in the storm." Virginia says: "I can see mother now as she stood leaning against the door for hours at a time, looking at the mountains. At last--oh wonderful day--they came, father, Patty and Tommy! In the moment of blissful reunion tears and smiles intermingled and all the bitterness and losses and sorrows of the cruel journey were washed away, leaving only a tender memory of those n.o.ble souls who had fared forth, not to the land of their dreams, but to a far country whose maker and builder is G.o.d.