Encore: Donner Party | The Shortcut | 1
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A note to our listeners: this episode contains scenes that depict racist attitudes and language. Please be advised. Tamsin Donner tiptoes across the dirt floor of her family's cramped, frigid shelter, trying not to wake her husband and five children, who are sleeping all around her. In the dim pre-dawn light, she saw a mouse poke out of a hole in the shelter's corner, and she's determined to catch it.

and to eat it. She crouches down in front of the hole for five long minutes. She waits. She feels her legs cramping and blows on her fingers to warm them. It's freezing cold away from the fire pit.

The shelter was thrown together after Tamsen, her family and about 80 other pioneers got stranded here in the Sierra Nevada mountains a month ago in November 1846. Knowing they'd be trapped for the winter, the Donners wanted to build a proper log cabin, but they only got the walls partially erected before a blizzard tore through, one of the several massive snowstorms that prevented them from completing their journey across the mountains.

As the snow dumped down, they were forced to abandon the cabin and hastily put up a large makeshift tent instead. Now, this crude shelter has become Tamsen's entire world. She spends most days huddled inside with her children, shivering beneath blankets. But however bad the cold is, the hunger is worse. Their journey from Illinois took much longer than expected.

and their food supplies are almost all gone. As fall turned to early winter, the deer and the other game disappeared. They've been reduced to eating cow skins and moldy ox hides, just to keep starvation at bay. Back home, Tamsin would have been disgusted at the thought of eating a mouse, but now she's praying that this one returns. Tamsin holds her breath, silently willing it to come out.

When it does, she lunges and slaps her hand on its tail. She slams the mouse on the dirt floor to kill it, then plops it into the pot of sticky rawhide that's bubbling over the fire. The noise has woken up her youngest child. Three-year-old Eliza complains that she's hungry. Tamsin holds out a spoonful of mouse and rawhide soup. "Try some. You'll feel better." But Eliza refuses.

Hello?

She's interrupted by a shout from outside. She opens the tent flap to find a fellow settler named Charles Stanton shivering in the snow. How can I help, Charles?

I've come to ask for supplies. We're mounting a rescue expedition. I need a compass and some tobacco to kill hunger pangs. Stanton explains his plan. He wants to lead a dozen or so of the strongest settlers to the western side of the Sierras, find a ranch or fort where they can buy some supplies, and come back with a rescue party. I know it's risky, but we have no choice. Our food is almost gone. How long will it take? A month, maybe more.

So much depends on the weather. Tamsin shivers. A month. That feels impossibly long. But she knows Stanton is right. They have no choice. She retreats into the shelter to gather the compass and tobacco. Stanton gratefully accepts them and leaves. Tamsin watches him as he wades through the snow, sinking up to his waist with every step.

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In the 1840s, thousands of Americans poured across the Great Plains on a grueling journey to California that could take as long as six months. They were lured by the promise of rich farmland and better lives, and of fulfilling what was called Manifest Destiny, the belief that God was calling them to conquer and populate all of North America.

Never mind that the territory they were settling was already occupied by native people who had lived there for thousands of years.

One group of these settlers became infamous, the Donner Party. Their wagon train left Illinois in the spring of 1846 and crossed what's now Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada. But poor decisions and bad luck left the party's 87 men, women, and children stranded in the Sierra Nevada mountains in California. 22 feet of snow fell that winter.

Trapped in the mountains, the party quickly ran low on food and despite valiant rescue efforts, they soon had to confront the ultimate taboo of the wilderness. Whether to eat the bodies of their friends and loved ones to ensure their own survival. This is episode one, The Shortcut.

James Reed fights his way through a crowded street in downtown Springfield, Illinois. On most days, he loves the energy here. The thrum of rowdy saloons, horse carriages, boys hawking newspapers. It feels like the whole world is right at his doorstep.

Today is not one of those days. Reed is a wheeler and dealer. He owns mills, general stores, and even a partial stake in a railroad. Until recently, he was thriving. But last year, 1844, the railroad got into financial trouble. So today, Reed is looking for advice from a friend.

At last, he reaches his friend's office. The sign out front says Abraham Lincoln, attorney at law. Reed brushes some dust off his tailored suit and he steps inside. Abe Lincoln greets him with a smile and rises from his desk, all six feet four of them. Reed and Lincoln go way back to their days in the Illinois militia. The two men sit and Lincoln asks how he can help.

Reed sighs and plunges in. My finances, they're shot, Abe. And now that California trip I invited you on, it might not happen. What do you mean?

Reed hands Lincoln a letter. It's from Reed's brother-in-law in California. Every few days, the newspapers run another story praising California. Beautiful weather, rich farmland, incredible business opportunities. Reed knows he could thrive there. He could abandon some of his debts and start fresh. There's also his wife to consider. Margaret is smart and kind, a loving mother to their children.

but her health is poor. Their wedding 10 years ago took place in her bedroom while she was laid up with cholera, unable to even stand. She's suffered from chronic headaches and other maladies ever since. Reed believes the California climate would improve her health.

But the letter from Margaret's brother has taken the wind out of Reed's sails. Her brother migrated to California last year, but now he's writing to complain about the people, the government, everything.

Worst of all, he says that business opportunities are few and far between. The letter turned Margaret against the move, and Reed thinks she might be right. What's the point of upending their lives, traveling more than a thousand miles, if they can't reverse their fortunes? His motto in life is persevere, but he's never felt more dejected. He watches Lincoln finish reading the letter. To his surprise, Abe just grins.

He removes another letter from his desk and hands it to Reed. What's this? It's from my wife's nephew. He's also in California. Reed scans the letter and immediately sits up in his chair. Its tone is completely different. Lincoln's nephew can't say enough good things about the weather, the economy, the business opportunities. It's like the two letters are describing completely different places. Reed looks up. This nephew...

Reed's heart soars. He and Margaret both know her brother as a complainer. Of course he'd have the same bad attitude out there. This new letter might be just what he needs to convince his wife that for the right people, California can be the land of plenty.

He feels invigorated again. He leaps up and shakes Lincoln's hand. Lincoln laughs, then turns serious. We hate to lose you, James. Well, then come with me. I'd love to, but my wife is pregnant. Maybe next year.

They discuss Reed's plans some more. Lincoln asks who he's traveling with, and Reed smiles. "I've been talking to a pair of brothers, local farmers, George and Jacob Donner. They're good strong men, exactly the kind you want on the trail." When they're done talking, Reed shakes his friend's hand, then heads outside, back into the bustle of downtown Springfield. He's gonna miss this place, but his future lies in California.

Tamsin Donner plops an apple crate on the floor of her sewing room and steps on top. Then she stretches upward, all five feet of her, trying to reach a roll of parchment on the top shelf. She just picked some late fall wildflowers near the family farm outside Springfield, and she's eager to press them for her botanical collection. As a little girl back in New England, she sometimes picked a hundred flowers a day, but lately she's been too busy.

Mothering five children, two from George's first marriage plus three of their own, doesn't leave much time for hobbies. George! Can you help me? Yes, dear. Did you put the parchment up there? You know I can't reach it. George smiles mischievously.

He's six feet tall with black hair and lively dark eyes. At 60, he's almost 20 years older than her, but farming has kept him fit. He snags the parchment and hands it to her. "Thank you, dear." George walks over to the table where she spread out the flowers she collected. There are yellow goldenrods and lavender asters. His eyes flash with amusement as she gushes about each.

He finally nods and pulls her in close. "You have quite the eye for beautiful things. The wildflowers here are brilliant. Like you always say, Illinois has the best soil in the world." "I suppose." "You suppose? You tell me all the time. Illinois land is better than Kentucky or Texas or any of the places you've lived." To her surprise, George drops their embrace. He suddenly seems uncomfortable. "What's wrong?" "We need to talk."

George sits her down and starts telling her how he's been reading about the land in California. And as soon as he says the land, Tamsin gets a sick feeling in her stomach. Before they met, George was a wanderer. He and his brother Jacob moved all over the country. They were obsessed with finding the best farmland. When he proposed to her, he swore he was done wandering.

But the way he's talking now about California, it scares her. George, what are you saying? I've decided that we're moving to California. This spring. Tamsin's mouth falls open in shock. But what about our life here? I have friends, my literary club. What about our daughters? You want me to just yank them out of school? George can't look her in the eye. A wave of anger washes over her. Get out of here.

George mutters apologies and shuffles out of the room. Tamsin slams the door behind him. Then she collapses into a chair, holding her face in her hands. She feels shattered. She loves Illinois. There are a million reasons not to leave. But she also knows George and his obsession with land. And she knows that once George has made up his mind, there's absolutely no changing it.

As awful as it sounds, she'll just have to get used to the idea of moving to California. 13-year-old Virginia Reed flings open her grandmother's bedroom door and leaps onto the old woman's bed. Her grandmother laughs as Virginia grabs her hands. "Grandma, I'm so glad you're coming with us. I couldn't bear to leave you." Virginia sighs and nestles in next to her.

A few weeks ago, in March, her stepfather, James Reed, announced he was moving the family to California. Virginia had never even heard of the place before. But the more she learns, the more excited she's getting. They're traveling by covered wagons, crossing mountains and deserts along the way. Then they'll reach the glittering ocean at the end. Growing up in Illinois, Virginia's never seen mountains or oceans.

But one aspect of the trip has been troubling her. Her grandmother. She's quite sickly, and Virginia's mother doubted she could travel. But just this morning, Virginia's stepfather came home with a surprise. A wagon outfitted with a feather bed and an iron stove to keep Grandma warm and comfortable. Now she can come along after all, and Virginia is thrilled. Cough, cough, cough.

When the old woman's coughing fit finally subsides, she pulls Virginia close. What are you most excited to see out west? The empty spaces, thousands of miles, and not a single person around. Empty? Hardly, child. There are Indians everywhere. Indians? Millions of them. And if you let your guard down for just one second, they'll slit your throat and scalp you. Just like that.

Her grandmother tells her stories about how the Indians are bloodthirsty savages known for attacking wagon trains and kidnapping white children. Virginia shivers in fear. "Is that all true?" Her grandmother insists it is. Then she starts telling Virginia about other dangers out west: snakes and tornadoes and giant man-eating wolves.

Eventually though, her grandmother gets tired. Virginia gives her a hug, then slips out the door. Her emotions are roiling. She's excited for the adventures that await, but she never realized that there might be dangers too. Tamsin Donner hoists herself up and squeezes into one of the three Conestoga wagons parked in her yard.

Each wagon has four giant wooden wheels, a timber frame, and an arched canvas cover on top. They're crammed with tools, crates, and trunks full of clothes and supplies. Barrels of salted pork, cornmeal, dried apples, flour. It's everything they'll need for the six-month journey ahead. But somehow, she's got to fit more.

Her husband George just informed her that they need to bring a trunk of glass beads and cloth to trade with the Indians along the trail. So now she has to squeeze in one more thing or else jettison something important. She opens two trunks to see what she can leave behind. One contains her nicest clothes, several gowns, plus her wedding dress, which belonged to her mother. The other contains teaching supplies.

Books, oil paints, botanical equipment. She's hoping to start a girls' school out west and needs these supplies to get started. Although it pains her, Tamsen decides to sacrifice the gowns and her wedding dress. Starting the school is her dream, her one consolation for moving. And she won't have much use for the gowns anyway.

She drags the trunk to the wagon's entrance and calls over her two hired hands. "On three, boys! One, two, lift! Now hand me the trunk with the beads and the cloth." After they get it aboard, she drags the trunk into place.

She sits on the trunk to rest. It's warm for mid-April. She dabs her face and collects her thoughts. Frankly, she's depressed to see her whole life crammed into three wagons. And she's still upset with George for making them leave. Especially because the trip seems poorly planned. George persuaded his brother Jacob to come along. But they're taking only six wagons for both families, which include four adults and a dozen children.

Four hired hands are coming along as well. It doesn't seem like enough food and supplies for a six-month journey. Tamsin rises and wipes the dust from her hands. There are still two more wagons to finish packing. There's still so much more to do before they set out tomorrow. But once outside, she sees her husband approaching and stops, dumbfounded. She can't believe what he's hauling toward the wagons.

George Donner, why are you carrying that old cannonball? It's my grandfather's from the Revolutionary War. It's an heirloom. All through their marriage, George has kept this rusty cannonball in their basement. He loves the thing, even though it's the nothing but collect cobwebs.

Tamsin is suddenly beside herself with fury. "I just sacrificed my wedding dress!" "Dresses aren't any use on the trail." "What good is a cannonball?" "I can't leave it behind." "Either that cannonball stays, or I do." George looks taken aback. Tamsin repeats her threat.

Finally, with a sigh, George carries it back inside. Tamsin smooths her dress and calms herself. She's glad for this small victory, but she's still uneasy. Their six-month journey starts tomorrow, and she fears that her husband and the other men haven't done enough to prepare them for whatever challenges lie ahead.

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Virginia Reed leaps off her stepfather's wagon, then turns to help her younger siblings down. Her mother, Margaret, is suffering from one of her headaches, so Virginia is watching them today. Give me your hand. Now jump.

Come on, Cash. Come on. When they're safely down, they all scamper up the rutted hill ahead. Their family dog, Cash, is right behind. On the hilltop, Virginia gazes out at the landscape of Kansas Territory.

The mid-May sun sparkles on the Kaw River below. On one side of the river, their covered wagons are lined up, waiting to cross on barges. There are mudflats on each bank, filled with patches of wild sunflowers. It seems like Virginia can see for miles unbroken fields of pale green prairie grass. It's exactly the sort of wide-open space she's been longing to see.

The whole month of travel has thrilled Virginia. There's something new each day. New trees, new skies, new birds and animals, and wild weather. Sometimes the sky turns almost green, then black storm clouds race through with booming claps of thunder. It's exciting and scary all at once.

Still, there are hardships. Their family and the Donners are trying to catch up with a larger caravan a few days ahead, but rainstorms have turned the trail into mud and slowed them down considerably. Some of the adults are grumbling. They should be making 10 miles a day, but often manage just four. Virginia doesn't like having to go to the bathroom outdoors either, and she's sick of eating salt pork and beans at every meal.

But days like today make up for everything. Virginia points out the barges to her young sister and brothers. Suddenly though, Virginia sees something and her stomach lurches. There are people guiding the barges with poles and she realizes who the guides are. Indians. Virginia thinks that they must be from the Kaa tribe. She's heard the adults say that this is their land.

They are bare-chested, wearing blue loincloths and brown leggings. Their heads are shaved except for a long, spiky tuft of hair, tinted red.

Virginia spends most nights sleeping in her grandmother's wagon. And each night, Granny tells Virginia more stories about the threat of Indian scalpings. Some nights, Virginia can barely sleep. She's so terrified. But here, the Indians seem to be helping the settlers. Virginia is confused, but remains wary. She turns to her siblings. Go back into the wagon, all of you.

She posts herself at the wagon entrance to keep watch as they descend the hill toward the river. At the river, her family's hired hands unhitch the oxen, which have to swim across. Then they push the wagons onto the barges. Virginia peeks out and holds her breath as an Indian jams a wooden block beneath the steel-rimmed wheels. He's so close, she could touch him. She sees her father paying some of the Indians with cloth.

He even shakes their hands. It helps relieve Virginia's fears. He seems to trust them. The crossing takes several minutes. At one point, the current spins them around and Virginia gasps. The barge seems like it's about to capsize in the middle of the river. The Indians rush to the edge of the barge with poles and turn them around. They're not only helping her family cross, but saving them from danger. The rest of the crossing goes smoothly.

On the other side, the Indians help pull the wagon onto the shore. After the oxen are hitched up and they start rolling away, Virginia thinks over what just happened. These Indians, they seemed, well, kind. Was her grandmother wrong? Virginia doesn't know. It's just another strange moment on the long journey out west. ♪ Jesus loves me ♪ - Virginia Reed squeezes the hand of her little sister.

They're standing with their family and some other settlers, looking down at a rectangular hole cut several feet into the brown prairie dirt. There's a rough-hewn casket inside the hole, with the bark still on the planks. The prairie grass ripples around them in the wind. Virginia tries to join in as the mourners sing a funeral hymn. She can hear her father's strong bass voice and Tamsin Donner's soprano.

But Virginia's voice just won't come. She nearly breaks down in tears. She cannot believe her grandmother is dead. Despite the feather bed and stove, her grandmother simply couldn't withstand the rigors of the trail. The constant dust made her coughing worse, and the jarring wagon rides exhausted her.

Near the end, they were stopping several times a day to let her rest. Finally, yesterday, on May 29th, she died. Virginia hates that she'll never get to hear her grandmother's stories again. What pains her most, though, is that she died here in this alien land, hundreds of miles from home. But at least they're stopping long enough to give her a proper burial.

When the song ends, a few of their family's hired hands start tossing dirt over the casket. Virginia's father, James, hugs her. "What's our motto?" "Persevere?" "That's right. It's what your grandmother would have wanted."

When the casket is buried, Virginia's father leaves to check on the headstone. Virginia decides to take a walk around the camp. A few weeks ago, her family and the Donners finally caught up with the bigger caravan. They're now in a group of 46 wagons with 150 people. She's even made friends with a few of her fellow teenagers. She sees some of those friends now. They offer condolences for her grandmother.

But after they leave, a tall blonde boy with crooked teeth steps forward. He has a sour look on his face. "Your father's slowing the whole party down for an old dead woman." "That's my grandmother!" "If we're not past the Rocky Mountains by July 4th, my father says we're sunk." "That's 700 miles away still." "And it's your family's fault if we don't." "That's not true!"

Virginia turns her back and stomps away, furious. If anyone deserves a memorial and a headstone, it's her grandmother. Her father says a few days of rest will do everyone some good anyway. He doesn't seem worried about their pace. But no matter how much she tries to dismiss the boy's words, she can't quite shake his warning that they're running low on time. James Reed scrapes his metal plate, scooping up the last of his beans around the campfire.

With wood so scarce here on the prairie, they're burning buffalo dung for fuel now. It gives everything they cook a hickory smell. Reed spends most evenings with his family, especially since his wife Margaret's mother died a month ago. But after 10 weeks on the trail, he's restless for conversation. So tonight, he's joined the men around the fire. A few hours after sunset, they hear horses approaching. Several men stand up, fearful of bandits.

It turns out to be just a few trappers headed back east. They ask permission to sleep by the fire, and the settlers agree. Reed is just about to head back to his family's camp when he hears a voice. "James Reed? Of the Springfield Militia?" Baffled, Reed turns and studies the bearded, dirt-covered man who called his name. Then it clicks.

"James Clyman! As I live and breathe, I didn't recognize you!" The two old friends shake hands. Reed makes room for Clyman on a log and they fall to talking. Clyman narrates his adventures trapping in the Rockies. Reed explains his move to California to start a new life there. But at the mention of California, Clyman raises his eyebrows.

Aren't you a little behind schedule? You're 180 miles from Independence Rock, and July 4th is next week. Reed sees several young men turn their heads. He knows other people have been worrying about their pace.

Independence Rock is the rough halfway point between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean. And according to the lore of the trail, if you don't reach Independence Rock by July 4th, you won't make it over the mountains before winter. Reed has heard this too, but when Kleiman brings it up, he just laughs. Nah, I'm not worried. I've been reading about a shortcut. A shortcut? Reed explains.

He's been reading a book by a man named Lansford Hastings. Hastings points out that most people going to California take the Oregon Trail north most of the way, but the best land in California is far south of Oregon, so heading north makes no sense. Hastings, therefore, devised a shortcut. Instead of going north around the Great Salt Lake, he's encouraging settlers to skirt it to the south. That route saves you 400 miles.

To Reed's surprise, Clyman just shakes his head. "Ah, I strongly advise you not to take that so-called shortcut. I know Hastings. He's a charlatan. He's a famous author, a renowned frontiersman. Besides, we passed a fellow headed east last week with a notice from Hastings. He's waiting at Fort Bridger, 200 miles from here, and he's personally willing to lead any party on this shortcut. He wouldn't take that route himself if he wasn't sure of it. James, I'm telling you this as your friend.

South of the Salt Lake is a massive desert full of dense brush and impassable canyons. It's not fit for wagons, and there's no water for you or your livestock. Reed and Clyman's argument keeps circling round and round, but in the end, neither man budges. Clyman finally looks Reed in the eye. I hope you're not walking into a disaster. James!

The two old friends shake hands again, then Reed strolls to his wagon, eager for first light. They'll be at Fort Bridger to meet Hastings in a few weeks, and after that, they'll be calling California home sweet home.

James Reed bends low, hacking at a thorny bush in the sandy soil of a ravine. It takes him several blows to sever it from its roots. He tosses it aside and stands to stretch his aching back. His clothes are soaked with sweat, but he quickly starts chopping the next piece of brush. All around him, a dozen other men are doing the same, hacking away, trying to clear a path wide enough for their wagons.

Looking around, Reid can sense people flagging, "A half mile more, men, and then we're home free." When they reached Fort Bridger a few weeks ago in late July, Lansford Hastings had already left, but he left behind a map for them to follow. After that, their large wagon train split into two groups.

Most people were skeptical of the Hastings shortcut and went north, sticking to the longer but more traveled Oregon Trail. Reed tried to talk them out of it, but they simply wouldn't listen. The remaining 87 people, spread among 19 wagons, are sticking with Reed, who's confident in the southern shortcut.

But Lansford-Hastings map isn't making sense. One river that Hastings suggested fording turned out to be a 75-foot gorge, impossible to pass. Reid led them on a different path forward into this shallow ravine. Unfortunately, the path is full of scrub brush so thick that it snarled the wagon wheels. They've been hacking at it for days and managed to clear just seven and a half miles.

Thankfully, they're almost finished. The ravine is rising gently toward level ground and appears to end around a bend ahead. Reed redoubles his efforts, then strides forward to scout. But when he turns the bend, he drops his hatchet in shock. There's no gentle slope up.

It's a wall of sheer rock. What Reed thought was a ravine is really a box canyon, a dead end, and they've hacked eight miles for nothing. Other men arrive, groaning to see the dead end, and some are more than dispirited.

They're furious. "You and your goddamn shortcut, Reed!" "I acknowledge that we've had a bit of a setback here." "A setback? I'm down to one barrel of pork from my family, Reed!" "We can't eat good intentions!" "I'm getting tired of your crap, Reed!" Other men chime in too. Reed fears a mutiny. Suddenly, George Donner raises his hands for quiet. Reed has noticed that Donner doesn't say much, but people listen when he speaks.

We're all a little frustrated, but quarreling won't do any good. Save your energy for helping your families. The speech works. The men don't look happy, but they're no longer itching to fight. Reed catches Donner's eye and tips his hat as a thank you. Then he turns the men around to trudge out of the ravine and find a new path forward.

During trying times like this, Reed always repeats his personal motto, persevere. But for the first time on this journey, he can feel his optimism waning and turning into something unfamiliar to him, a feeling of dread.

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Some of the men are gathered around a wooden board on a stake, pounded into the sandy soil next to the trail. Settlers do this sometimes, to leave messages for each other. Tamsen sees that someone clearly posted a letter recently. There's a fresh nail on the board, holding a scrap of paper that reads "Urgent." But the rest of the letter has been torn off. Her brother-in-law Jacob points to scraps of paper fluttering on the ground.

the damn crows got it the other adults despair the urgent message seems lost but not tamsin as a teacher she recognizes how she can help children gather round several kids run up to her watching her expectantly this is important i need you to gather up every scrap of paper possible no matter how tiny there's a lump of sugar for whoever finds the most

The children race off, dropping to their hands and knees and scouring the soil. Whenever they find a scrap, they shout for joy. After 20 minutes, Tamsen calls them back to help piece the letter together.

Most of the scraps are the size of postage stamps or smaller. But a half hour later, they've pieced together most of the letter. It's fragmentary, but what they can make out is bad news. It seems to have come from Lansford Hastings. He's leading another party ahead of them and apparently sent a rider back to post this warning. It says that the stretch of land ahead is desolate.

There's no water for miles and zero grass for their animals. Tamsin balls her fists in anger. She opposed this hasting shortcut from the start. Why leave a safe, reliable road and risk something untried? But her husband believed James Reed and his will won out.

And here's yet another Hastings lie. This stretch past the Great Salt Lake was supposed to be lush, smooth sailing. Instead, this letter says what lies ahead is nothing but 83 miles of merciless desert. Tamsen tries to look reassuring for the children's sake, but inside, she's terrified. Virginia Reed hops down from one of the family wagons, clutching a few flattened bullets.

The wagon train has stopped to rest and her little brothers and sisters are walking their dog Cash nearby. She stops in front of each child. Open your mouth. Then she pops a bullet inside. Don't spit it out. Suck on it. It keeps your mouth from drying out.

It's well past midnight, three days after they entered the desert. They're traveling at night to keep cool, but they're out of water, and there's no grass in this ocean of sand. Several oxen have already died from dehydration and lack of food. Virginia's mother is ill with a headache, so Virginia has to watch the children. Sucking on bullets when you're thirsty is an old trick her grandmother taught her, and she's proud she remembered.

All around her, the desert is cast in an eerie light from the moon. Then Virginia hears something strange. It's a horse, but she's never heard one snort and whinnies so frantically. She searches around, then spots it. A huge black steed running helter-skelter like it's deranged. Virginia realizes it's charging right after her.

Cash starts barking. Virginia hears her father shout over him. "Children, get behind me!" Virginia cowers behind her father as he scoops up the littlest girl, Patty, into his arms. From his belt, he whips out a pistol. The horse keeps charging. Virginia sees that it's foaming at the mouth. Her father aims and cocks his gun.

But at the last second, the horse swerves away from them, stumbling madly until it vanishes into the darkness. Virginia buries her face in her father's side, tears streaming down her cheeks. He pats her back, soothing her as best as he can. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. Some of the animals are going mad from a lack of water, but we'll find more water soon.

It helps, but only a little. She may be acting like an adult, but deep down, she sometimes feels like a helpless child.

James Reid stands on the wooden wagon bench behind his oxen and peers ahead, trying to see the reason for the traffic jam of wagons. Their slow pace today is only compounding his anxiety. After four days in the empty, grassless desert, they've now entered scrubland again, and they need to push fast, not dawdle. It's now October. The disastrous, hasting shortcut has cost them a whole month.

Three weeks ago, they sent two men ahead, hoping they could reach an outpost in California called Fort Sutter and return with food. But there's been no sign of them, and Reid is getting worried. They need to get through the Sierra Nevada mountains quickly before any snow comes. And the mountains are still over 200 miles away. Reid's wife, Margaret, sits next to him on the bench. She's having a rare good day.

What's happening, James? Looks like someone's going too slow. Another wagon is trying to pass them. Suddenly, Reed sees the two wagons collide. He groans. This will only delay them more. He hops down to see what's going on.

He jogs ahead to find the two wagons locked together, their frames entangled. The drivers are screaming at each other. Suddenly, one driver, a man named John Snyder, goes berserk. He slams the wooden butt of his whip onto the heads of the other driver's oxen. The blows are vicious. They draw blood, and the two oxen drop to their knees. Reed steps forward. Hey, stop it! You've already lost enough oxen!

We need every last one healthy to make it to California. But Snyder doesn't listen. Reed tries to wrestle the whip away from him. Then Snyder smacks Reed in the face with the wooden butt of his whip. Reed staggers backward, clutching his face. He hears his wife Margaret scream. You bastard! Don't touch my husband! Reed watches, dumbfounded, as Margaret charges Snyder and slaps him.

Before Reed can react, Snyder winds up and clubs Margaret in the face too. Reed is suddenly furious. All the pressures and frustrations of the past six months hit him at once. The countless delays, the death of Margaret's mother, the foolish shortcut, the accusatory glares of the other men, and now this bastard has assaulted his wife? Reed pulls his knife from his belt. Without thinking, he rushes forward and plunges it in.

into Snyder's chest. Snyder gasps, wide-eyed, then collapses onto the ground. Blood starts pulsing out of the wound, thick and red. The knife drops from Reed's hand and clatters onto the rocky ground. What has he done? He stands there staring dumbly, flooded with regret. Then he rushes forward to help, but the way Snyder's breathing, wet and ragged and labored,

He fears it's already too late. James Reed kneels with his head bowed, staring at the bloodstained ground next to the dead body of John Snyder. "Reed murdered him!" Reed looks up with a start. From the crowd that's gathered, a man steps forward, pointing and sneering. "He killed him in cold blood. He deserves to hang." It's Louis Keseberg, a beady-eyed man with a thick beard.

He and Reed have clashed before on the trail. Keseberg beats his pregnant wife, which Reed won't stand for. Other people hate Keseberg too, but to Reed's surprise, they join Keseberg's cries to hang him. But no one listens. Before long, someone's holding up a length of rope to tie a noose.

A gunshot rings out. Reed looks around wildly, wondering who was shot. But no one was. Instead, a man with a rifle steps forward. William Eddy. He's a carriage maker. A plump, good-natured fellow with kind eyes. He's always ready to lend a hand. But his face looks hard right now.

There will be no hangings. Not without a proper trial. With Eddie's stern words, the hot-blooded crowd grows less rabid. To Reed's relief, the talk of hanging dies down. But Keseberg isn't satisfied.

Fine, we'll let him live, but he should be banished with nothing but the clothes on his back. A dozen men agree. Reed steps forward to defend himself, pointing to the welt on his wife's face. But every time he protests, the crowd shuts him down. It finally dawns on Reed. They're angry about him killing Snyder, but what he's really being judged for is convincing them to take the shortcut.

Swallowing hard, Reed fears he'll have to accept banishment. No food, no horse. It would mean certain death on the trail.

Thankfully, William Eddy steps forward again. "I want to propose a compromise." "No way!" "What do you mean, compromise?" "No, no, no." "Listen, we're not savages. We can be humane. And Reed can do some good for us. There's no sign of the two men we sent last month for food. They could be hurt or dead. So let's send Reed off on his horse, along with one other man. They can ride ahead, gather a relief party, and bring back supplies.

To Reed's immense relief, the crowd seems to listen to Eddie. At least most of them. Louis Kesselberg still looks furious.

"Why the hell should we trust Reed to even come back?" Eddie counters. "Because his family's here and needs saving. Even those of you who think he's a bastard can't deny he loves his family." Eddie then proposes a vote. Should they simply banish Reed or send him off for supplies? As the men vote, Reed nervously counts hands. It's close, but cooler heads prevail. They vote to send Reed for supplies.

As the crowd disperses, Reed hugs Margaret tight. I love you. I'm going with you. No, stay with the children. You're safer with the group. But after he says this, Reed feels a shiver of fear. He's shocked at how quickly the party turned bloodthirsty. And if things turn savage again, maybe Margaret and his whole family aren't safe here after all.

This is the first episode of our three-part series, The Donner Party. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend the books The Best Land Under Heaven by Michael Wallace and The Indifferent Stars Above by Daniel James Brown.

I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design is by Joe Richardson. Produced by Alida Rozanski and Emily Frost. Our managing producers are Tonja Thigpen and Matt Gant. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery.

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