Barely any men esteemed the existences of outsiders over benefit. Both Bridger and Vasquez delayed. “All things considered, that course is quite new,” Vasquez said at long last. “That it is,” Bridger intruded on, his tone more splendid than Vasquez’s. “However, Hastings is excited about it. He’s been down it with Bill Clyman, you knew about him? Clyman is likely the most popular mountain man in this domain, and old Bill give it his blessing.” Donner radiated moronically. Without a doubt he would rehash this underwriting to everybody in the party. “That is adequate for me.” “Stop for a minute, I’ll saddle up myself and take you to the beginning of the pass,” Bridger said. “However, you’ll need to require a couple of days to rest up, ensure your creatures are very much taken care of and fit as a fiddle. We got oats, a little feed corn, as well. Nothing among here and John Sutter’s fortification in California. This present here’s your last opportunity to fill them out before you head into the mountains.””And we’ll utilize it, as well, sir, you can depend on that,” Donner said, radiating at each man thus as he departed.Stanton let Donner go alone. He went to Vasquez. “Do you have a letter for me from Edwin Bryant? He should’ve gone through here a week or somewhere in the vicinity back.” He thought he saw a gleam in Vasquez’s dull eyes before Bridger shouted out. “What was that name once more?” “Bryant. A couple of years more established than me, wears exhibitions more often than not. A newspaperman.” Bridger shook his head. “Try not to review anybody by that name got through along these lines. There’s nothing here for you, at any rate.” Stanton felt a fast seize of fear. “He was only in front of us on the path,” he said. At the point when Bridger said nothing, he went on, “He proposed to stop here. He advised me so himself.” He would not like to ponder what might have waylaid him: Bryant harmed, dead, or biting the dust. “No, no, you’re correct. He was here, I recollect him now,” Vasquez said gradually. Stanton was diminished to hear that Bryant had gotten through the fortification all things considered. In any case, there was something that rang bogus about the manner in which the two men were acting. “Bryant planned to leave a letter for me. Are you certain there’s nothing?” “Nothing, sir,” Vasquez said. Stanton realized that he was lying. “Well—you heard Donner. We’ll be hanging around for a couple of more days. I’ll inquire simply on the off chance that something turns up,” he said as he went to leave. In any case, Bridger just gave him a stony grin, getting defensive.
A GRAY RAIN SETTLED OVER them for the following two days. It would assist with the dry spell so nobody griped, yet it was sufficiently hefty to make life hopeless. Flames faltered and smoked; families dug in their tents, shuddering out their nights in mud-splashed apparel and boots, scratching at lice and other vermin that appeared to host plagued a large portion of the cart gathering’s bedding and garments. It was hardest on the more established individuals from the party like Mathis Hardkoop, an old Belgian going all alone. Hardkoop, no appointed authority of character, had (mysteriously, as should have been obvious) come to rely upon Keseberg for help, yet Keseberg had worn out on the elderly person and—against his calm spouse Philippine’s desires—tossed him out of his cart. Debilitated by the requests of the path, Hardkoop immediately fostered a terrible hack and could be found lurking around the fortress with his close vacant handbag and bedroll, searching for a dry spot to rest. A few families got away from the wet and mud by leasing rooms from Bridger and Vasquez. James Reed moved his huge brood into a bunkhouse that had stood unused since the post had continued on the prior year. George and Jacob Donner upped the ante by offering Vasquez enough cash to move his family out of their log lodge. The two Donner tribes would get away from the shower, have the option to appreciate hot suppers and bubble water in Vasquez’s huge copper cauldron for hot showers. Stanton was still an over the top Yankee to go through great cash when he had a solid tent nearby.
At last, on the third morning of their visit, the downpour cleared. Stanton bowed by the waterway, stripped to the midriff, his attire heaped close by. The water was so chilly it blew his mind. Punishingly cold, yet again something he had an unreasonable preference for, almost certainly because of his granddad. He washed rapidly, just the uncovered parts. Donner had guaranteed that it was to be their last day at the fortress and everybody was rushing to overcome the remainder of their tasks. He had a considerable rundown: examine the pivot and wheels for indications of wear or shortcoming; clean the tackles, which had gotten hardened with sweat; beware of the bulls’ and his seat pony’s hooves. A pack animal was uniquely pretty much as great as its hooves, and nobody could stand to lose one of their creatures. He felt the shout however much he heard it. He knew her voice, felt her cry in his body, as though it were a message implied for him. He went after the gun lying on top of his apparel however didn’t stop for whatever else. He ran toward her voice.