Stanton had been careful about taking off with Reed, whom he associated with having his own explanations behind needing to enjoy a reprieve from the party: Stanton knew a man with a mysterious when he saw one. Yet, since they were away from the conflict, Stanton loosened up a little. The two men found Hastings’ cart party the following day, finishing their wandering path the trees. It hoped to have been diagrammed by an alcoholic, many prods finishing unexpectedly at a precipice. Remaining at the edge, Stanton could see the gorge far beneath them, which guaranteed a way through the mountains. In any case, there was no obvious way down to arrive at it. They rode up on the cart party ended dead in the forest. The scene was of excited work, the men either swinging tomahawks to make a way or utilizing the bulls to pull the felled trees far removed. The carts stayed in a line withdrew the path, suppressed set up. Strangely, there were not many ladies and no youngsters about: no open air fires consuming, no cooking or garments washing occurring. Several men stood post, as well, roosted high on rock outcroppings, rifles settled in the convict of their arms. Perhaps, Stanton thought, they’d experienced difficulty with Indians en route. A major, humiliated man, stripped to the midsection, brought down his hatchet in midswing when Stanton and Reed rode into the clearing. Stanton didn’t care for the manner in which the men on post scored their rifles into their shoulders. “We’re searching for Lansford Hastings,” Stanton called out, when they were as yet far enough away to make for a troublesome objective. “Is he with you?” The men traded vigilant looks and didn’t reply. Reed addressed fill the quietness. “Our cart party several days back. We took the cutoff, actually like you, however all we found was a note from Hastings, notice us not to follow.” One of the men giggled dimly. “Then, at that point he done you a graciousness, companion. Check yourself fortunate and pivot.” “We have almost 100 individuals holding up back at the trailhead,” Stanton said. “We need him to direct us.” “Look.” The humiliated man heaved his hatchet. “He ain’t useful for much, yet we need him to get us out of this goddamned woods. We ain’t going to allow you to have him.” It was something peculiar to say. Stanton and Reed traded a look. “We just need to converse with him, that is all,” Reed said. At last, the men motioned for them to approach, and the guards brought down their rifles. They strolled single document between the long series of carts. Stanton looked through holes in the material and saw little terrified faces, youngsters crouched together, quietly peering toward him consequently. Something had occurred. That was clear. “Thus, why the guard?” Reed asked, his voice agreeable. “Experience you experienced issues with Indians?” The humiliated man cleaned his forehead with a handkerchief. “We got inconvenience, yet it ain’t been Indians. We got a creature following us, possibly more than one. Been on our tail since the time we left Fort Bridger.” “Without a doubt you don’t need to stress they’ll assault visible to everyone?” Stanton inquired. Yet, very quickly he understood that the tree shelter was so thick it could’ve been sunset. “Generally they been taking out our domesticated animals around evening time, and we can’t stand to lose any,” the man said. “Yet, presently a portion of the canines have disappeared, as well. Perhaps they run off, difficult to know.” Stanton was uncomfortable. He checked the trees squeezing close on one or the other side of them. Reed made a sound as if to speak. “You said Hastings wasn’t worth a lot—what did you mean by that?” “He’s lost his nerve, is all,” said the man with the hatchet. “You’ll see with your own eyes.” He yanked his jawline toward a cart put a way in a difficult spot from the others. The material opening had been bound along with calfskin strips. Maybe Hastings had sewn himself inside. Stanton had seen nothing like it. He gave Reed a scrutinizing look, however Reed just shrugged. It was clear their escorts didn’t plan to go any farther. The man planted the hatchet between his feet and inclined toward the handle, looking faintly entertained. Stanton went ahead, wishing he could shake the inclination that they were being watched—by different men, yet by the actual woods. “Lansford Hastings?” Stanton moved over the toe board. A fighting clamor came from inside the cart. “Try not to shoot. My companion and I have come to talk with you. We simply need a couple of moments of your time.” There was no answer, however no further clamors, either, which Stanton chose to take as an indication of passive consent. He needed to loosen the cowhide strips to move under the opening in the overhang. Reed followed him.