dying of
thirst. It was bitter, almost undrinkable, but "cooled" to lukewarm
in kettles, a little of it was just enough to keep them going. By midmorning
John Alexander showed signs of dehydration. He no longer even cried. Carrying
him, Elizabeth dabbed a handkerchief wrapped around a chunk of sugar on his
tongue. She was becoming desperate. Her own milk had augmented the amount of
liquid he had been taking in. But now, with scarcely any water to drink herself,
Elizabeth's breasts were drying up.
Sometime near noon William Eddy
discovered that the Breens, normally people who would share, were hoarding half
a cask of water. When Eddy asked for a ladleful for his children and John
Alexander, Patrick Breen refused.
"You son of a bitch!" Eddy
shouted. "I'll kill you if you don't share the water."
Patrick Breen didn't even bother to stop walking.
"You don't have the strength. You're unarmed, and you'd kill yourself in
the effort."
Exhausted and dizzy from the heat,
William Eddy could not think clearly. What Breen said seemed to make sense. He could not
remember what he had done with the Colt revolver. Elizabeth's mind was clearer.
She was certain Eddy's children and John Alexander were about to die of thirst.
She walked slowly to Eddy's wagon and reached in under a buffalo skin. The
Kentucky long rifle was in the same place she had seen it when Eddy had slipped
her the pistol for Reed. She climbed into the wagon and muzzle-loaded it the
way she had seen Eddy do it many times. Then she carried the rifle forward,
cocked and pointed it at Patrick Breen. He stopped walking.
"I am not asking for myself or any
other adult," she said quietly. "But if you do not give the children
some of your water, I will shoot you here on the spot."
"Mrs. Todd, that water is..."
" I mean it! " she
shrieked. "And may God forgive me."
Breen broke
out the cask. Momentarily shocked back to his senses, he rationed out as much
as he could for Elizabeth and the Eddys as well as the children. William Eddy
took the rifle back and smiled as he replaced it under the buffalo skin. The
way Elizabeth had loaded the rifle, it would have blown up in her face.
The train moved on in the still,
parchingly dry heat. Within a few hours the incident was forgotten. There were
more pressing matters to think of. They kept on through the afternoon, stopped
briefly at sunset, then, grumbling, pushed on again as night overtook them.
More oxen fell. They had to be cut free of their yokes and abandoned. Somehow,
held in what was now a near-delirious trance, the emigrants managed to pick one
foot up, move it forward, and then pick up the other. They knew if they stopped
they would never move again.
Toward daybreak of October 15, they saw
the trees of a river bottom ahead. They were certain it was a mirage. But as
they dragged themselves the last three miles, they finally realized the trees
were real. Gaping in awe, they walked the last few steps to the bank of the
Truckee River and lay down beside it. At first they did not even drink. The
sight of it was almost painful. The river was clear and pure and flowing fifty
feet from bank to bank under cottonwoods. Hesitantly, as though the entire
scene before them would suddenly vanish, the ten families, their passengers and
hired help cupped their hands and took small sips of water. Around them lay a
verdant pasture of lush grass and wild peas. Birds sang in the trees.
Elizabeth, slowly sprinkling small
amounts of water over John Alexander's forehead and onto his lips and tongue,
wept. She had been certain on that last stretch of desert that they would both
die. Now, sitting here in this veritable Eden, as exhausted as she was, she
vowed never to give up hope again. She gazed westward over the cottonwoods and
the vow caught almost palpably in her throat. Off on the horizon, she could
make out the hazy, blue-gray outlines of the Sierras against the lightening
sky. Even at this distance, their enormous size made her shudder.