Frances was six years and eight months old and could trudge along quite bravely, but Georgia, who was little more than five, and I, lacking a week of four years, could not do well on the heavy trail, and we were soon taken up and carried.  After travelling some distance, the men left us sitting on a blanket upon the snow, and went ahead a short distance where they stopped and talked earnestly with many gesticulations.  We watched them, trembling lest they leave us there to freeze.  Then Frances said,

“Don’t feel afraid.  If they go off and leave us, I can lead you back to mother by our foot tracks on the snow.”

After a seemingly long time, they returned, picked us up and took us on to one of the lake cabins, where without a parting word, they left us.

The Second Relief Party, of which these men were members, left camp on the third of March.  They took with them seventeen refugees—­the Breen and Graves families, Solomon Hook, Isaac and Mary Donner, and Martha and Thomas, Mr. Reed’s two youngest children.

CHAPTER XIII

A FATEFUL CABIN—­MRS. MURPHY GIVES MOTHERLY COMFORT—­THE GREAT STORM—­HALF A BISCUIT—­ARRIVAL OF THIRD RELIEF—­“WHERE IS MY BOY?”

How can I describe that fateful cabin, which was dark as night to us who had come in from the glare of day?  We heard no word of greeting and met no sign of welcome, but were given a dreary resting-place near the foot of the steps, just inside the open doorway, with a bed of branches to lie upon, and a blanket to cover us.  After we had been there a short time, we could distinguish persons on other beds of branches, and a man with bushy hair reclining beside a smouldering fire.

Soon a child began to cry, “Give me some bread.  Oh, give me some meat!”

Then another took up the same pitiful wail.  It continued so long that I wept in sympathy, and fastened my arms tightly around my sister Frances’ neck and hid my eyes against her shoulder.  Still I heard that hungry cry, until a husky voice shouted,

“Be quiet, you crying children, or I’ll shoot you.”

But the silence was again and again broken by that heart-rending plea, and again and again were the voices hushed by the same terrifying threat.  And we three, fresh from our loving mother’s embrace, believed the awful menace no vain threat.

We were cold, and too frightened to feel hungry, nor were we offered food that night, but next morning Mr. Reed’s little daughter Mattie appeared carrying in her apron a number of newly baked biscuits which her father had just taken from the hot ashes of his camp fire.  Joyfully she handed one to each inmate of the cabin, then departed to join those ready to set forth on the journey to the settlement.  Few can know how delicious those biscuits tasted, and how carefully we caught each dropping crumb.  The place seemed drearier after their giver left us, yet we were glad that her father was taking her to her mother in California.