Mrs. George Donner, however, was an exception.
She was gloomy, sad, and dispirited in view of the fact that her
husband and others could think of leaving the old road, and confide
in the statement of a man of whom they knew nothing, but was
probably some selfish adventurer.
Five days later the Donner Party reached Fort Bridger, and were
informed by Hastings's agent that he had gone forward as pilot to a
large emigrant train, but had left instructions that all later arrivals
should follow his trail. Further, that they would find "an abundant
supply of wood, water, and pasturage along the whole line of road,
except one dry drive of thirty miles, or forty at most; that they would
have no difficult canons to pass; and that the road was generally
smooth, level, and hard."
At Fort Bridger, my father took as driver for one of his wagons, John
Baptiste Trubode, a sturdy young mountaineer, the offspring of a French
father--a trapper--and a Mexican mother. John claimed to have a
knowledge of the languages and customs of various Indian tribes through
whose country we should have to pass, and urged that this knowledge
might prove helpful to the company.
The trail from the fort was all that could be desired, and on the third
of August, we reached the crossing of Webber River, where it breaks
through the mountains into the canon. There we found a letter from
Hastings stuck in the cleft of a projecting stick near the roadside.
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