Eddy's rifle at the time he
killed the deer, and said, feebly, "There! Eddy has killed a deer!
Now, if I can only get to him I shall live!"
But in the stillness of that cold, dark night, Jay Fosdick's spirit
fled alone. His wife wrapped their only blanket about his body, and lay
down on the ground beside him, hoping to freeze to death. The morning
dawned bright, the sun came out, and the lone widow rose, kissed the
face of her dead, and, with a small bundle in her hand, started to join
Mr. Eddy. She passed a hunger-crazed man on the way from the middle
camp, going to hers, and her heart grew sick, for she knew that her
loved one's body would not be spared for burial rites.
She found Mr. Eddy drying his deer meat before the fire, and later saw
him divide it so that each of his companions in the camps should have
an equal share.
The seven survivors, each with his portion of venison, resumed travel
on the sixth and continued in the foothills a number of days, crawling
up the ascents, sliding down the steeps; often harassed by fears of
becoming lost near the goal, yet unaware that they were astray.
The venison had been consumed. Hope had almost died in the heart of the
bravest, when at the close of day on the tenth of January, twenty-five
days from the date of leaving Donner Lake, they saw an Indian village
at the edge of a thicket they were approaching. As the sufferers
staggered forward, the Indians were overwhelmed at sight of their
misery.
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