[He stares off for a bit; we cannot see what he does and probably would not want to.]

Lilburn Boggs and his guardian angel went the way of Fort Hall and the northern route; the Donner-Reed Party took my advice.

When the party arrived at Fort Bridger where their business was eagerly anticipated by Jim Bridger, as he manned his namesake outpost. However, as Bridger presented his beef jerky and joints and nails and screws and tallow; his bullet molds and oven parts and coffee and trinkets, there was an item of note he did not present the Donner-Reed party—one addressed directly to James Frazier Reed.

It was a letter from Edwin Bryant who had ridden ahead and then ridden a little ways back, specifically to tell Reed not to take this new route—my route—for which he was gunning.

Just what Jim Bridger did with that letter, only the Good Lord knows. Perhaps Bridger, the most experienced mountain man that the White race has ever produced, even advised James Frazier Reed to take my cut-off—and, not incidentally, to continue sending customers his fort's way. It was an endorsement of sorts, one might say.

Consequently, Reed argued to his entire party, now nearly 87 strong in 23 wagons that Bridger's word should be taken before all others—never mind mine, the one that had guided them West in the first place! He even wrote home that evening to brag about his acquaintance with the great mountain man, who exhorted them to use this fine cut-off: "Mr. Bridger informs me that the route we design to take, is a fine level road, with plenty of water and grass, with the exception before stated."

More on that "exception" in a moment...It was a lake bed, really—but one that happened to be dry.

[A pause.]

I, myself, was not present to hear this exchange: I had ridden West already with the greater portion of the emigrants so that I might see how the Cutoff went for the first wagons to try it.

Apparently, Tamsen Donner never much fancied the trail I had proposed; in her journal, she denounced me as "a selfish adventurer!"

I?

[Replaces his hand on his chest and looks about from side to side, utterly wounded and incredulous.]

I? A selfish adventurer? Oh, surely Tamsen, not I!

Tamsen. TAM-SEN.

Oh, don't be such a Cassandra, Tamsen!

Shall I confess it?

[A tense, anticipatory pause...]

I've never liked that name.

† August 6, 1846

As July turned to August, they made excellent time following my tracks exactly all the way through Echo Canyon. However, they ground to a halt at the mouth of Weber Canyon, where I had left them a note.

Having ridden ahead, I saw a fair number of wagon axles break and tempers flare in the canyon, and thought it wiser to save them pain and advise another route for the next leg of travel, one that would take them over a greater portion of the Salt Basin which was, unlike Weber Canyon, flat. I rode back to place the note and then rode ahead to rejoin yet another party I was guiding.