 Frontier fighters are those splendid wayfarers who trod the endless westward paths to everlasting fame and eternal glory. Pathetic, grim, tragic is the history of the ill-fated Donner party. Nearly a hundred pioneer men, women and little children martyrs to the Pacific colonization boom, which in the middle west assume gigantic proportions. It is spring, 1846, in Sangamon County, Illinois. Attention! I want your attention. Now give me your attention, everybody, please. As I read the name from my muster roll, I want the head of every family to answer. George Donner, his wife and five children. That's us, George. Jacob Donner, my elder brother, his wife and seven children. Here, George. James Reid, his wife and four children. Here, Donner. Mrs. Sarah Keyes, mother of Mrs. James Reid. Here, and don't you forget that I'm 90 years old. The brain family. Here? The Murphy's, 32 teamsters and camp assistants. Hawks and cows for milk, young beef cattle, saddle horses, and a dog. I've got the dog, Daddy. She implements for the new farms, school supplies for the children, trade goods for the Indians and $10,000. $10,000? Who's got it? I've got the money, George. I fit it between the covers of our quilt this afternoon. You'll sleep well tonight, George, under $10,000. I think, folks, the responsibility of all that money. On July 25th at Fort Fridger, Wyoming, the Donner Party received a letter from Landsford W. Hastings, an organizer of emigrant trains, advising its captain to take the shorter route west, known as the Cut-Off, which led from Salt Lake to the Humboldt River. Jim Reid, you've known me for a long time now, haven't you? 15 years, Simon, man and boy, in Illinois. Then insist that your party take the regular wagon road. Why? Well, I took the Cut-Off once to my sorrow. It runs through the most desolate region in the whole world. It's sure death for a big party like this. But the new road is 300 miles near our destination. The Cut-Off, Reid, crosses a great desert and traverses the worst part of the mountains. Short roads ain't always practical roads. Talk to George Donner. He's captain, not me. I have, but George is set on taking the Cut-Off. I'd like to lay my hands on Hastings, that crazy adventurer. Too late, Climon. Hastings is already on the way to the coast. Leftward, the Cut-Off is perfectly safe and not difficult to travel over. Blocked by blind canyons, dense forests, smelting pockets, the Donner party finally reached Salt Lake. It had spent a month covering a distance which should have taken but eight days. Food was running low. To escape starvation in the wilderness, the party pressed forward. Faster, faster, faster. Fearful desolation. Alkaline sand as far as the eye could see. Water casks were empty. The piercing rays of a pitiless sun beat down on human and beast alike. Then the Donner party struck the emigrant trail along the dry bed of the Humboldt. Tim, Reid, you found water yesterday. It's in your powder hole. You're a liar, Schneider. I'll fight you, Reid, but just a drop of that water. We'll fight tomorrow, Schneider, not now. We'll fight now. Take that, your water thief. He's a water thief. As for you, he ate the fear and wench. Tell him, Schneider, you'll never strike another woman. Not in this life. No, no, Jim. Jim, I didn't mean it. See? Come with that knife. Look, I'm sorry, Jim. Come with that knife. It was voted out of the Donner party, and his wife and family placed in charge of another group. Reid, banished, set out at once to secure aid for the party from the mountain settlements. One night to add to the party's wretchedness. Wake up, Indians. Well, they're among the cattle. It's a stampede. Where's my gun? Here. Look out, George. Don't get them. Come on. The only children is the undercover. The gun, Captain Jordan, so is most of our beef cattle. Where's Jacob, my brother? Here, George. And what this looks like the end will bug up, Jacob. Anyone hurt? No, thank God. Those red devils got away with twenty head of cattle. All we had? Not much longer. Tragedy struck again, again, again. One man died of exhaustion. Murders by hunger-mad men occurred with increasing frequency. Accidental killings were numerous. Little children fell by the trail. From the base of the mountains, the party literally crawled up the steep, pathless slopes to the Truckee River, which the party crossed and recrossed fifty-one times in eighty miles. Sudden mountain storms shook the party in the panic-stricken desperate pandemonium. Then we'll stay here and wait out the storm. Why in this snow? We can't walk away. I'm in charge of this party now. We'll go on to the crest. Now we will stay here. Where's George Donner? Sure, he's our rightful captain. We'll do as he says. He's still in process, quick, broken axle. Oh, don't stand there talking. My children are freezing to death. I'll take charge from now on. We'll put up a tenor to those pine trees and crawl in. We'll keep warm that way. Everybody start digging a hole. Cold October blended into a colder November. December snarled and bit like a mad white dog. The snow was ten feet deep. Starvation and death stalked through the camp. Jacob Donner and his three sons died. The long storm over, the party resumed its march. On January 6, 1847... Mr. Reddy, are you strong enough to sight your gun? Oh, sure, Mary. Just show me the animal. But your hand shakes so. Oh, shucks. That's just buck fever. I had it before. Look, Mr. Reddy, about 90 yards to your left. Oh, I see it. A deer. He's a broadside too. Oh, careful, Mr. Reddy. Now, we'll drag him. Be careful. Once more. No, Mary, look. Look, he's wounded. He's staggering. He's falling. He's out. Quick, Mary. Hurry, Mary. He may get away. He may get away. Rescue parties came and went, leaving brave men of their own groups to die with a split-up Donner party. Graffed animals gone, the starving victims ate their moccasins, harness leather, the strings from their snowshoes, the boots in which they stood. On February 27, the starving survivors of two parties met in Bear Valley, brought together by Jim Reed, who had been banished for killing Snyder. I'm Jim Reed. Where's my wife and my four children? Here's bread. Only a mouthful for each. If I'd fairly now, a small morsel apiece. Oh, Jim, Jim. My darling. Oh, you're here at last. Oh, Jim, we're so hungry. Bread, Jim, bread. Not for me, but for our children. We started with four children. I see only two. Where's the other two? Don't tell me they're dead. No, no, Jim. Not yet. They're back in the mountains with some men. Oh, we'll get them out, my darling. But it'll take time. It'll take time. In the huts at Prosser Creek, only nine persons remained alive. Among them were George Donner, dying from starvation, and his wife, Tamsen Donner. Come, Mrs. Donner, there's nothing more you can do. You want me to leave George, my husband? Yes. George is dying, Mrs. Donner. So please come with us with your three remaining children. No. Take the children. They're young. They'll recover. But I beg of you, let me stay here with George. You can't last here. The children will need you later. When I married my George, I swore to God only death would part us. But death won't part us. Death will only bring us together again in another world. Well, there's no hunger and no thirst. A place of brave men and loyal women. A heavenly refuge for exhausted bodies and tortured souls. The 81 persons in the Donner party, when it left Illinois, only 45 survived. Epic heroes all. Brave men, loyal women, and laughing little children. They mocked the desert and thrust the mountains aside. Courageous, patient, hopeful. They were Western America, triumphant, victorious, even over death. And so we lay a wreath on the unknown tombs of those frontier fighters who struggled ever westward to the eternal glory of their country.