From these and other circumstances the Reeds had acquired
the name of being "aristocratic." Ordinarily, this is a term which would
excite a smile, but on this dreadful day it had its weight in inflaming
the minds of the excited emigrants. On the desert Reed had cached many
valuable articles, but all his provisions had been distributed among his
companions. This, however, was forgotten in the turbulent camp, and the
destitute, desolate family could plainly catch the sound of voices
clamoring for Reed's death.
Meantime, Virginia Reed was dressing the wounds on her father's head.
Mrs. Reed was overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, and the father
came to Virginia for assistance. This brave little woman was only twelve
years old, yet in this and all other acts of which there is a record she
displayed a nerve and skillfulness which would have done credit to a
mature woman. The cuts in Reed's scalp were wide and deep. Indeed, the
scars remained to his dying day. In San Jose, long years afterwards, as
James F. Reed lay dead, the gentle breeze from an open window softly
lifted and caressed his gray hair, disclosing plainly the scars left by
these ugly wounds.
Reed entertained none but the friendliest sentiments toward Snyder.
Anxious to do what he could for the dead, he offered the boards of his
wagon-bed from which to make a coffin for Snyder.
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