Mr. Eddy fired several shots after dark, so that the others might know that he had not abandoned them.  Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Foster, Mrs. McCutchen, and Mrs. Pike had moved forward and made their camp half-way between Mr. Eddy’s new one and that of the previous night.  Mr. Fosdick, however, being too weak to rise, remained at the first camp.  His devoted wife pillowed his head upon her lap, and prayed that death would call them away together.  Mr. Thornton continues: 

    The sufferer had heard the crack of Mr. 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.  The warriors gazed in stolid silence.  The squaws wrung their hands and wept aloud.  The larger children hid themselves, and the little ones clung to their mothers in fear.  The first sense of horror having passed, those dusky mothers fed the unfortunates.  Some brought them unground acorns to eat, while others mixed the meal into cakes and offered them as fast as they could cook them on the heated stones.  All except Mr. Eddy were strengthened by the food.  It sickened him, and he resorted to green grass boiled in water.

The following morning the chief sent his runners to other rancherias, en route to the settlement, telling his people of the distress of the pale-faces who were coming toward them, and who would need food.  When the Forlorn Hope was ready to move on, the chief led the way, and an Indian walked on either side of each sufferer supporting and helping the unsteady feet.  At each rancheria the party was put in charge of a new leader and fresh supporters.