The Weight of Survival

The Reuben Van Ornum Story (Inspired by true events)

It starts with the smell. Smoke, horses, blood—so much blood. Even now, sitting by the fire, I smell it. I’ve built thousands of fires since those days, but none of them ever feel right. None of them smell clean.

I can never light a fire or endure the smell of ashes without being haunted by my memories of that time.

The most vivid memories are sharpest in the quiet hours. People like to talk about what happened at Farewell Bend as if it was one single day. One tragedy. But it wasn’t. The worst things in life aren’t like a bullet—quick and clean. No, they come slowly, unraveling your world piece by piece until there’s nothing left. I was only about ten years old at the time, but all these years later I can still remember every moment. Every sound. Every smell. Every horrible thing I saw.

The first attack came near the Snake River in Idaho. We’d been traveling for months, the trail stretching out behind us like a bad dream that wouldn’t end. Our caravan was big then—forty-four people, eleven wagons. I used to think that strength was in numbers, that we’d be safer with so many of us. But the truth is, we were just a bigger target.

It happened in the afternoon. The sun was blazing hot, shimmering over the plains, and the river ahead looked cool and welcoming. We were all tired, dragging our feet toward camp. I remember Pa walking ahead, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and Ma sitting in the wagon, fanning herself with her bonnet. Mark, my older brother, was driving the team, his face set in a scowl as he muttered about the heat. Lucinda, my baby sister, was fussing in Ma’s arms, her cries sharp and insistent.