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September2nd 1868Arrived inCheyenne in thenew Wyoming
Territory earlythis morning onthe new Union
Pacific line. Hasbeen three years
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since I rode the
locomotive. Didnot realize itwould remind meso strongly ofAtlanta. Spent
the last day ofthe journey withthe phantom
smell of bloodand iron in my
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nostrils, and the
bile rising at theback of mythroat, but it isover. God willing,I will never have
to ride the trainagain. Cheyenneis new born and
mewling like ababe. Immigrants
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from the east and
across the seasteem here, fillingthe streets with ababel of tonguesand the raucous
laughter ofdrunken listlessyouths. The
hound Ipurchased before
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leaving tugs at
his leash withdelight at thesights and sound.
The plot of land isstill two days ride
across the borderand to theSouthwest, but
true to his word,the man from the
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bank has hired a
guide to take methere. Sent a lastletter to my wifeand boys withinstructions to
meet me here inthe spring, andhave purchased a
wagon and thesupplies for
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construction. The
guide, a halfIndian fellow, Idwager byappearance, butcivilized in
tongue, hashelped me hiretwo young men:
an Irishman witha sullen chinless
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face, and a
German, wateryeyed and stinkingof bourbon. Bothdespicablewretches, but
they have agreedto work for apittance, and
both claim tohave experience
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in homesteading.
They may intendto kill me, seeingan easy mark in anaive settler, butI do not fear
these drunkenchildren. Iveseen a
generation ofthese boys
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spilled open, and
I know what theyare made of.
September8th 1868
Have crossed intothe Free Territoryof Colorado, after
a day of the levelprairie of warm
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wind of Wyoming,
into the FrontRange. This landis wild, in somestrange way, andlike nothing Ive
ever seen. Weare following ariver through the
shadow of twojagged peaks,
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and camp tonight
just a few milesfrom the parcel ofland. I requestedremote, and byGod, the bank
man did not failme. The Krautand the Irishman
grow demure andquiet without
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spirits, and I see
no possibility ofviolence in themnow, lest theysuspect me ofhoarding whisky.
They will do finequick labor, andreturn to
Cheyenne todrink and fuck
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the profits.
These are men ofdust, and serveonly this purpose.
To think, goodmen like me
fought and diedto protect thesejackals from the
reach of Lincolnstyranny, God
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grind his bones. I
will be free ofthat monstersoon, and if itshould spread itsfederal borders
this far, then Iwill burn my newhome to the
ground and movewest yet again.
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Sons of bitches
will have to pushme into the seabefore I swearfealty.Found a skull just
off the deer trail,when I went tomake water; it
was bleachedwhite and
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divorced from
jawbone andneck. I try notview this aportent.
Tomorrow, we
should reach theplot, and begin.
September9th 1868
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The bank man
has lied to me,the foul stuffedpig. The plot ofland, clearlyidentified by
compass andmap, is not theidyllic grove his
words painted,but a swamp. A
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sodden hollow
filled with mudand grass, ringedwith broken anddying pines. Iwould flay my
guide alive if Ithought hiswretch of an
employer mightfeel a sting.
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Am determined
to homesteadhere, however.
This may not bethe land Idesired, but it is
mine, by God.The Irishman andthe German fell
trees for me, andI have found the
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highest place,
where the earthis damp the least.I will tame thisland.
The hound does
not like it here.He growls at thehorizon and pads
in small tightcircles, looking
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always behind
him.
September
10th 1868Guide has
vanished in thenight. He was tospend the next
few days properlymapping the
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borders of my
land, but he hasfled. Worse stillthe Irishman andthe Kraut havegrown skittish at
his departure, theGerman tells atale of hearing
screaming in thewoods last night.
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But in morning
light, the guidestent andbelongings werepacked away andgone.
It shames me toadmit, but myfirst night was
filled withunease. There is
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something about
this land, unlikeany in the East. Itseems to breatheand pulse aroundme, like it
watches me witha coldintelligence. The
trees sing softlyin the breeze and
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in the smallest
hours, whensleep had fledinto the dark, Ifancied I heardwhispering voices
in the breeze. Iwill share none ofthis with the
laborers; they areweak and callow
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enough as it is. If
superstitioninfects them, Iwill be left alonehere while theyflee.
September14th 1868
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My hands bleed
at the end ofeach day. I drivethe boys hard,but myselfharder. The
skeleton of thecabin is completenow, but there is
much more workto do. I do not
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think they have
the stomach forreal work, thesedogs. They slow,now that theysee the rough
outline, believingtheir work is atan end. I suppose
a pig mayrecognize a barn
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by sight, but we
would hope toomuch to thinkthey understanda crossbeam anda proper roof.
My dread in thenights hasdeepened to a
level I scarcelyam willing to
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accept. In the
ebon black of thenight, I am animmigrant from adead land intoone that lives
yet; each creakof the treesseems to come
from my ownshuddering spine.
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While I hear no
birds or beastduring the day, afact that onlynow seems tohave pertinence,
the night is alivewith the rustle inthe bush.
Occasionally, Ihear the crashing
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stomp of one of
the drunkardsslogging to thetree line to voidhis bladder.
The boys have
indeed broughtout a stash ofbottles, and they
have taken todrinking
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themselves into a
stupor eachnight, rationingthe stuff to fendoff the night. Iwont speak of it
to the likes ofthem, but I knowthey share my
unease. Theireyes are hollow
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each morning
and I catch themwhipping aroundto look wide eyedinto the trees asif theyd seen
their deathscoming onpadded feet.
Ive taken toleashing the
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hound at the
edge of theclearing. Hewhimpers andshuddersthroughout the
night, and whenhe wakes, hehowls and barks
at the sky. If hecannot make
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himself useful
when the need tohunt arises, I willput a bullet in hisnoisy skull.
September
15th 1868The German is
gone. I suspectedat first that he
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had turned his
tail up, back toCheyenne. I waswise not to payhim up front. Hiscompanion, sick
with fear anddelusion, enteredthe cabin shook
me awake to tellme that he had
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been carried off
in the night,same as ourguide. I boxed hisears and draggedhim to their
camp, whereas Isuspected, hisbelongings were
gone, but thewretch refused to
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work until wed
looked for hispartner.Combed thewoods all daywith no sign of
the German.Some of thenights alien
gloom lingers inthe woods
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throughout the
day, and I mustconfess leapingat the smallestnoises. Thehound, finding his
purpose again,tracked theGermans trail,
only to find that itlooped around
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the grove several
times, spiralingoutward from thecabin. The trailsoon vanished,and the hound
began to strain atthe leash,pleading for me
to return him tothe safety of our
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clearing.
With the cabin insight, at the edgeof the trees Imade anunsettling
discovery. Attwice the level ofa mans height, a
canvas rucksackhung from the
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dead branches of
a massive grayand rotting pine.More unsettling,when I openedthe satchel, I
found the clothesof a much shorterman than I had
expected. Thiswas our guides
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bag.
I will not tell thepoor fear-crazedIrishman when hereturns. To credithis bravery, he
still remains inthe woods asnight falls. I hear
him shouting hiscompanions
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name as he
follows thespiraling trailwith no end. Heis a fool, butbraver than I
believed.The dark hasswept over the
land like thesackcloth of
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revelations, and
there is ice in myblood. I can nolonger hear theIrishman now,the sounds of the
night, the stillunfamiliartapestry of living
bodies and thecreak of the
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towering pines
drown out hiscries.I feel a foolish,but I fear for hissafety.
September16th 1868
Woke in themoonless night to
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the sounds of
screaming, far inthe distance. Awhimpering,tearing shriekthat stilled even
the noises of thedark. I laid,unable to move
in the bedroll onthe wooden floor,
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unsure for a time
if I had everactually left thebattlefieldhospital ofAtlanta and
waiting forcannon andmusket fire. But it
was only the onelone boy,
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screaming in the
dark, and I washelpless to savehim. I clutchedthe rifle close,and the hound
lay shivering atmy side. The boyscreamed, his
voice comingfrom every
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direction over the
course of severalhours before itdissipated into asoft whimper.We could do little
but wait fordaybreak.In the light of
day, I forced thehound back into
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the maw of the
woods. I feel likewilting and cryingeach time Icontemplateleaving the
swampy ring oftrees, but evenan Irishman
deserves acursory search.
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I found him near
dusk. Afterfollowing a nowfamiliar spiralingtrail, I reachedthe unnatural
giant tree thatonce held theguides
belongings. Itwas fresh marked
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with jagged
irregular cutsthat exposed therotting heartwoodbeneath. Thecuts went high up
into the boughs,and I had tostrain my eyes to
see, but what Ifinally made out
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made me
suddenly ill.The boy laycradled in twohigh branches,with his limbs
dangling andcracked in adozen false
joints. His headwas twisted, like
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he sought to
imitate an owl,completelybehind him. Oneglassy eyestretched wide
next to an emptysocket, and histongue lolled
from his frozenjaw.
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He is owed a
Christian burial,even a papistsuch as him, but Iwill need to fellthe tree to fetch
his body. I wish Ihad the strengthand will to do it
now, but thenight of lost rest
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before and the
days gruesomebusiness robs meof the desire formuch besidessleep.
September17th 1868
I am leaving thisplace. I lose all
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that I own, but if I
leave in a fewhours with thesafety of thedawn, I leavewith my life. I will
see my wife andboys again. Wokethis morning to a
flinty gray dawnthat never turned
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blue, but only
drizzled a thinvapor of rain. Theidea that I evercould havedreamed of living
here sickens menow. I sat all dayon the porch of
the house, thevery ground of
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the meadow
lookingthreatening. The
jagged teeth ofthe trees againstthe gray sky, and
the lapping of thepuddled water inthe wind gave me
the uncannyfeeling of being
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inside a
gargantuan mawthat has beenclosing down onme since themoment I arrived.
I was stilldetermined then,to reclaim this
land. To fill thebog and fell the
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trees, and make
the fertile blacksoil work undermy plow. Howfoolish, now.With the fall of
night came awhipping wind,buffeting me with
heavy damp air.When the last
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thread of light
had been cut, thehound stood tohis feet andstrained againstthe leash, hair on
end and teethbared. Hestrained on the
leather leash thatheld him and
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began to growl, a
low menacingsound. I looked towhere hestruggled tolunge, but could
see nothing in, nohorizon betweenground and
forest, or forestand sky. Just
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blackness.
When the leashbroke, it made apopping sound,like a firecracker,and the hound
bolted into theblack. I heard theangry rhythm of
his barking as hewas absorbed
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into the dark.
Then, it ceased,and I heard asharp squeal.
Then silence. Thecrowding throng
of life that I hadfelt each nightbefore was
utterly silent, theonly sound the
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dry rustle of the
pine.I shouldered therifle and firedonce into thedark, and my skin
rippled as myinsides froze. Inthe bright flash of
the rifle, I saw aphantom
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impression of the
world inside thegloom, pale treesand wet earth.And I saw,clearly, the
corpse of thehound, wet andglistening. Beside
it, was the shapeof some foul
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thing. Crouched
on crooked legs,like the limbs ofsome beast, itheld some darkportion of the
dog in its splayedfingers. It wasupright, and
looking straightat me. All I saw of
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its face was the
bright diamondglint of two eyes,and teeth. Somany teeth.
The gunshot
rolled down thevalley indarkness, and I
heard nomovement from
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the blackness
beyond. With allthe speed I couldmuster I fled forthe cabin andbarricaded the
door with everycrate and unusedhearthstone I
could find.Gripping the rifle
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tight, I did my
best to layperfectly silently,and swore toleave at firstlight.
When sleepfinally came, itwas fitful, and I
awoke only a fewhours later to a
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strange pinprick
burning on myneck. I cameawake to find thehead of the dog,perched like a
trophy at the topof the barricade,which yet lay
intact andundisturbed.
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Around me were
the hellish tracksof some beast,wet mud shapesthat defiedidentifications. I
put my hand tomy throat andfelt a line of small
drops across it.Blood welling up
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from a delicate
scratch that ranfrom ear to ear.
The room wasempty, and stillfortified from
within.But it had beenhere with me,
moments before.It had marked
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me, toyed with
me, and left.And so, at firstlight, I will leave.
September
18th 1868I am 10 milesfrom the cabin,
and I cursemyself for a fool.
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With the morning
sun the meadowsteamed and feltsomehow... safer,but still I packedmy lightest
valuable toolsand left thecabin. Five miles
down the road,doubt set in. I
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have stopped to
eat on this smallbluff looking outat the glory ofGods creation,and I have made
up my mind.Readingyesterdays entry
flushes me withshame, what a
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coward I was!
Whatever thatthing is, its abeast, and I am asoldier. I will huntit, trap it, and kill
it. What God andGrant could notgrind out of me, I
will not relinquishto some wild
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animal. I will not
leave my wifeand sonspaupers, I will bea man. I willreturn.
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June 29th, 1869Mrs. Augustine ShelbyGrand Hotel Cheyenne,WyomingDear Mrs. ShelbyWe recently received theenclosed from a pair ofhunters who discovered it in
forests of the Front Range inColorado Territory. Havingbeen made privy to the issueof your missing husband, wefelt it was best to inform you
directly, and pass on hisjournal and a few otherpossessions.
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The hunters describe the areain which they found the items
in a way that agrees exactlywith your husbandsdescription in the journal, butthere was no cabin, norfoundation, or any other signsof habitation.We are deeply sorry that wecould not be of moreassistance to you, and I pray
that your husband willeventually be found.Deepest RegretsColonel Benjamin WilliamsFort Collins Colorado Territory