I’ve always been a history buff. As a child, I was completely captivated by the stories of my grandmother. She had endless tales to spin about the Wild West. Shootouts, cowpokes, and the countless people headed west to strike it rich. These stories made the likes of Buffalo Bill and Jesse James my heroes; to this day, they are near and dear to my heart.
My grandmother’s tales always ended on the same subject. My great-great-grandfather. In my grandmother’s words, “he was the truest frontiersman to ever set off and find his fortune.” As far as my grandmother could tell me, it seems he found what he was looking for or met his end on the trail because he never went back to his family in the east. To have a relative who lived the legends I daydreamed about left me beaming every time my visits with Grandma came to an end.
Those stories will be what I miss most now that she’s passed. She died in her sleep after a long and fulfilling 76 years. Rather than socializing in her later years, she was much happier with her books and spaghetti westerns. So, I was practically the only one at her funeral besides a couple of neighbors and the priest. My mother, her daughter, passed away about 5 years ago. “Cancer is a bitch” became my grandmother and I’s motto when we would reminisce about my mom.
My grandmother’s will turned out to be as blunt and straight-to-the-chase as she was. “Give the kid everything.” With no cousins to speak of jockeying for my grandma’s knick-knacks and jewelry, I took my time sifting through the echoes of the life she led. It wasn’t long before I came across a hefty trunk tucked away in the back of her garage. Despite the thick cobwebs obscuring its form, I could tell it was old. Fell off a genuine 19th-century stagecoach type of old.
Once the trunk was opened, I was greeted with thousands of pages of paper. Some in envelopes, some in the form of books, some just loose pages. For a reason I can’t explain, I pushed my hand through the layers of paper toward the bottom of the trunk. The tips of my fingers were stopped by something bound in leather before I could reach the bottom.
I pulled the object out of the avalanche of papercuts waiting to happen and revealed it to be a small leatherbound book. The owner of this journal made their identity known on the inside cover: Henry Crane. My great-great-grandfather. My childhood passion for the West reignited. I practically haven’t slept for the past three days and nights as I read through Henry Crane’s journeys working as a guide leading settlers to California during the twilight years of the Gold Rush. I poured over the pages detailing my relative’s exploits, each page filling me with more pride than the last. At least until I reached the end of the journal which chronicled the final two weeks or so of what appears to be his last expedition leading a group to California.
I will transcribe Henry’s entries here in the hope that someone can help me make sense of them. I wish I could discount his writings as delusion, but his entries leading up to the final two weeks depicted a very rational and pragmatic man. I will add context to his entries at certain points and will mark these additions with parentheses. With that said, maybe this undertaking will allow me to finally sleep again. Or maybe I’m merely passing on this burden to all of you.
Tuesday, October 2nd, 1855
We’ve made good progress again today. With good luck, I expect we’ll be clear of the Utah territory in little more than a fortnight. (This is just a best guess, but it appears Henry’s group was in what is now Northern Nevada.) I also expect my two old nags pulling our wagon will have to retire after this trip. They served me fine, but I can tell they’ll be lame by the time we reach Sacramento. It don’t help none that Emily’s boy, Jeb, and our resident princess, Anna, are trying their best to avoid walking at all during this trek. They put up a mighty fuss when we tell them to get out the wagon to give the horses a fighting chance to get over a hill. Lost count of how many times I’ve told Emily she’s too soft on the boy. Won’t always be a buggy waiting around to whisk Jeb wherever he wants to go.
Our Princess Anna is truly a lost cause. Some nineteen-odd years of being coddled by her daddy’s money has truly spoiled her rotten. I suspect her big businessman daddy traveled from Virginia to California ahead of her to avoid hearing about how there’s always dirt messing up her new yellow dress she’s so fond of. Between her fondness for that dress and her heavy-as-all-hell stash of canned treats, she puts up a mighty fight to not hop out of the wagon when we hit the trail.
“I ain’t letting none of you lay a finger on these apricots, my daddy got them just for me for this trip, not for any of you,” is what she bellows if she catches any of us even glancing at her personal provisions. It has something to do with a new “pescatarian” diet that’s becoming popular back east, but she would never lower herself to partake in our usual supper of jerky and any small game we happen to snag that day.
Well anyway, I hear Emily tucking in Jeb now as the light is getting low. I also hear Miguel exercising his powers as my second-in-command to give Patrick a tongue-lashing for getting blind drunk as soon as we pitched camp. Miguel can’t stand that Patrick’s dire need of the hair of the dog every morning delays our travels. It irks me as well, but Patrick comes from money, much like Anna. I learned that money smooths over most sores long ago. Miguel will too understand that one day.
Wednesday, October 3rd, 1855
As Miguel prophesized, Patrick wasted our first couple of hours of daylight recovering from his trip into the bottle. Still, no matter how dog-tired his habit leaves him, he always has the spunk for his second-favorite habit. Pestering Miss Anna. Notwithstanding Patrick being nearly thirty years her elder, Miguel is smitten with the princess and thus it boils his blood like nothing else. I can hear Miguel’s grip on the reins tighten as he listens in on Patrick talking about the fine things he could provide Anna.
Anna rebukes that drunk every time. I don’t think even Patrick has a good measure of the mile-high expectations that a girl like Anna has. Making it all the more sad that Miguel has taken to her so hopelessly. “I see that pendejo try something with Anna and he’ll spend the rest of the trip being dragged by this wagon,” is what Miguel said after hearing some more of Patrick’s clumsy attempts at courting.
I talked with Miguel tonight after we set up camp. I did my best to enlighten him about customers like Patrick. They have money but won’t talk about where it’s from. Or for that matter where they’re from. Experience has taught me they’re usually running from some dark deeds. It’s best to keep our business with these types as transactional as can be. Drop them off and then hit the road again with as little fraternizing as possible. Still, I remember the feeling of young love burning a hole in my chest. So, I fear my words are falling on deaf ears with Miguel.
I can hear Emily leading Jeb in their nightly prayers now in their tent. Amazing that she still has the energy for that after spending the day wrangling the little devil lest he run off into the wild. Hearing those familiar words reminds me of my May back home leading our little Delilah through their prayers. I better end this here, tomorrow’s another day getting only farther away from home, but closer to a thicker billfold.
Thursday, October 4th, 1855
Today started less than pleasant for all of us. Our collective slumber was broken by the most awful caterwauling one can envision. All of us burst out our tents to find the culprit was Miss Anna. It took a minute of calming her down as she paced around our burnt-out fire pit before we could get her to speak about what spooked her. “My my my my tent,” was all we got out of her. Miguel took the lead to investigate and soon returned to tell us about a tear in the wall of her tent. I inspected it myself as well. A jagged hole, bout 7 inches in length, to the left of where she would lay her head at night was now present.
Miguel took to comforting her and talking about all manner of pesky, but harmless, critters that could’ve done that. Miguel was probably right, but it didn’t stop Emily from keeping Jeb even closer to her side for today’s travel. As usual, Anna hopped in the wagon when we set out but tucked her legs to her chest as she sat and hummed some song I don’t recognize to soothe herself. This girl should’ve never left the city.
Despite his assurances about those tent-defiling critters, I could see the suspicions rising in Miguel. He drifted off the trail at least twice today as he tried his best to keep Patrick within his sight. Patrick’s a lot of things, but I don’t reckon he’s bold like that. Regardless, Miguel has already offered his intact tent to Anna and promised to sleep it rough tonight under the stars to keep an eye on her. I’m sure he won’t find Patrick crawling around the tents like some coyote tonight, but Miguel won’t be dissuaded.
I’ve retired to my tent now and am immensely road-weary. We all are. Emily’s prayers and Anna’s humming are making my eyes heavy.
Friday, October 5th, 1855
For once, we got an early start today. I awoke to Miguel and Anna gathering sticks and twigs to try and breathe some life into our fire. She seemed real grateful to Miguel for being her sentinel last night. Of course, Miguel was more than happy to lap up her words of appreciation. Little did she know, I could hear Miguel snoring away before my eyes closed. But I won’t spoil his small victory.
Also, to Miguel and Anna’s benefit, Patrick instead spent today’s leg of the trek pestering Emily and me about some “glowing eyes” he saw out in the brush from his tent as he nursed the last drops of another bottle. Emily was quick to scold him for his perceived attempt to frighten her boy. He was steadfast in his convictions about what he saw. It never fails to amuse me how these folks react to the typical coyote attracted by the light of a fire. I told them as much and how the crumbs we leave behind mean there’s a whole pack of little critters trailing us most likely.
This bit of wisdom made Jeb clutch his momma’s leg even harder than before and got me a scolding of my own as well. They don’t realize this little pack benefits us too. Just today Miguel managed to bag us a couple of squirrels with his twenty-two. They became a fine stew that everyone was eager to get a ladle of. Warm food is a luxury on these trips. A luxury I worry that will become a necessity soon.
Winter is on our heels and the mountains ahead of us we got to cross aren’t getting bigger fast enough. I’m gonna have to push the nags harder tomorrow. Luckily Anna has taken to walking alongside the wagon to talk to Miguel. It’s a relief for the nags, I’m sure.
Everyone turned in early to escape the cold tonight. It got to be too much for Anna’s guard as well. Miguel bundled himself up in all the blankets he could grab and made a spot in the wagon for the night. Even Patrick didn’t partake in spirits tonight. A seasoned drinker knows it only makes you colder in the end no matter the warmness it starts with. I would know. Seeing him tilt those bottles up stirs bad memories. But I won’t fall into that again. For the sake of May and Delilah.
Saturday, October 6th, 1855
It was not the sunrise, but Jeb’s shrill cries for his momma that roused me. I bolted and reached Emily and Jeb’s tent first. I found him sitting inside with only his skivvies on with tears and snot running down his face. Emily was nowhere to be seen. I asked the boy where she was, but his answers were gibberish interrupted by sobbing. Anna crawled into the tent next, and I had her get the boy dressed and look after him. She didn’t protest the responsibility and hummed that song to the boy as she got him clothed.
I got Miguel informed about the development and had him wake the still snoring Patrick to help in the search. As Patrick bickered with Miguel about waking him up, I searched the perimeter of our camp for any signs as to where Emily had gone. I only found our tracks leading up to our camp and a set of coyote tracks that stopped short of entering the circle of tents we had set. If Emily had stepped out into the night for some reason only God knows, she left not a trace of her doing it.
Anna and Jeb took shelter in the wagon as Miguel, Patrick, and I expanded our search into the brush. We didn’t gain any more miles today, our search for Emily took up all our daylight. Despite six eyes looking we found not a thing. Not a stray hair nor a footprint within a half mile of camp. The sun got low without us noticing and we had to call the search off.
By the time we got back, Jeb wasn’t crying anymore but was still on the verge of tears as he explained to Anna that he didn’t see when his momma left. However, he swore he heard something walking around the camp last night. The tracks I saw told no such story, but still Jeb was insistent. I ordered everyone to bed early that night and promised the boy I’d find his momma. Miguel took up a spot next to the fire with his twenty-two to take watch. I warned him we’d be up early to continue the search and he said to pay him no mind.
Miguel better have his wits about him when we take up the search again tomorrow. We’ve lost not only a boy’s momma, but a customer as well.
Sunday, October 7th, 1855
I can barely keep my eyes open as I’m writing this. My morning started at an ungodly hour. Felt like maybe two or three at night. The sound of something dragging its feet around and between our tents woke me. I scrambled to poke my head out of my tent to see what had decided to enter our camp. Maybe an injured or sick Emily had made her way back to us.
All I saw was an empty camp and a weakly smoldering fire. I wasn’t getting any more sleep, of that, I was sure. So, I took to bringing the fire back to life and took watch. Maybe it was the fire playing tricks with my eyes or the sleep still clouding my mind, but I thought I saw something nearly a mile out in the brush. A pair of eyes glowing dim yellow. I think they were eyes at least, but I swear they didn’t blink once while I stared at them till the sun appeared.
With the sun aiding us again, the three of us took to scouring the dirt and weeds that surrounded our camp as far as the eye could see. Before I knew it, it was noon. And we had nothing to show for our efforts. I couldn’t stomach the thought of coming back again without Emily, so I followed a hunch and walked toward where I had seen the eyes that night.
I made it about a mile and a half out when I found something tucked away in a bush. A woman’s shoe. Emily’s shoe. That wasn’t the only thing I found there. Strange tracks were snaking around the area. At first glance, they seemed to belong to a coyote, but they weren’t right. The spacing of the tracks made it seem like a coyote decided to start walking on two legs. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I hightailed it back to camp.
I came back to a ruckus at the camp. Patrick had given up the search and Miguel had followed him back to dish out another tongue-lashing about it. “She’s gone you idiot, and we can’t waste any more time here the passes are gonna freeze!” Patrick bellowed in Miguel’s face before he realized I had made it back to camp. I could see Jeb, scared and crying, peaking out of the wagon.
I hate to admit it, but I had reached the same conclusion long before I returned to camp. I pulled Miguel aside and told him to help me pack the tents and ready the horses. He started to protest, but the look on my face stopped him from making a fuss. We had to capitalize on the remaining hours of daylight. It broke my heart, but I couldn’t let Jeb’s screams for us to stop keep us from reaching the end of our trek.
Jeb had cried himself to sleep by the time we reached our current camp. Miguel and I got busy with the tents while Patrick got busy finding a bottle. Looks like Anna is gonna spend the night in the wagon looking over Jeb. I can hear her soothing him with that song from my tent right now. Seems she has a motherly side. At least someone will get sleep tonight. I have a feeling that if I peek my head out, I’ll find those eyes somewhere out there in the night.
Wednesday, October 10th, 1855
I haven’t had time to write these last two nights. The winter chill is chasing us faster than I’ve ever seen in years past. Our progress is growing slower too. The nags are feeling the weight of the wagon more and more. Their stops to catch their breath are growing longer after each hill we summit. It don’t help that the wagon is still weighed down by Anna’s stash of cans that don’t seem to be shrinking at all.
It’s Jeb that the last two days have taken the greatest toll on. He don’t cry for his momma anymore. He don’t do much of anything anymore. He just clings to Anna’s side as she strokes his hair. At least she can get him to hop out the wagon and walk with her when we’re crossing through mud and rocks and need to shed weight.
Miguel and Patrick are at each other’s throats more than ever. Somehow Patrick still has the energy to pester Anna despite all these miles and bottles drained behind us. “We’re not gonna make it anyway so what’s it matter if I tie a few on?” has become Patrick’s new creed. I hate to admit it, but every day he’s sounding more right. Those mountains aren’t getting closer fast enough. Moreover, these last two nights I’ve woken to some noise of an unknown origin and peeked out the tent to see yellow eyes lingering in the distance.
Thursday, October 11th, 1855
I awoke to the sound of expletives being hurled by Miguel and Patrick at each other. I pulled my pants on as quick as I could and saw those two standing practically nose-to-nose with each other as they hurled abuse at each other. Miguel gave me the news when he noticed I had started toward them to break up their spat. My heart dropped as soon as the words left his lips. “Anna’s gone.”
I knew with all the rage building in those two that they hadn’t checked on the other member of our group. I found Jeb still in the wagon. He sat on a pile of blankets staring toward the ground, looking white as a sheet. The boy wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was there. Wasn’t even crying, just sat there mumbling that he heard his momma’s voice last night.
I turned my attention back to the two men who now looked more like rabid dogs ready to tear each other’s throats out. I pushed them apart and told them to get their wits about them and that we wouldn’t have a chance at finding Anna like this. This realization both silenced them and gave us all a sobering epiphany. We couldn’t stop to look for her. We couldn’t afford to lose the time. It’d be signing our own death certificates.
With our new mutual understanding, we packed only three of the tents, leaving the stragglers behind. Miguel went about throwing out Anna’s cans, about four crates of them. Good as they are as food, we can’t keep pulling their weight. This time Jeb didn’t protest as we set off for the day. He just sat quietly in the wagon.
Miguel spent the whole day muttering conspiracies to himself about how he knew Patrick had to have done something to Anna. He cursed the man’s name practically every fifty feet. There’s plenty to loath about the man, but a silent stalker of the night is far from who he is. When he hits the bottle, he can’t walk in a straight line for even two yards, let alone silently dispose of a young woman.
We’ve set up our camp now, but no tents were pitched. No one wants to obscure their line of sight with a cloth wall, let alone sleep tonight. We cooked a rabbit that Miguel managed to shoot today. The boy won’t have even a spoonful of it though. I fear if this goes on that the cold will take him.
I’ve barely slept the last few nights. Only the cold hard ground and the crackling of the fire we’re sitting around now have kept me awake. Miguel and Patrick are still trading verbal jabs with each other as we all watch the desert around us for any signs of movem-
(The journal entry abruptly halts here where it appears Henry’s hand slipped as he left a black line leading from that last word to the edge of the page.)
Friday, October 12th, 1855
Our situation has become more dire than I ever thought it could. My last entry was interrupted by the bickering of Miguel and Patrick reaching a breaking point. Both men were on their feet and swinging fists before I could even lift my eyes from my journal. As I rose to stop them, Miguel connected a mighty swing to Patrick’s face. The blow sent him stumbling back, cupping the side of his face with his hand. Miguel wasted no time in striding over to the drunkard and grabbed him by the collar.
At this moment, Patrick proved himself faster than any of us thought he was. In one fluid motion, he retrieved a revolver from his jacket, placed it against the center of Miguel’s chest, and fired a single shot. Miguel stood there stunned, still holding onto Patrick’s collar, looking back and forth between the hole in his chest and Patrick’s smug, smiling face. In his last moment, Miguel proved himself even faster still. Like lightning, he pulled his skinning knife out of the sheath on his hip and plunged it into Patrick’s throat.
Miguel collapsed onto the dirt leaving the knife lodged in Patrick. With a look of sheer bewilderment, Patrick turned and walked away from camp, leaving a thick trail of blood in the dirt behind him. He didn’t make it more than twenty feet before falling on his face and moving no more.
In a matter of seconds, it was all over. I glanced into the wagon and Jeb hadn’t even bothered to look up to see what had transpired. It took a long while for me to decide what I was to do. Finally, I knew I had to start with getting the bodies away from camp. Burials were a luxury we couldn’t afford. I started with Patrick. I exhausted myself dragging him about a hundred feet from camp. The job wasn’t done, however.
I said a silent prayer for Miguel before I grabbed him by his boots to bring him to where I left Patrick. When I finally reached the spot, the cold air was burning my lungs as I took in ragged breaths. It was a moment before my eyes, straining in the dark, realized what was wrong. Patrick’s body was gone. The drag marks and the blood were present. But no corpse to be seen. I sprinted back to the flickering light of the camp. Though I heard nothing behind me as I ran, it felt as though the devil was on my heels.
In a blur, I gathered rations for a couple of days, unbuckled the strongest looking of the two nags, grabbed a bed roll, found Miguel’s twenty-two, and finally pulled Jeb out of the wagon. With moonlight as our guide, Jeb and I rode away from the camp into the night. We had made it maybe half a mile when a sound pierced the night. A sound that I had no idea an animal could make. The most horrific, painful squeal that a living creature could utter. It had come from our camp. I knew immediately it was the nag I had to leave behind.
We’ve rode now through the night and the entire day. It’s become dark again and my instincts are yelling at me to keep on the move. However, neither me nor the horse can go any further. My eyes have never felt heavier. The horse is lying down now and I already know I won’t be able to get her up again.
Jeb is tucked into the bed roll on the other side of the fire I’ve made for us. He still hasn’t said a single word or accepted the food I offered. Maybe he already knew long before I did that this was all in vain. Like this journal. Writing in it is the only thing keeping me awake now. I know if I let my mind wander sleep will tak-
(The journal entry stops abruptly here again.)
Saturday, October 23rd, 1855
This will be my last entry in this journal. If this makes it back to you, May, know that I made it to California. However, I’m sending this as a warning to never try to meet me here. It is also an explanation as to why I can’t come back to you and Delilah. I will never go into that damned wilderness again. I don’t expect you to believe me, but still, I will chronicle what I saw that night to try and help you understand why I can’t come back.
I had lost the fight and fallen asleep while sitting there. I woke to something pushing me to the ground so hard my head bounced off the dirt. My vision swam and I began to vomit what little food I had in me. When I finally caught my breath, I looked around the campfire with growing desperation. Jeb was no longer in the bed roll. I scrambled over to where I had left the rifle on the ground, nearly falling from the dizzy spell that had overcome me.
With rifle in hand, I tore off into the desert yelling for Jeb. I received no response. Only the quiet winter wind shook the bushes. I circled our camp, not daring to go more than a hundred feet from it lest I lose sight of it. I got control of my breath and stopped to listen for movement. After what felt like ages, I finally heard it. Soft footsteps not far from me, but leading away from camp.
I whirled around toward the sound and readied my rifle. It was Jeb and another figure. He held the hand of what appeared from the back to be a young girl wearing a dirty yellow dress as she led him into the desert. They walked as if they were taking a stroll in the park. I aimed the rifle at her, but her figure bobbed around my sights as my head continued to spin. With all the air left in my lungs, I bellowed out Jeb’s name. This stopped the pair. They were now at the very far reaches of the fire’s light. I could still barely make out her shape and the color of her dress, but her head was shrouded in darkness.
She turned her head back towards me and a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared back at me through the shadows covering her face. I’m ashamed, but any will to fight I had left evaporated. My arms went limp, and the rifle dropped to the ground. Those eyes turned away from me and the pair continued their stroll into the desert. While that thing hummed the same song that Anna did.
I returned to the fire and collapsed. And sobbed. And fell asleep. There is not much to say about the final days it took to make it to California. My supplies were almost completely depleted, but if it’s just me out here, I can make do with very little. I saw no more eyes lingering in the dark when I made camp at night. In some sick way, I think that devil prowling those deserts had already had its fun with me.
As I said before, I’ll be sending this journal to you as an explanation as to why I haven’t come back and as an apology. I know that monster won’t let me get away with my life twice. Tell Delilah I love her more than anything, but please don’t show her this journal. Tell her I fell ill and passed or that I was killed by robbers. Anything that will keep her from wanting to come find me. I love you, May. Goodbye, my one and only.
Always yours,
Henry
As Henry wrote, this is where the journal ends. I still can’t reconcile the man who wrote the beginning of this journal and the one who wrote these last few entries. He seemed completely sane yet also wrote what I’ve shared with you all here. I need to know what happened to my great-great-grandfather. I also have the advantage of living in the north of Nevada. I can’t think of a better place to pick up the trail that Henry left. After finishing this post, I was going to start an all-nighter scouring the web for anything I could find on Henry, but something grabbed my attention. I think I hear someone humming a song outside my house.