Being here the journal of Willis Haverfield, trapper of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.

October 28th, 1825

I have endeavored to set out before the year’s end. At the company Rendezvous this summer, I was fortunate to acquaint myself with a veteran trapper. He told me of a valley, somewhere up north in the mountains, where the game was always plentiful. A treasure of the Rockies. It’s been three winters since I left Philadelphia and I have learned enough to know not to trust just any grizzly mountain man. But the Spring Hunt was fallow and I fear my Fall Hunt was little better. I had barely enough furs at the Rendezvous to save myself from embarrassment, much less build myself a proper life here in the West. And as I cannot go back to And as I am in need of success, I fear I have little choice but to go forth. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Who is to say that the divine might not reach out to me in the form of a wizened mountain goat? I have hired two Crow guides who know the region, an older man called Long Hair and his son or nephew (I fear I cannot tell) named Red Plume. I am fortunate, for the latter appears to be a good Christian, much interested in learning to read more of the good book as far as he is able. The pure belief of a converted savage is refreshing for me in these weary times. The elder does not appear to share the faith, though he speaks much better English, but Lord willing he might very well be persuaded over the course of this expedition. For now, I am happy to talk with them both in an odd mixture of gestures, some words, and even some writing. It is an amusing exercise in communication, to say the least!

I digress. With the vague directions my source provided, we have been able to figure out roughly where the valley is. As with my previous expeditions, I shall keep a journal of my endeavors, so that all who may chance to read it will realize the noble struggles and worthy successes of a redeemed Christian man here in this wilderness.

We depart in the morning. May the good Lord bless me, for I am in desperate need of his providence.

November 3rd, 1825

Four days of steady travel on horseback have led us deeper into the Rockies than I have ever gone. I am bone weary and even my guides, despite their robust Native constitutions, are beginning to show fatigue. Nevertheless, they present an intriguing sight. They are both tall, rangy fellows, clad in the rugged mixture of civilized garb (as civilized as one gets in these parts!) with their strange savage accents of jewelry and beads. Red Plume carries a small wooden cross upon which he seems to place great value. I complimented him upon its craftmanship, earning a timid nod of acknowledgement from him and a scowl from his companion. Each sport impressive braids, most womanly in fashion, though they seem very proud of them regardless. Indeed, I must say Long Hair lives up to his name! With his craggy features and keen eyes, I sometimes feel as though he has stepped right out of an illustration in one of my father’s old books about explorers. I have no doubt I look much the same, clad as I am in buckskins and furs, though I certainly possess no jewelry and would never dare wear a braid.

I feared that this would be a lonely journey, with me speaking little of the Crow’s tongue and they, in turn, speaking little English, but I have been able to converse in a broken sort of way with both of them. As I foresaw, Red Plume, so called I imagine for the red feather tied into his braid, is eager to discuss the Lord and learn more of His ways. When we rest at night, I have endeavored to teach him some parts of the Bible he has not yet read. I find great purity of purpose in this and take joy in his eagerness. It lightens my soul. For Long Hair’s part, though I have tried to include him in our broken chats, the old man does not seem interested, nor does he seem to particularly approve of his young companion’s interests. In the face of his intransigence, I remind myself that even the saintly Paul was once a Pharisee before he saw the light. Though it is somewhat selfish, I must admit it would bring me great pleasure to save the soul of this wizened savage. It is a noble cause far removed from the grasping nature of my years as a trapper of beasts.  

During our riding, I admire the scenery. The winter has set in and a light snowfall has already begun to coat the mountains around us. The Crow take little notice, this being familiar to them I have no doubt, but I am enchanted with the beauty of it all. To think that some men might spend their whole lives grubbing in the streets of a city and miss the beautiful solitude of this untamed wilderness! I tell myself I am truly blessed. 

Were it not for the race of my source, I would believe that I very well be the first white man to have ventured this far. A vainglorious conceit, I know. But I do feel like Lewis or Clark or one of those great explorers of yore.

November 4th, 1825

Another day of long trekking and we are truly surrounded in the mountains now. My Crow guides seem more agitated than at the outset. From what I understand of their squawking (ha ha), they are concerned about the nature of the valley. I assured them as best I could that the game there would be prodigious and their pay extraordinary. However, they seemed entirely too focused on some sort of hokum from one of their many rival bands of Natives. It is hard to tell, but they seem very concerned about some sort of tall men. Perhaps they mean the Shoshone? Preposterous. No war parties would be this deep in the mountains. As a gesture of my confidence, both in them as my guides and in the success of this expedition, tonight we shared  one of the three bottles of whiskey I had managed to procure at the Rendezvous. Red Plume eagerly partook, Long Hair more reluctantly so, and then I began to explain Saul on the road to Damascus to the younger man. I had hoped that in overhearing this story of a nonbeliever’s miraculous conversion, Long Hair might have seen something of himself in the tale. Instead, he seemed more wary than ever, watching the darkness outside the light of our fire with those keen hunter’s eyes of his, though I swear I felt his appraising gaze upon me more than once when I was not looking.I feel some fear for poor Red Plume having to deal with this old pagan and his tall tales. He is such a small lad to begin with, so easily missed in this wilderness if the two of them were to clash over their differing beliefs. If the expedition is successful, perhaps I will be able to take the boy under my wing as an assistant.

The hour is late and I must sleep. Despite Long Hair’s difficult nature, we shall continue in the morning. This valley cannot be far and then we will have the truth of my fortune or despair.

One wonders what Mother would think, me trading whiskey and stories with savages amidst the cold Rockies. She will never know, I venture. For the best, I imagine.

November 5th, 1825

We have reached what must be the valley and, God be praised, everything the old coot said appears to be true. I shall try my best to describe the place here, though I fear my scribblings could never do it justice. 

The valley is wide, seemingly a few hours to cross on foot, nestled deep with the gap of two larger peaks. We managed to find a narrow path down in the southern end that accommodated the horses, but it was treacherous going. The sides of the valley are dotted with holes and caves, an odd geological aspect to be sure, though not unheard of in these mountains. The valley floor itself is covered with a dense layer of trees. In the hour or so it took for us to descend precariously, I had ample opportunity to gaze out over the blanket of lush pines and their soft dusting of snow. It was a sight to stir the soul. Indeed, in mountains of solitude, this place felt somehow even more isolated, even more at peace. It is the sort of place I have been seeking. 

The only break in the trees is a robust mountain stream, not yet frozen, that wends its way straight through the center of the valley. From above, I could see that it played host to an impressive amount of beaver signs. What’s more, the valley positively teems with all sorts of game. Since descending to the untouched valley floor I have seen deer, rabbits, raccoons, and squirrels in abundance. There were even some elk flitting among the distant trees. I wonder if I might be able to winter here and reap a hefty surplus of beaver pelts and small game to boot.

Truly, the Lord has blessed me with this gift. If I can establish some sort of regular hunting ground in this valley of plenty, I might be able to raise a significant fortune over the next few seasons. Enough to return home to start over here in the West. Yes, perhaps I might build a church. Red Plume could be the first of my congregation! It is a heady day today to be sure.

My only wish is that my companions were as enthusiastic as I. Ever since we set up camp, they have grown more wary. Even the usually ebullient Red Plume seems somewhat muted. At night, when I am done teaching him from the Bible in our broken way, I hear his companion whispering to him insistently in their own tongue. He is a poor influence on an otherwise bright young man. 

Speaking of Long Hair, he tried to explain his warning about tall men to me again. From what I could make of it, the story goes like this: Another tribe of giant men lived in these mountains long ago. The Shoshone, despairing of some barbaric practice of these tall fellows (I fear what savages like these must think of as barbaric!), warred with them for some time, eventually reaching an agreement that they might inhabit a valley in the high places of these mountains so long as they kept to their land. In return, the Shoshone would not bother them, and so this uneasy truce passed into the legends of the local people.  It is all nonsense, of course. Before endeavoring to make my way West, I read what histories of these tribes were available in Philadelphia, and not once did any eminent scholar mention some race of Nephilimesque giants living in the Rockies. I explained as much to Long Hair, but the old man just gave me a piteous look with those sharp eyes of his and we left the subject at that. To think I believed I could convert the cantankerous old badger! . 

This evening I opened the second bottle of whiskey in celebration and shared it with the Crow. Though they drank heartily, they remained far from cheerful, staring sidelong at the shadows and whispering furtively to one another. As we looked over my Bible, Red Plume tried to explain the same story as his elder, though in a much more halting fashion, and seemed insistent that we leave some sort of peace offering for the tribe in the valley. I gently tried to disavow him of his superstitions, explaining that science and reason tell us no such tribe exists, but I fear Long Hair’s pagan claws are too deep in the boy. For the first time, Red Plume seemed none too pleased with me and retired to his bedroll instead of finishing our verse. How disappointing.

I do not fear that the Crow wish to do me harm, but that their foolish superstitions or concerns may impede our ability to benefit from this opportunity the Lord has so generously provided as surely as they are derailing my attempts to bring them both firmly into the Lord’s bosom.I will speak to Long Hair more thoroughly in the morning.

November 6th, 1825
The Crow appeared much calmer at the start of the day. An uneventful night seemed to have steadied their nerves. It was a false peace I fear, for though we set about laying out our traps near the stream with a relish and I have no doubt that we will catch a full complement of beavers overnight, the day soured when we encountered a group of mule deer near the stream. 

I managed to bring down the beast with a well-placed shot that I had hoped might impress even the cantankerous Long Hair, but instead it provoked a sharp reaction from the old man. He dared to pull away my musket from my unsuspecting hands as I attempted to reload it for a shot at another of the startled beasts! His hurried, angry words and gestures reflected once more his deep-rooted pagan fears. He accused me of bringing evil down on all of us. I laughed disdainfully and looked to Red Plume for support, but the young man seemed utterly cowed by his elder’s wrath, clutching his own musket and glancing warily into the trees. Now I am a good Christian man, though unfortunately of fiery Scots-Irish stock, and it took all of the angels of my better nature to resist striking Long Hair for his disrespect. Indeed, a man of a more bestial mein may well have gutted the old rascal like a fish for such an indignity, but I reminded myself that I must not alienate the poor boy, though the elder might be lost, so I held my anger and placated him with calm words and gestures. 
Sufficed to say the rest of the day passed in a tense silence, but irregardless of my companions I cannot help but feel blessed with good fortune. I must admit I did dream of home again last night. My dearest El No doubt my success has spurred on such pleasant memories. Upon reflection, surrounded by nature’s beauty and the all consuming silence of the valley at rest,for not even a bird chirps at night in this place of tranquility, I do not miss Philadelphia much. A man could look long and hard and never discover the kind of peace one can find here. I believe I am well-positioned for a pleasant wintering and a prosperous spring.

November 8th, 1825

My happiness and frustration grow with equal measure. As expected, the first night of trapping yielded splendid results. We now have an impressive store of pelts, more than some men might see in an entire Fall Hunt! As always, I find great comfort in the act of preparing pelts for transit. Working with the fur and the flesh of these creatures in such a beautiful setting has given me a satisfaction I have not found since my days in the clini is relaxing. Given my poor hunts of late, I all but forgot the simple, tactile pleasure of stripping these luxurious pelts from their base meat. The beavers here are trusting and docile. Frustration though – the outstanding success of the first set of traps is equaled only by the annoyance of the second set. Upon this morning’s examination, it is clear that something has tampered with them, removing the castor and springing some. I suspect an inquisitive bear or perhaps a bobcat. A minor setback and a reason to be a little more alert. Even a smaller black bear can be a deadly creature or so I am told. 

Unfortunately, my Native companions are beside themselves over this development. Long Hair is insistent that we leave the valley immediately.Again, he explained, as slowly and clearly as he could, like one might to a dullard!, his story of evil tall men. I told him quite rightly that he was being paranoid and I would hear no more about the matter!. Tall men, tall tales. I will not have this cantankerous wretch’s fears spoil my good fortune. Alas, to my disappointment young Red Plume echoed Long Hair’s warning, saying they were both certain that this is the valley of the tall men and that it was those beastmen that tampered with these traps. He asked, no, pleaded with me to leave an offering for the tribe. Long Hair grudgingly agreed, saying that a gift might placate the beasts. A fool’s belief! I told Red Plume specifically that, as a good Christian man, he should know that I would never fall prey to these pagan superstitions. I implored him to do the same, for his very soul might be at stake should he continue to indulge in this nonsense. I fear I pushed too strongly, for the boy looked aghast and neither of them said a word to me for the rest of the day. Both are now carrying their weapons openly and look positively terrified at all times. Red Plume has given me a number of sorrowful, perhaps even apologetic, glances. He even tried to speak to me once, but Long Hair barked at him in their tongue and it kept him silent. The mood is most definitely sour and I am unsure of how to repair it. I will have to give thought to the matter. I am reminded that, despite their involvement in the fur trade and pretensions of civilization, these Natives remain ignorant to the rationality of science and learning. 

Tonight over deer meat, in an effort to ease the tension, I explained to them both as clearly and simply as I could that these tall men simply could not exist. I feel as though I laid out a compelling case: How would they have hidden themselves for so long as trappers comb these mountains? Why would the Shoshone leave such dangerous creatures unmolested? Why would they not seek revenge on their enemies? For God’s sake, how would they understand a beaver trap?

Lord spare me from the simplicities of these uncivilized minds, for no matter my logic, Long Hair did not seem to care. He asked me once again to depart immediately. To my shock, he even offered to waive any fee for guiding me if we left that very night. I refused him. I offered to share a prayer and a verse with Red Plume, another attempt to mend this wound between us, but the boy solemnly shook his head. A pity. I despair at the superstitions of the savages. How like my wife and her dithering. I have had my fill of hokum in this life. The Lord has rewarded my determination with this valley. I will not be deterred from reaping what I am owed.

November 9th, 1825

Damnation! The savages have abandoned me! Despite my friendship and promises of wealth, not to mention the obvious bounty of this valley, the Crow disappeared in the night. I awoke this morning to their clear absence and after calling for them, it was obvious they betrayed me. Long Hair, I can understand, but the boy? I had such greater hopes for him. It goes to show how little stock one should but in the bestial men of this land. Maybe they are beyond the Lord’s redemption! It is perhaps providence that they did not endeavor to fully rob me as well. My equipment and provisions, including the third bottle of whiskey, were all left behind. The traitorous Natives did, however, abscond with my horse, for it is no longer in the camp. I considered following them, but on foot and disadvantaged by their early start, I doubt that I could catch them. Bastards. 

November 9th, 1825

I have taken a moment and returned to this record to lay out my thoughts. There is one oddity to note. Red Plume’s wooden cross, the one that he bore around his neck, was left here in the camp next to my bedroll. A rejection of his belief? A parting gift made in guilt at his wrongdoing? I do not know nor do I care. I burned the thing in the fire. I have no need of rustic geegaws from a traitor’s hand. A thing easily missed. The Natives’ betrayal has unfortunately changed my plans. Originally, I was content to winter here with the ample game, but now I will have to leave shortly. I can only carry so many furs on my person and I cannot stash them to return at a later date. I shall finish out the week trapping as much as I can, then begin my way back to civilization on foot. I will not deceive myself that it will be an easy journey alone. With God’s benevolence, I shall prevail.

My only concern now is what is tampering with the traps. A quick check of them again this afternoon yielded similar results to the other morning. One was even wholly destroyed. I cannot fathom what would drive a bear to do such a thing. I have heard that they are inquisitive creatures. I will have to take great care to place the traps better and keep an eye out for the bear responsible.  Truth be told, I could do with a new blanket of good fur! The cold is setting in much deeper now and it is far harsher than the chills of old Philadelphia. Maybe wintering here would have been hard after all, but I cannot overlook this bounty. Another week certainly will not hurt, Lord be praised.

November 11th, 1825

A difficult day. Last night, I dreamed restlessly of the clinic and so much blo The Crow did not take my horse after all. While looking for another deer after a round of collecting traps, I found the beast, what was left of it, not far from the camp. It had been most savagely killed. It sounds fantastical but it was almost as if something had torn its belly apart. I fear I shall not soon forget the sight of the blood staining the pristine snow. It has quite shattered the tranquility of the valley for me. Initially, I suspected the Crow, but they had no reason to do this thing. It must have been a bear, perhaps one of the famed grizzlies that my fellow mountain men speak of in such fearful terms. 

That said, I have never heard of a bear that removes the organs of its prey. I checked, of course, feeling around amidst the chilled sludge of frozen blood and frosty gore. How could one not be intrigued by the very vitae of a once majestic creature on display, opened before me like some sort of exotic crimson flower? Simply fascinating! It reminded me of Father’s books on anatomy that I consumed as a child. The removal was not as precise of course, certainly not as precise as skilled hands like mine might be able to do, but similar in spirit. Heart, lungs, stomach, intestines, even the liver, all gone! How odd.  I must take additional precautions at night or perhaps find a different place to shelter. My camp is still in the open among the trees and I would rather some bear not blunder upon it in the night.

Many of the traps were sprung again. Resetting them took most of the afternoon. I can only assume it is the work of the selfsame inquisitive creature.

November 12th, 1825

I endeavored to move my camp. Last night, whilst on the verge of sleep, I heard a rustling and commotion near the edge of the firelight. There was a foul smell in the air, like the musty stink of a wet linen mixed with the sickening scent of dried blood. I will admit here that I froze in the moment. But not without reason! Grizzlies, I am told, will not attack immobile prey. After some time, the snuffling ceased and the stench receded. I slept fitfully for the rest of the night. It was not so much the thought of a grizzly, but rather the smell. It reminded me of A disgusting scent and quite out of place in the peace of this valley.

In order to avoid a similar incident, I managed to find a small cave that does not seem to go deeper into the mountains like the others that dot the cliffs. It is as good a spot as any. There is something almost romantic about living as Elijah would have done, alone with nothing but nature and God.

Perhaps as a counter to my strange night, the traps were not tampered with today and I collected another fine set of pelts. How they shall envy me at the rendezvous this summer! Perhaps I’ll even see those treacherous natives there and have a good chance to rub their faces in what they missed out on. That cur Long Hair will be lucky if I don’t cut him down for leaving me alone here.

Dreams of well-deserved retribution aside, I must admit that I have begun to question the bounty of the valley. Have I unintentionally stumbled upon the territory of some grizzly? That would explain the abundance of game and the lack of other predators. Such creatures do not usually seek out men as prey but I have endeavored to keep my musket loaded and near me at all times. A shot or two should be more than enough to deter any bear. And it is just a bear.

November 14th, 2025

It is not a bear! 

God help me but it is no beast of this earth known to man. I have seen it now with my own eyes. How quick I was to dismiss Long Hair and his tall tales! It is my duty now as a learned man to record this strange creature, as terrifying as it is, in detail. In fact, I hope that I may well be able to use this recollection to develop a plan to kill the beast if possible. A beaver pelt is fine and good, but dragging back the corpse of this thing with me to civilization? It would be worth a fortune. And of great value to the scientific community, of course. If Why, the pelt alone might suffice to make me a rich man, a respected man, again. And imagine the feel of skinning such a

I dither. It is excitement. Let me say plainly what occurred.

After another emptying of the traps, I set about skinning and preparing for transit as many of the beaver pelts as I could. Both day and night passed without incident. The next morning as I prepared to check the traps again, I got a glimpse of a large form lumbering through the woods near the cave. I moved cautiously, out of fear of startling the bear, but I was eager to see the beast that so vexed me. Foolish! It was not a bear! 

My heart fairly leapt from my chest when I saw the truth. Drawing closer through the trees, I ensconced myself within a snowy clump of scrubby trees and was able to get a clear view. Long Hair’s stories were true. The creature is massive and walks upright like a man. It is incredibly hairy. The cold light of a sunny winter’s day perfectly illuminated its shaggy, dun-colored pelt, all stained and spotted with dirt and blood and I know not else besides. It reminded me somewhat of a purported Barbary Ape Eliza and I saw at a fair in Philadelphia. But that creature was only two feet tall. This beast towered amidst the pines. I estimate it was eight feet high, though I have never been particularly good with measurements. The creature was striding determinedly towards the edge of the valley, moving with a curious loping gait. It carried with it the foul stench, like ammonia and fresh-spilled blood swilling together on whiskey-soaked floor of an old barroom, from my camp a few nights ago. To think that such a thing was observing me in my sleep! I admit here that it chills my blood. Its hands were massive and had THUMBS like my own. It carried (by the neck no less) two dead deer and lifted them as I might lift a squirrel or rabbit. More disquieting was that it carried alongside the deer one of my traps, broken and yanked from the ground. Does it understand such a mechanism? Could it be so intelligent?

To my shame, the whole sight unmanned me and I retreated hastily back to my cave. I was fortunate that the beast did not notice me. Or did it not care that I was there? I sat for some time, shivering and dithering. The valley is clearly not safe but I know nothing of this creature’s habits or movements. I will learn them. I prayed to God for direction, for he has delivered this new mystery unto me as both a burden and a blessing. By His guidance, I will make my way from this place in the morning to ensure that my path to safety is secure should the need arise. With that guaranteed, I can then focus on what needs to be done. 

Tonight will be difficult. I built the fire high, for I feel the beast is not familiar with flame, and have loaded my musket and removed my knife from its sheath. That might be a pitiful gesture, my blade would do more to the creature than a toothpick might to a man, but the feel of the handle in my hand brings me comfort as it always has in trying times.

Staring out into the twilight, I fear the valley’s beauty has taken on a sinister tone. For the first time since I have come to these mountains, I find no comfort in the nature that surrounds me. How can I? By God’s divine dictate, Man is the apex of the natural world. All know this! We can move at peace in the wilds aware that none might challenge our supremacy but other men. But this thing? Where does it fit in God’s world? What is its purpose? Does it mean to harm me? I do not know. It will be a long night. May God deliver me from its terrors.

I am so alone.

November 15th, 1825

There will be no leaving the valley soon. Though I was weary, I set out at daybreak for the path that the Crow and I took to enter this place of false serenity. Overburdened though I was, I still made good time, and it was well before noon that I reached the path. Misfortune, ever my companion, struck me then. Persistent snowfalls have rendered the path impossible to traverse. I tried thrice, falling back to the valley floor each time. Uninjured though I was, I fear that were I to somehow make it farther up the trail and suffer a similar fall, it would leave me grievously harmed. I must wait for some melt to clear the way. 

So plans change once again. Survival is the priority in this natural prison. The beast stalked me on my return journey, I know it. I heard it shuffling. I smelt its horrific stench. I did not see it but I fired my musket into the air nonetheless. Let it think on fire and lead. I will not be intimidated, for I am a hunter still.

Sitting now by the fire, eating the meat of a newly felled deer, I begin to fear that perhaps there is no beast? Am I sick? Did I eat something wrong? Have I imagined the whole thing? The stench, so much like the clinic after that night. Is it the guilt of what I did that plagues me? My dearest Eliza, forgive me.

I must not doubt. Indeed, I have considered the matter at length even since writing the above. I am not mad. Most certainly not. While I may never have treated maladies of the mind, I would know if I was losing mine. No, no, I feel the Lord’s intent in the discovery of this creature. It would be wrong for me to hunt a man like Long Hair, after all, but this creature? I know that I have these urges, the self-same uncivilized and unfulfilled desires that ultimately led me to my current predicament, but in this creature’s death, I can find a justified, nay, divinely ordained satisfaction. A reward, both material and spiritual, for washing away my past sins in His grace. Trapping a beast like this will be a true test of my mettle. The deed may be so great, so fulfilling, that it might expunge these cruel desires wholly. For how could the death of an unconscious patient on an operating table what could compare to the thrill of killing a mythical giant? Nay, not just a mythical giant, a beast that defies God’s very order! Yes, I see the Lord’s plan in this. I see His ultimate forgiveness here. Mad? No, I am finally redeemed.

November 15th, 1825

It came for me in the night. 

I write this in the morning with shaking hand. It loomed out of the darkness not but an hour after I had placed the journal down, a massive clump of darkness among the inky black of night. Its eyes gave it away. They glow in the firelight like a cat’s eyes. 

Like a demon’s eyes. 

There was no hesitation. No animalistic curiosity. It was all shadow and stink, coming on like a Native warrior defending his home, hunched low, hands raised to rend and tear. By God’s grace, I was still awake, sitting thinking of the past, when it appeared. Death came for me then. I imagine it is what a man feels under the gaze of the famed lions of darkest Africa. I am proud to say I was not unmanned! I have killed before! As it loped towards the cave, my first shot struck it true and that gave it pause. It let out a soul-rending bellow then. I think I may even have hit one of its eyes. Though I am no soldier, I can reload as fast as any man, and I hit it with a second shot, prompting yet another crushing wail. It fled then, disappearing back into the darkness. The night was filled with the sickly sweet smell of freshly spilled blood. It roared again and again in the distance. I am not a cruel man but the sound of its pain brought me satisfaction. I had forgotten the pleasure bringing pai I am Man. I am God’s chosen creature. No beast of the wild, no matter how intimidating, will be my end.

I did not sleep again that night. I will not sleep again tonight.

November 17th, 1825

I have tried to venture beyond the cave, but I can learn little of the beast’s habits. I have seen neither hide nor hair of the creature, nor any other for that matter, during these last two days. Certainly, it is not for lack of trying. Perhaps it conceals its tracks. Perhaps I am not the hunter I though  I caught its scent on the wind, I am sure of that. I still have some pemmican, though my food supplies are dwindling, and I have passed some hours melting snow for water. I managed to make a handful of torches as well. I also took it upon myself to lay out the few traps I still have around the cave entrance. While a beaver trap will do little to the creature, the noise might warn me of another nighttime assault. I will not be bested. 

Collecting my thoughts now in the firelight, the awfulness of my predicament is growing on me. I cannot escape the valley. I have bullets to fend off the creature, but without being able to track it, I cannot lure it into the ambush I would need to overcome its size and strength. I fear it is stalking me again, rather than me stalking it, and who knows when my guard will slip. I am alone in nature. The Crow will not return for me. No one even knows where I am but they. Assuming they actually left and the beast did not slaughter them as it did my horse. I am so alone. It would be easy to succumb to despair but I will not. I must remember God’s plan for me. My redemption remains at hand, if only I have the skill and strength to reach out and grab it. This is a test, like George and his dragon. I shall not be found wanting.

November 17th, 1825

There is more than one. God deliver me from this evil. The bellows make more sense now. They were calls summoning its infernal kin. Three pairs of eyes circled the edge of the firelight this night. Huddled at the back of the cave, musket in hand, I am writing this so that others may know. I fear there may be a whole tribe of these beasts, like in Long Hair’s stories. I thought him an old pagan fool, but I fear that there was far more truth in his tales. If only I had listened to his sage advice. If only I had heeded Red Plume’s honest, Christian pleas to me. To think I so callously discarded that little savage’s sweet gift. I hear the beasts now, shuffling in the darkness. Their stench is unbearable. I may have even seen a fourth pair of eyes. They chitter to one another in what I can only assume is some unspeakable tongue. I am tempted to discharge the musket simply to try and scare them away, but I have only so many bullets and I do not wish to lose them pointlessly. 

Just now I flung one of my torches in their direction in the hopes the flames would disperse them. A mistake. The indistinct shapes of their massive bodies seemed to writhe grotesquely in the light. I would swear they were capering, celebrating like a man who has caught a beaver in a trap. Is that what I am to them, pinned up in this cave? I prayed then, squeezing my eyes shut as best I could until the torch’s light faded in the snow. There are some things a man does not need to see. I drank the last bottle of whiskey shortly thereafter.

I am outnumbered now. My plans must change yet again. I must put the thought of the hunt aside. I must survive this. I am a killer and will hunt these beasts in time, but God did not mean for me to die unredeemed in this valley. No, His plan for me is clearly longer than that. I will make a break for the path in the morning. If I leave the pelts and most of my gear, I should be able to reach it quickly. Damn the perilous climb. Anything is better than staring at these beasts and waiting for them to feast upon me. I will find the Army, bring them here. We will purge this valley of these monstrosities, these children of Cain! For what else could they be but the accursed creatures of that foul, legendary race? It is not the fault of the Crow and the Shoshone that they do not understand the creatures of the Devil when they see them. But I know. I do I do I do. I was one, after all, letting those people die on the table. But I am not a Devil, no! I am a crusader now! What a gift! Yes, a crusader purging demons in the Lord’s name, the whole wrath of an Army behind me. A glorious future far removed from the simple material desires that brought me here.

I need sleep. But how can I when the beasts are literally at the door? Courage, man! Their cries are the calls of destin–-

November ??? 1825

My dearest Eliza,

I know not how I still live. I know not the day either. It may be the 18th, it may be three days hence. I am in this cave now. You must understand, Eliza, I am sorely wounded. I never made it to the path out of the valley. I headed for it that morning as I said, but I was undone. One of my own beaver traps closed on my leg. My left tibia at least is broken. Something grinds there when I move. The pain is exquisite excruciating. God has abandoned me. I was never meant to be His crusader. I have not the strength, It was all I could do to make it back to the cave without collapsing. I placed a splint on it as best I could, but I cannot traverse the valley now. They would catch me in the open. 

I swear to feckless God the trap was moved. I would not have been so foolish as to set my own trap and forget its place. Three years I was in these mountains. Three! No foolish mistakes like that from me. Father raised me to be precise. Precise with the cuts, precise with the instruments, precise in matters of life and death.Precise with traps. Yes. The beasts must have studied it. Must have learned. Must have trapped me, the trapper (ha ha). 

My food supplies are running low. I cannot emerge to catch another deer or even to fill my water. I have been reduced to melting what snow I can scrounge from the cave’s entrance. It is not enough. At night, the beasts circle the entrance to this cave, their eyes barely glowing in the light of the meager fire I have made. They are hungry, like me. I will be a delicacy to them, like the escargot you and I had that night at Jourdan’s. Yes yes. A fine fate, to be a delicacy. I thought of this valley providence, I thought that God had forgiven me. But it is a punishment. Nature’s punishment? God’s punishment? One and the same.

I have come to a realization in writing this. I must confess. It is only through contrition that I may finally be free of this suffering. I had hoped, prayed even, that this record of my good works and hardy endeavors as an honest Christian man here in the West would serve as the ultimate testimony of my redemption. But here, in this cave, with demons at the door, I know the truth. I cannot run from it any longer, so I will tell you now Eliza what I did.

I have always reveled in surgery. It was not solely my father’s profession that led me to work in the surgical clinic but genuine interest love. I must be honest. Working with blood, with sinew, with muscle, with skin. The touch, the smell, the feel. Yes. To feel the beating life of a person prostrate before you and to know it was yours alone to save or deny. God forgive me, but when I worked with the scalpel and knife, I felt as though I was truly divine. You see, Eliza? I alone was the arbitrator of life and death. I alone was privy to the secrets of someone’s internal workings. 

Is it so surprising that a man constantly put in such a position would become curious about what it would feel like to take life instead of saving it? 

When I was young, it was easy to contain. A bird here, a mouse there, a cat once even, small things, easily missed. I tried, you understand my beloved, I tried to contain these bestial urges. I knew they were wrong, but I still felt them. Every time I worked on a patient, I was strong, for you, for my family. 

You must understand. I can be forgiven for succumbing just once. 

Only once. 

She came late one night to the door of the clinic when I was still there sorting papers. A desperate, dirty little harlot struggling in the family way. She needed the services only a skilled doctor could provide. Alone, scared, a whore. Easily missed. God help me Eliza, but I succumbed. Once she was sedated I knew I could resist no longer. It was too tempting. I took her apart, piece by bloody piece. I reveled in it. I gloried as God must have gloried when he built Eve from Adam’s rib. I deconstructed her with enthusiasm! Why, I had to actively restrain myself from taking a taste, just to see how it felt, you know? When I realized what I had done, when I recognized the siren’s song of the beast within me, I knew what was needed. It was easy enough to cover up the crime. A simple death during a routine, albeit illicit, surgery. A post-mortem, conducted somewhat enthusiastically, I must admit, but a small thing really. Who was to care?

Of course, how was I to know that she was the damn attorney general’s mistress?  Of course that meddling little adulterer went to those piggish constables and put them on the trail. And then when that old busybody Doctor Mortensen started asking questions of me about any late nights in the clinic, I knew I was in trouble. So I emptied everything from our accounts and fled, like Paul escaping Damascus in the night. What else could I do? I would have lost everything, my reputation, my fortune, my very life! 

You must see, Eliza. You must understand. God understands. That is why I found him. He will forgive me, now that I have told you. 

This final act of confession will wash clean my soul. It was a despicable thing to have done, though I dearly wanted to do it and for so long. I was a beast, not a man. A Devil. But what is God if not a forgiver of devils? A redeemer of beasts? If he can lift up a little savage like Red Plume, surely he can forgive me, a good Christian man, now? You will forgive me too, Eliza. I know you will, now that I am shriven. Now that you have read of my deeds here in the West and how I endeavored to be good. I have done all I can.

Now, I can die at peace and head towards my Heavenly reward.

With love,

Willis

November ??? 1825
They did not come for me! Why do they delay? The fire has gone out and I have no more wood for this coming night. They must come now. They must be hungry. I am so very hungry. And thirsty. There is no hope for me now. Did I not do what I was supposed to? I told you the truth. I wrote it all. I should be dead. I should be redeemed! But I am not. I am dying. And what point is there in being a God-botherer now? What point was there ever, really? Foolish, dour Eliza will not read this. No one will.  I will die here in this cave and this book will rot and wither like all things must. No redemption for Willis! No Heaven! It was all hokum anyway. What god would give me such desires then punish me for indulging them? I am a beast. I have always been a beast. So I will die as one.

On the edge of the beyond, I will give a full-throated voice to the monster within me. I shall challenge these “tall men” on their own terms, beast to beast. Dying though I may be, I shall indulge in my killing lust once more. No one will know! No one will judge me! No one will tell me that I am wrong! I will descend into the valley of death with joy! I will rip. I will tear. I will slash and stab and shoot and cut and thrust until I see the insides of one of these creatures laid open before me like they are on the operating table and I will revel in all of it. No poxy whore here but a worthy predator to fight and carve like a proper trophy. In this, I will find my glory! My true redemption! 
Except, of course, my leg is broken. 

The lightest pressure brings the crunching and the unbearable pain. 

I am delusional. I cannot fight. I cannot walk. There will be no glorious rending and tearing for the beast Willis. The monsters will carve me up in the night like my horse. Organs painstakingly removed, heart, lungs, intestines, even my liver. I would have done the same to them, given the chance. 

But, as I lay here staring into the oncoming darkness, I found something wonderful in that. I wanted to die as my true self, so perhaps who would know me better than other beasts? It is beautiful. Only now at the cusp of death have I found a true company of fellows. No stuffy doctors or shrewish wives. Just honest creatures who desire blood and flesh as I do. If only I had realized earlier!

I will be the sole object of their ravenous attention and in that I will become the center of their world, the focus of this whole valley,  a treasure of the Rockies. To live eternally in their tall forms, my energy as their energy, my blood pumping alongside theirs. I spit on God! This is what it truly means to be divine! I smile to think of it.

They will deconstruct me.

I am a monster and at last I am with my own.