The worst has come and gone. I think it has been two days now, but it has been hard to keep track as this damned mist still hangs thick as soup over the valley. I have been running ever since the hanging of Alexander Ellington went wrong, but no matter how fast I run, they are always right behind me. My horse is dead and my strength is spent. I cannot even muster enough energy to be afaid. I hear them howling, and I am sure they will find me any minute now, but I hope to write down the last of it, so there will be some record.
We had brought Alexander up to the tree and had asked him if he had any last words when I heard screams coming from the mission. I ran over to see what was the matter, only to find the compound full of beasts slaughtering everyone still inside the walls. I heard a shot from the square and hurried back to find Sam Rusk standing over Alexander's body. Sam had a huge smile on his face and held his still smoking revolver, the obvious source of the bullet wound in the center of Alexander's forehead. He told me that he had wanted to do that for some time now. I looked at him as if he were insane and told him we needed to get everyone out of town. He shook his head and gestured at the square, saying that it would not be necessary.
In my haste to find the source of the shot, I had neglected to notice that everyone else was dead, save Henry Chandler, Llewlyn Moreau, and Frank Dawson. Before my eyes, the three of them began to transform, a hideous process that involved the swelling of their limbs, and the stretching of their faces into canine snouts. I backed away from them in horror and turned to Sam, only to find that he had transformed as well. As they closed in on my, I grabbed my own gun and shot Sam twice in the chest. I think it angered him more than harmed him, but it gave me time to bolt past him and make it to my horse. I mounted up and galloped out of Crayton as fast as I could.
I hear them snuffling closer. All that is left to do is simply say, goodbye.
Willard Jackson
- Note from Lieutenant Sanderson to Colonel Breckenridge:
We found this diary on the corpse of a man at the end of the trail from Crayton. Judging by the tracks and the wounds he received, I have determined that he was likely killed by a cougar. In regards to his account of the events in Crayton, he is obviously mad. No doubt he was involved in the killings there and dreamed it all up as some means of justifying his actions. The other culprits remain at large, but we shall track them all down.
From the Journal of Sam Rusk
November 15th, 1850
I write this as I watch the sun set from a hill overlooking the gold rush boomtown of San Francisco. The mists finally cleared this afternoon, and everything is beautiful. I have already sent my most trusted minions, including those I picked up in Crayton, on ahead, and tomorrow begins my campaign to make this town my own. They may have spurned me in Texas, but here in California, with control of all the gold and an army of beasts at my back, I shall be a force to be reckoned with. But for now, I am content to sit here and soak in the light at the close of a perfect day.
The End?