My Lonesome Dove,
After many a sore trial in Houston, we returned to the remains of the Desert Rose.
Now I reckon that we couldn’t help being waylaid for a spell, seeing as there were tasks that needed doing, and items I had to procure. A good horse was one of them, and Edward proved to be most valuable during one particular encounter.
But I digress.
We came upon the site of the train wreck, finding the graves as we expected. But the dead that had been buried had not stayed that way. Every last grave was empty, with tracks leading off into the wilderness to the south. We decided it would prove fruitful to follow, against all warnings to the contrary (Farrin Skye contacted her injun brethren and they told us that to follow that trail would only mean death – hell, that never stopped us before).
I didn’t leave, however, until I tested the new blast kit. That was the other item I needed to procure. There was nothing left of value on the train that wasn’t destroyed, intentionally or otherwise. So I made my mind up to eliminate all remains for good. And it sent quite the message, that is for sure and for certain. That blast could be seen and heard for miles. I told you I’d be coming for you, Caitlyn.
The tracks led us on a merry chase into the grasslands, where we lost the trail. We did find some heathen injuns, although they were hardly human anymore. They attempted to ambush us, and killed all the horses except Edward. We dispatched the heathens, although we nearly lost our newest companion – serves me right for having mercy on a low-breed elf.
After taking a brief respite, we headed to El Casa Del Diabo, as it seemed better to sleep with a roof over our head rather than under the sky where the Wendigo roam.
The House of the Devil was aptly named.
We hardly managed to get ourselves into bed when all hell broke loose. Countless screams outside, and bloody carnage all through the building. Damn ghouls by the look of the creatures. Likely we found out what became of the poor souls from the Desert Rose. As I made my way downstairs I found the one responsible.
Bill “The Butcher” Cutter. Well I had seen to it that nigh onto thirty years earlier, The Butcher had a cleaver buried into his chest, and that he had met his end properly and with finality. But he was too vile an individual to stay dead, and he had come back to haunt my steps.
My sister saw to his ending before I could manage it. The way her shot took his head clean off, I reckon he’ll never darken my door again. I do need to acquire me a gun like that.
She calls herself Alice now, like something from a dream I can’t quite recall, or perhaps a book I may have read. We had a fine reunion as we set about shoring up the doors and windows before the onslaught of ghouls began in earnest.
Family gatherings are so touching.
Endearingly, Jonah “Cuchuliann” Sterling