I struggled a bit with whether I should keep going with the journal. This portion is far tamer, but I was more creeped out by it. The general mood of the party is...off. I don’t know. Judge for yourselves.

Okay, so I’ve made some progress on the room, along with the journal. The rug is taken care of, as is most of the furniture. I kept the desk because it’s super cool. The drawers had three false bottoms. One won’t open without a key, so I’ll get a locksmith over to fix that, but the other two popped right open. The third one takes up well over half the depth of its drawer, so I’m looking forward to getting it open.

The first had another stack of letters with dates ranging from 1876 to 1904. They are to correspondence with a gentleman in Cornwall, England. I haven’t read through them entirely, but the brief skim I gave them was truly fucking creepy. I’m starting to realize there’s more to this than just the captain’s journal. Several letters mentioned B.H. and his tour of the West. No idea who B.H. is, but if you’ve got any idea, leave a comment.

The second drawer had some lipstick, a pearl-handled hair brush, and some metal that I can only assume are the quills. More on those later. I also found a really cool lighter that I can’t wait to take to a dealer I know (I collect old matchbooks and cigarette cases. Boring and weird, I know.)

From the journal of Captain Grady White

May 27, 1856

I requested leave for Privates Crossly and Bronson, which was approved. They left by coach this afternoon. I do hope the best for the two, though I have concerns about the mental fortitude they possess.

My guide has finally arrived, and we plan to leave with haste upon first light. We have stocked up on provisions, mostly jerky, beans, coffee, and two bottles of whiskey. I like a drink before bed, as does my new companion.

We discussed the route in detail, and he drew a few lines on the maps I studied. His name is Gregor. He chose it in place of his given Arapaho name. He has no surname. Just Gregor. His Arapaho name is Wonoonbisiseet. He prefers to be referred to as Gregor by the white man and says we speak the native tongue just well enough to offend all that hear it.

I am happy that we seem to align well. He speaks with knowledge of the area and has a strong command of the language. His grammar is better than those within the camp, which isn’t meant as a brag, though, amongst this group of braggarts, it should be.

Again, we leave in the morning, and I shall be pleased to have this camp behind me. The affairs of this camp are not those I choose to be associated with any longer than necessary.

Until tomorrow,

Cpt. Grady White

May 27, 1856

I was awakened from slumber by young Mr. WS Foster. He apologized for the late hour but told me he needed to speak with me.

He offered his services on the trek, saying he has a keen sense of direction and can be very useful around camp. I questioned his cooking ability, and he laughed heartily. It was uplifting to hear laughter after the dark tales of the last few days.

The pair of us woke Gregor and discussed the idea. Gregor acquiesced and was most grateful for the extra hand.

I feel there is more to him enlisting his services with us than he is letting onto, and hope it doesn’t become a distraction along our journey.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Again, until tomorrow,

Cpt. Grady White

May 28, 1856

Foster met up with us at the mess hall. I was running through the route yet again with Gregor and Foster approached.

The Major was close behind. I was afraid there would be a disagreement. Foster turned to the Major and declared that he had entered into my service.

The Major laughed and clapped him on the back.

Major: You’ll learn more from these men than any amount of time spent here at this camp. I wish I could come along. Things are...well, let’s just say, things are...fluid at the moment. You’ve picked the perfect time to leave.

Me: Thank you, sir, for sending young Foster with us. We’ll be sure to return him in one piece.

Major: Well, we’ll see about that. And hell, who knows if we won’t be in pieces when you return.

With that, the Major turned and left.

We sorted our supplies, and the stable hands finished loading our pack animals. By noon we were underway.

The day was warm but not unbearable. I felt immensely better, having left the camp behind.

Gregor alluded to the same, saying he felt light as a morning mist. I gather that must be a good thing.

We traveled along a small river as it made its way down the canyon from the melting snow above. Had we the time, I would have spent days here, writing my memoirs and enjoying everything this wonderful land offered. As it was, we pushed through.

By evening the terrain had changed to a tight, boulder-strewn riverbed with an occasional bank. We set camp at the first suitable area we could find.

Foster fetched firewood while Gregor and I partook in an evening snifter of good whiskey. The lad had no idea what he was missing.

Dinner was a rousing success. Foster had found wild strawberries for dessert, and Gregor shot and dressed three sage grouse. I say I’ve not eaten that well since Illinois.

After the meal, we enjoyed another drink while Foster tended the fire. He doesn’t take liquor, so we assigned him the first watch.

I had been sleeping comfortably for the first time in several days when Gregor shook me awake. He placed his hand over my mouth to stifle any sound and pointed to a nearby tree.

I saw...nothing. Just a tree.

Foster came bounding into camp at that moment and dropped an armful of firewood. When I looked back at the tree Gregor had pointed out, it was gone. It had to be our imagination. A ten-foot pine doesn’t just vanish.

I strode to the spot the tree had occupied and found nothing but a few needles on the ground. Likely fell from the tree as it vanished.

Gregor was next to me.

G: These aren’t pine needles.

He held one in his hand. It looked to be a quill of sorts.

Me: That explains it. A porcupine snapped the tree and took it away as Foster arrived.

G: these aren’t from a porcupine. They feel almost...metallic.

F: What’s going on?

I am not ashamed to admit that I jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t heard him approach. He and Gregor thought it the funniest thing they’d seen.

Gregor gathered the quills from the ground, and we returned to camp. It was decided that we would continue this conversation in the sunlight.

Until tomorrow,

Cpt. Grady White

May 29, 1856

I write this at roughly four in the afternoon. Gregor is gone searching for a mule.

We found a game trail that took us up above the riverbed. The going has been less arduous than yesterday, though I admit I miss the sound of the river. I occasionally catch sight of it in the canyon below, but it may as well be in Oregon Country for how far away it seemed.

Earlier this afternoon, we came upon a tree fall on the trail. While sorting it out, one of the mules panicked and bolted with a good portion of our food. Luckily each mule had been loaded equally with supplies and food, so we should have enough to complete the trip.

Gregor has gone off searching for the animal, though I fear it fell into the canyon or traversed the nearby hills and is no longer reachable.

We have set up camp here while we await Gregor’s return.

Foster and I discussed the metal quills in detail, with neither of us able to come to a fitting conclusion on what they are or where they came from. They are shorter than a porcupine quill and quite flexible. We tried cutting one to inspect the material, but it only caused our blades to dull and a notch in the hatchet blade where we struck it. Foster even went so far as to place one in the fire, which amounted to nothing more than a faint red glow from the heat.

Overall, I must say this trek has me questioning our safety. Gregor seems to be on edge as well.

Until tomorrow,

Cpt. Grady White