Over the centuries, hunters have come to Cross.
These are not hunters in what we might consider the conventional sense or even those who hunt the supernatural or paranormal.
No, these are hunters who have come under the false belief that the people in my town are fair game. They come to satisfy a base instinct that needs to be crushed rather than fed, and on most occasions, it is up to me to show them the error of their ways.
Samuel Worthington, late of Hartford, Connecticut, arrived in town on the first of April 1845. He took up lodgings in the Black Inn and, according to Mr. Black, the keeper, was due to press on to Boston in the morning.
At some point after his evening meal, Mr. Worthington vanished from the inn. His belongings were held for him until 1846, but he never claimed them or sent anyone to claim them.
The reason for this is simple and straightforward: Mr. Samuel Worthington trespassed on my land.
It was not an innocent mistake. He had passed by Blood Road and decided he liked the name. After eating, he had slipped out of the inn and made his way back to my farm. According to Mr. Worthington, he believed he would find some easy prey. Either a farmhand or some maid, someone foolish enough to speak with him.
I had, in fact, caught him prowling around the kitchen, as though hoping to see a scullery maid or some such finishing up the preparations for my evening meal.
He found me instead, and I learned that Mr. Worthington had a penchant for killing.
Several times a year, he confessed, he traveled to Boston, always taking a different route and invariably finding someone to murder.
He told all this to me as we stood outside my home, his hands raised in the air, and my Colt Paterson carbine aimed as his belly. Mr. Worthington assured me that he would leave Cross without molesting any of the residents.
I thanked him for his assurance, and then I shot him twice in the stomach.
My damned supper was cold before he was.
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