September 1, 1880


They made a trip into town.

We were lucky this morning. The soldiers misjudged us.

The Cross militia take their job seriously. Many of them served in the war of the rebellion, and they are well aware of how to fight.

More importantly, though, they understand when it’s time to retreat.

According to Captain Pritchard of the militia, a patrol caught sight of at least twenty men, all of them heavily armed. A scout slipped forward, ascertained that the Danforth Building on East Road was the enemy’s target, and so the scout returned to his sergeant, and his sergeant saved the families in the Danforth Building.

Without alerting the Russians, the sergeant managed to sneak everyone out a side window while the enemy continued to prepare for their assault. When it finally came, no one was left in the house.

The rattle of gunfire reached me all the way at home, and within a few moments, I was riding hard into town. More sporadic gunfire rang out, and I passed through the militia’s line at a gallop.

I had both Colts drawn, and I made a hell of a target.

The Russians’ rifles weren’t worth a damn. Not for hitting a moving target.

I’ve no such problem.

Men turned and twisted, trying to follow me, to draw a bead.

They died with their rifles in their hands, as any good soldier should.

A pair of them tried to stop me by jumping out front, but the old stallion I was on had been trained in war, and he had no problem caving in the skulls of both men.

It was then, as the Russians died beneath the hooves of my horse, that their comrades broke and ran.

This was the moment the Cross Militia had been waiting for.

Rifles erupted behind me, and men who’d been hunting squirrels since they were old enough to hold a gun picked off the Russians as they ran.

I rode through the battlefield, my horse picking a path between the bodies.

Those Russians who hadn’t been killed in the initial volley tried to crawl away.

But there was no place for them to crawl to. No refuge or place of safety.

There was only me and my Colts, which thundered in the morning air.

#horrorstories #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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