​                                                                          ​Faith and Fire

January, 1870

As a token of her love, my wife, Kitty, has given to me a journal so that I may record my journeys and outings. Partially, to keep my mind sharp on those dark, lonely nights out on the prairie, herding cattle, the abundance of our livelihood. Yet, this is also for her to enjoy upon my return, allowing her to know of my deeds without bothering me when I am working at the homestead. I do not mean to be insensitive to her, as she is my wife and I love her dearly, however she could carry on with a snake should it slither into our abode. A compromise for both of us, a fair one I reckon, so long as I write upon these pages.
I suppose I should state my name so that my wife does not suspect someone else of entering logs while I loaf about. My name is Grantly Parsons, I am of the age of thirty four, being learned in the ways of cattle and horsemanship, although I am not a bad shot either. Hunting is dangerous in the rocky area we live in so high above most, teeming with bears, cougars, and indians. I have plenty of practice for shooting without actually looking for a reason but I prefer knives over my carbine and pistol. I fear I am rambling now about things not worthy of noting, even if Kitty says otherwise. My next entry will be more exciting.

   
February, 1870

My dearest Kitty, how I have slaved this past month, pushing these stubborn creatures north through this wretched cold. A few of the men have either quit or died on the way, which means we should get a bonus upon delivery. I do not enjoy the gain from the deaths of my fellow man but the deserters surely do not deserve their cut. I miss you fiercely. The thought of you spurns me on, writing about you now helps me on these cold nights, just as you said it would. I hope to be home soon. The smell of cow shit and burnt coffee is wearing me thin.


May, 1870

Kitty has been nagging me to continue writing in this journal, even when I am home. So, I find myself beneath a stern fir, staring out across our ripe land, pleased with my work done, glad for the work ahead. I write today mainly about the most exciting news a man can receive...I am to be a father. My return in late March rekindled our passion for one another, our love providing us with a future child. If its a boy I will name him after my grandfather, Samuel. A girl, Kitty's sister who passed, Darla. Either way, I am happy with this news. I think I scared all of the animals away when I yelped with joy. Our lives are blessed upon this mountain so close to God. He has watched over us rightly. I pray for the strength to be a good father and husband.

January, 1871

Darla is beautiful. Hair as black as the night with a smile brighter than the sun. With this new addition, and a great harvest ahead, I have decided to hire some help with the crops and horses. His name is Mathias. He came to us during this harsh winter, nearly dead, wounded by some animal out in the blizzard. We healed him, albeit he is a sight to behold with his face torn and jagged by whatever creature preyed upon him. His health has been in our prays, aiding his recovery, teaching him much about horses and the land. His former trade was in mining, he had come from California, searching for new wealth where many dared not look. I admired his stories and drive, a welcome addition to this lonely mountain. I could use the help since Kitty is taking care of the child and newcomer. The sooner he is well the better for us all.

February, 1871

You abandoned me, God. I put faith in you, trusted in you, and you failed me. I showed good will towards men and it brought ruin to my house. Mathias was a sadistic charlatain, I should have seen it, I should have known. I returned home from tending the horses, my helper having claimed ill that day. I shall never forget that scream, high up in those rocky landscapes, echoing heavier and louder, crushing me the very instant it reached me. It was meant to warn me away but it had the opposite effect, rushing quickly inside to see what was the matter. I was met with a sabre to the gut, stuck by the man I had taken in, given so much, including his life. He smiled a yellow grin before punching me in the throat, dropping me to the ground breathless, life sputtering out of me without delay. He had found my old military sabre from my days in service of a lost cause, my injuries threatening and deadly, leaving me only with enough energy to watch the horrors he would deliver upon my family. You failed me, God. You bastard. Where were you when my wife and infant were pierced through by the very man that betrayed me? Why would you allow her body to be defiled as she lay defending our child, slain by my very own blade? What kind of cruel, sick God are you that you would let this man exist? Let him bring evil to such good people?
I continue by way of a miracle, one given to me by the savages in the woods. I always warned them away, never killing any, knowing them to be displaced or lost as I had been so many years ago by our bloody war. Perhaps that is why the old man came for me, took me from that bloodstained home, brought me back to the land of the living. I hate him for this gift, this cursed life I now lead, widowed and childless, betrayed and broken. Never speaking anything sensible to me, only offering food, clothes, and passage from their hold in the forests. And so I left them, finding my way back home, up the mountains, to this journal, to the bodies of my family, and one horse, Grub. He was a prickly son of a bitch, always eluding me whenever I wrangled the others, surprising me now with his return and survival, most of the other horses slaughered or missing. I will gather enough gear to travel, to hunt, and lay the rest to ashes. I seek only vengeance now, the cold air beginning to wane as spring comes early once more, clearing the way for me to find the murderer Mathias.

February, 1872

It has been a year since I saw my wife and daughter last, as well as their killer, the scarred man called Mathias. I have searched high and low for his whereabouts, bribing, fighting, threatening, anything I can do to get answers. I have found nothing, as if this man was some hellish apparition sent to plague my family, a wraith wandering the mountains. I have not lost my anger or drive to find this man but my faith still remains shattered, taken from me as should my life have been. I practically run on bitter hatred and whiskey, waiting for either one to be my end, having made my way west to California, finding nothing but whores and scoundrels.
I am lost, in so many ways. I miss you, Kitty. I failed you, Darla. I will not rest or give up until this world makes me, finally reuniting us for what has already seemed like and eternity. I have decided to head east, to look for any clues I may have missed on the way here. Mathias could not be dead, not without my say or hand to make it so. I shall write you both again soon.

July, 1872

I have grown ill. My body is feverish. I cough blood and hate my very lungs. I think I am dying. A monastery was kind enough to take me in, a place called St. Mark's Cathedral. Fitting that we were not saved by God but that I would die in his house. Seems like a cruel joke. I don't care anymore. This sickness is crushing my insides and I am tired. I am ready to be with you and Darla. I miss you, Kitty.

October, 1872

And so, I am healed. Once again, I have cheated death when I was surely destined to perish. Yet, I write now with a heavy heart, Kitty. I have not forgotten you, or our daughter, but time and strength have been stripped from me, I was weakened, done with this world. Somehow, I still live. This is a second chance for the first one I wasted on revenge, allowing me to try where I failed before. I have met a woman, the one who nursed me most, her name is Dana. I did not want to ever find love beyond you, Kitty, but it was a miracle that I survived the first death. This has to be divine intervention that, within the house of the Lord, I have found a cure and a home once more. I will keep writing, as a reminder for myself and you, and for Dana to read of my life before this place. My faith has returned along with my life and I dare not squander it again. I will make this place mine, protect it, love it just as I love you and Darla.

July, 1875

I have two daughters and a loving wife. My horse, Grub, still pesters and provokes me on a daily basis, ornery as ever. I have neglected my writing as I have become the town sheriff and my time is filled with busy days and trying times. I am happy. I miss you, Kitty. I miss you, my sweet Darla. The lord took you from me and tested my faith, of which I nearly lost everything. I have only one of those restored, allowing me to continue even with your sorrowed absence. I have given up my search for Mathias. I have tried to forgive him but am still unable. No amount of healing or penance will atone for his atrocities. I leave matters of divinity to Gods hands, letting him distribute justice as I do in my own town. I pray for the happiness of your souls, child and mother, wife and daughter. May he hold you high in the clouds of heavens blissful rays.

August, 1875

A black storm like any other fell upon our hallowed home during the heat of the summer. It brimmed with violence, bursted with vile rains, and brought with it death. I had seen death many times, never forgetting the face that snuffed out my former life. Mathias, along with a posse of about forty or so men, used the cover of this wicked storm to raid our beloved town. The air that day was filled with blood and bullets, lightning and wind constantly slamming down upon us as we fought for our lives. Fires consumed numerous buildings, their start uncertain, the carnage painfully clear. I killed at least eight men before they retreated, losing a total of fifteen in the battle. We, however, lost so much more.
I buried Dana and the girls, along with half of the town, in those following days. My family, my life, my death, all centering around this man, this devil walking the earth. My faith waning, my rage burning hotter than the fires that stole most of our town. I had the few survivors pack up and head north to the nearby town, while a select few stayed behind to help me with one last task. My good friend, the Preacher, blessed us as we buried the remaining others. Jose, and his son Jose, both Mexicans who had lived here longer than most, took up arms alongside me. So we waited , days upon days, for the return of that vile man and his sinister crew.
They came, a week to the day later, as the sun sunk behind the horizon, and shadows we became. We let them think it was abandoned, Preacher luring them into the saloon, acting as if he was drinking his sorrows away, his flock lost, his faith drowned in whiskey. Preacher slipped into the cellar as soon as we opened fire, killing them easily as they rushed out to meet their aggressors. We had taken the roof tops, blocked the alleys, scattered their horses in a frenzy. With the Joses covering me with a Rolling Block, I moved in with an eight gauge and my revolver. Firing my shotgun, I killed two men, wounding another, the roar of the weapon striking fear within the group. Next, I dropped one by one with each click of the hammer, until my ammo was dry. With only a few left, and rifle rounds pinning them down, I snuck in through the cellar thanks to Preacher, the posse still thinking me out front on the assault. I emerged into that saloon and claimed three lives quietly before finding my way to Mathias' throat. He had only one other gang member left alive by this time. I corralled them out the front entrance and knocked them to the dirt in the middle of the dark street, deathly quiet now that the gunfight had ended. What I did next, lord, I am not proud of. 
I wanted revenge, for my family, both of them, as well as the townsfolk I failed to protect. Yet, I let the Joses take him, having lost their loved ones to this man as well. I did this because of what they planned to do to him, something I could never do in this life, no matter how much rage consumed me. As they took Mathias and his man, I gathered Preacher and Grub, leaving town to head north to find the others, to bring life back to my home. I could hear their screams as we rode out of town, each Jose taking turns on the men that widowed and wounded them.  I find no pleasure in what they did, nor do I condone it, but sometimes a savage act calls for a savage response.
It did not end though, this treacherous path I was meant to walk. Along a creek bed, meandering our way north to find the others, a hail of arrows fell upon us, killing Grub, piercing my arm, Preacher dragging me to cover. I watched him struggle with the indians as they came for him, chasing him out to the water, slashing at him with crude weapons. I shot a few dead before one reached Preacher, both disappearing in the rushing, storm surged waters, leaving me alone to face a death by a savage nature once more. I broke the arrow and discarded it, leaving the rest in place. Unsheathing my knife, I moved down to the currents, turning to challenge my attackers. And they came, and they died, my knife finding the spots that brought death swiftly, dodging and shrugging off their attacks. The horseback riders began to close in which would seal my fate, finally. But they stopped, parted for a reason I could not see until he was almost upon me, towering high on his steed. The old medicine man who had found me before stared down at me from his horse, looking me over sternly, deciding how I should die. I stood there, bloodied, tired, alone, waiting for his sentence. And then he laughed. Then the others did, hollering and laughing in whatever wild language they were speaking. He waved his hand and they all turned and left, left me there stunned, confused by whatever trick this was, what cruel punishment they had dealt me. I was still alive.

October, 1875

I found the others and returned them home. Mathias' body was hanging from the water tower upon our return, the Joses were gone. I helped them build, bury their Preacher, get back to normal, but this was no longer my home. Alone, I leave them, passing on the position of Sheriff to another, riding east for the Territory of Colorado. I no longer have anyone to write to, to read my story, so I am leaving this journal here in St. Marks Cathedral in hopes that others may learn of my journey through faith and fire. 
(Last entry of Grantly Parsons, Beloved Father, Devoted Husband, and Sheriff)