Requiem for the West
The journal of Alma Quinn
“My father kept dogs on our farm when I was a little girl. Big, mean mastiffs, six in all. Anyone came inside our gate without ringing and those dogs would run at him. I never saw them scared except this one time… A gray wolf had wandered down to our property from up north. The dogs stayed under our porch all day long hiding in the shadows, it was a shock to see. Because it was like the dogs just knew, by instinct, that no matter how many of them there were, the wolf would always be tougher and meaner. And the wolf—well, he knew it too”
- November 8th 1865
" The first deep freeze of the season and we’re already struggling. The crops are turned for the winter though this land isn’t fertile enough to keep them for another year. My boys are doing all they can around the farm but without Henry around, it’s hard. There’s something about this place that chills me more than the Chinook winds. The animals won’t go near the mountain or the rock bridge at the end of the property line, and the ones that do come back sick or not at all. The locals say it used to be a holy place the injuns used before they were run out, now they say its cursed."