AN: Just as a note, the language, attitudes, and beliefs of any characters are of the characters themselves according to their time and place. Many people in our world had immoral beliefs, and I don't see the value in immediately absolving them of that.
"Well this sure as Hell ain't Kansas no more," the cavalryman muttered to himself. He was confused. Certainly confused, and the feeling was so overwhelming he couldn't spare the brainpower to come up with another word. Gone were the vast, rolling plains beyond the Mississippi. Gone were the endless farmlands, the quaint frontier houses, and the reassuring presence of civilization. Replacing the gentle breeze was still air, and replacing the bright sun was an incredible canopy that no direct sunlight would dare peek through. He wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up in this place. It was like he was asleep for half a day, but not quite. He had no recollection of the last week or so, in fact, to include right until the last hour.
In the rare instances that any light did peek through, the wide brim of his hat was more than enough to block it out. The US Cavalry had indeed given him a fine hat, as despite years of abuse it held firm. Although in this instance, he saw fit to remove it, instead hooking the chin strap to his belt. Although, he still felt quite naked outdoors without a cover, so he replaced it with his old McClellan cap with a pair of crossed sabers worn proudly above the visor. Although the symbol was previously stitched on in yellow thread, he had elected to replace it with a brass pin-on version. Unfortunately, he never actually found one for his particular company and regiment.
Although the navy blue of his jacket blended in surprisingly well in the shadow, his lighter blue trousers did less so, and the various gold and yellow stitchings and symbols of his uniform certainly failed in that regard. Normally this was not as huge an issue, but in this forest where sight lines sometimes closed to only a few feet, it was making him anxious. The rustling of bushes and cracking of sticks made it worse, and he could only pray that his fears were never confirmed.
He subtly drew his Single Action Army, but did not present it, less he tip off any stalkers and encourage their attack. His saber hung dutifully at his side, and while he had often enjoyed its use, the revolver was more suited for sudden defense, especially against a ranged ambush. His carbine, meanwhile, was too slow on the draw. If he was the sudden victim of an Indian ambush, he suspected his chances were… slim. This was only compounded by being alone; even in a patrol, being on the receiving end of a well executed ambush was inimical to one's health.
It was then with by the grace of God in Heaven that the cavalryman finally found the edge of the forest. Just in time too, as in the small specks of daylight that were poking through, the red-orange palette of the dusk sky were poking through. He encouraged his horse which quickened the pace slightly. Not enough to cause a ruckus, but enough to hasten the exit of that damnable forest.
It wasn't until he had reached eyesight of the village that he grew suspicious. Something wasn't right. The buildings themselves were normal enough but even in the twilight the place should have been more lively. As he scanned across the village, the dark windows stared back at him, like the sorrowful eyes of damned souls. There was no movement, nary a stray leaf blown by the breeze. It was as if evil itself had taken hold of this place.
As he came up to the closest house on the perimeter he quietly dismounted his horse. He reassured the beast with a pat on the nose. "Run away if something comes towards you," he said, as if the horse could understand him. He didn't need some Sioux youth stealing his horse behind his back. He also removed his carbine from his scabbard. He slung it over his back, as should he be suddenly attacked he'd rather have the quick shots of his revolver.
The houses throughout the village weren't quite weird to him, but they were out of place to him. The forest reminded him of those around his grandfather's home in New York, but the houses up there were constructed radically different, built for the cold and snow of the north east. Rather than brick and tile and steep roofs, the houses here were lumber and straw, like the medieval peasant houses he learned of in his childhood. Even in Kansas, where he last remembered himself, they still were quite different.
He carefully crept up to the ground floor window. It looked like it was a single story home with a small attic, as he only saw one small vent-like window up near the roof. Two windows faced outwards, one of them ajar, and there was a closed door as well, facing towards the grass clearing adjacent to harvested crop fields. He tipped his cap back so that he did not prematurely expose himself as he peeked his head around the edge of the window. He was looking into a room, perhaps a living room of some type from what he could tell. Furniture knocked over but there was otherwise no sign of struggle. There was even a meal of some type on a table.
There wasn't even glass in the window, just wooden shutters, albeit constructed with skill and care one wouldn't expect from an otherwise primitive structure. That implied that these people weren't necessarily impoverished, he just didn't live in a technologically developed area. The place seemed clear from his sweep of the interior so he moved towards the door.
He made the sign of the Cross before he drew his saber. He wasn't a particularly religious man, much worse than he should've been, but he went to Mass at least once a month, when he wasn't hungover, so that should count for something, right?
He tried to ease the door open with a couple fingers of his left hand, which was otherwise holding his saber, while his right hand pointed his Colt at the widening entryway. Luckily it wasn't locked and it made a slight swish sound as the hinges rubbed against each other. He leaned in as far as he dared to clear the far corner of the room, and then turned to clear the other before properly committing. Again, clear. Uncomfortably, clear.
This was clearly an inhabited dwelling. So where were the villagers? The meal, while cold to the touch, was not yet even swarmed by flies. There was a book case in one corner of the room by the fireplace. While it reached from floor to ceiling, only a portion of it housed books, the rest other items like throw pillows, blankets, small toys, and other trinkets one would expect in a family home. A rug was slightly shuffled in front of what seemed to be a couch. It was certainly cushioned, but had longer legs and a thinner seat than the ones he was used to, just enough height for further storage, or even a small-
A crash sounded from the other side of the interior wall. He turned towards the door, which he just now noticed was slightly ajar, leading to a room growing in darkness. He dared not make a sound as he listened for further sign of activity. An animalistic skittering was heard. Barking and clicking voices were heard, although they sounded like no language he had ever heard in his life, likely a couple vermin arguing and wrestling with each other. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure a human could make some of those sounds. He inched towards the door, the saber in his left hand guarding against the opening while he held his Colt at the ready, thumb on the hammer. He had only five rounds in, owing to the practice of leaving an empty chamber to safely rest the hammer, so he hoped five shots of .45 and his saber would be sufficient. Boy, how he wished he'd ponied up and bought himself a double action pistol.
He raised the saber up to the top of the door, a few inches above his head, to make it harder for anyone on the other side to grab it. Not that it would be a fun time to grab a sharpened saber, though. He breathed in and out. In and out. In-
He noticed the noises had stopped. He held his breath and slowly, although loudly in his mind, let it out. Although he knew in his mind that he was taking the quietest breath in his entire life, it sure felt like it was the loudest. Still no human voices however. And if any human were in there, they wouldn't tolerate the presence of a bunch of animals playing around. He took another breath and swung the door open, quickly following through before potential enemies could react.
His heart stopped dead. His stomach tightened in anger. The last light of the dying sun had just risen above the sight of an absolute, barbaric slaughter. As the sun followed up the wall it highlighted splashes of blood and viscera one window pane of surface area at a time. Deep gouges and scratches covered the floor and walls. The door was broken off its hinges, smashed in like it were a battering ram. He had enough exposure to death and gore that he wasn't transfixed to the scene, and he was still able to secure the room against whatever savage Indian bastards did this, but he could not stop himself from looking at the pile of meat in the center of the room.
No, no Indian would do this. Not even the Sioux or Apache. This was inhuman. It was evil. He had certainly come across ransacked homsesteads, with the wife and daughters abducted to their tribe, married off to increase the tribe's numbers, while the bodies of the man and sons were displayed out front. They were usually hung. Sometimes they were beheaded and mounted out front.
Never in his life did he see a rib cage torn open. The skull smashed in and cleaned out like a bowl of soup. The meat of the limbs torn off and bitten into. There was no rhyme or reason, no greater-but brutal-purpose to this. This was pure, unhinged instinct.
And it was only his instinct that turned him around just in time to cut some green animal in half as it leapt at him from behind.