The wilderness stretched out like a living thing, vast and wild, its edges lost in a sea of pine and shadow. We'd been on the trail for weeks, our caravan cutting a slow path through the northern territories of this untamed land. The air was cold and sharp, heavy with the smell of damp earth and resin, and the wind howled through the trees like a warning. It was 1847, and we were settlers—fools, maybe—chasing a new life in a place that didn't want us.
My name's William. I'm twenty-two, with more grit than sense, or so my brother Thomas says. He's thirty, built like an oak, and rides beside me, his eyes always scanning the horizon. We're two of the four men leading this caravan—me, Thomas, and two others you'll meet soon enough. We're not alone, though; the caravan's a patchwork of families, wagons groaning under the weight of supplies, and the lowing of cattle. All of us dreaming of a homestead, a future carved out of this rugged land.
The trail was rough that day, the ground uneven with rocks and roots. The forest pressed in close, its branches clawing at the wagons. Behind us rolled the Hendersons' rig, their kids' voices rising over the creak of wheels. Mrs. Greene, a widow with a tongue like a whip, drove her team alone. Then there was Elizabeth, a girl of nineteen with hair like sunlight and a quiet strength that drew my eye. She was with her folks, the Carters, and spent her time tending to the sick or corralling the little ones. And Father Michael, our priest—soft-spoken, with a Bible always close—kept us steady with his prayers.
Thomas reined in his horse, frowning at the sky. "River's ahead," he said, voice gruff. "Looks swollen. We'll need to be smart about this."
He wasn't wrong. The roar of water hit us before we saw it—a wide, churning river, bloated from days of rain. Crossing it was our only way forward, but it wouldn't be easy. The wagons would bog down, and the current looked strong enough to sweep us away.
We stopped at the bank, the men gathering to argue a plan. Mr. Henderson wanted to lash the wagons into a raft; Thomas figured we could ford it with ropes and grit. Elizabeth's pa just stared at the water, saying nothing. In the end, we settled on crossing one by one, tying ropes to steady the load.
Henderson went first. His wagon dipped into the river, water lapping at the axles, oxen snorting as they hauled. We held our breath until he reached the far bank, mud-streaked but safe. A few of us cheered, but the river seemed to rumble back, like it didn't care for our noise.
Mrs. Greene was next. Thomas waded in, knee-deep, guiding her team with a rope. The wagon swayed, water surging around it, but she made it, climbing down with a face white as bone.
Then it was our turn. Thomas took the reins of our wagon, his jaw tight. "Hold on, Will," he growled. I braced myself as we rolled in, the cold water splashing up, soaking my legs. The current hit hard, pulling at the wheels, and Thomas muttered a curse, urging the oxen on.
We were halfway when it happened—a jolt, then a crunch. "Rock!" Thomas shouted. The wagon tilted, and I was flung into the river, the icy shock stealing my breath. I clawed my way up, coughing, and saw our wagon stuck, the water rising fast around it.
"Will!" Thomas called, fighting to keep the oxen steady. I stumbled to the bank, grabbing the rope we'd used before. "We'll pull it out!" I yelled, though the river's roar swallowed my words. Elizabeth ran over, her hands quick and sure, helping me tie the rope to a tree. We heaved, but the wagon didn't move.
My chest tightened. That wagon held our food, our tools—everything we needed to make it through the winter. Lose it, and we'd be crippled. Thomas was still up there, wrestling the reins, his face hard with focus.
Then came a snap, loud as a gunshot. The axle. The wagon shifted, and for a heartbeat, I thought it was free. But no—it was breaking, the current seizing its chance to drag it down. The oxen thrashed, bellowing.
"Thomas, jump!" I screamed. He leaped, landing hard on the bank just as the wagon tipped, supplies spilling into the water.
And then, from the trees beyond, a sound froze me—a low, guttural growl, deep and wrong. Not a wolf, not a bear. Something else. I turned, staring into the forest, but saw only darkness shifting between the trunks.
"Will, help!" Elizabeth's shout pulled me back. The wagon was sinking, the oxen still yoked to it, and the others were scrambling to cut them free. I ran to the rope, pulling with all I had, but that growl lingered in my ears.
We weren't alone out here. Something was watching, waiting. And as the wagon slipped deeper into the river, I felt it—a hunger in the air, cold and patient, sizing us up.