A Wretched Scene with No Letters

Found this one damn letter. One damn letter and six corpses. The Post had been burnt down, the Post horses slain, not even a pig or a hen left living. No Indian would indulge in such waste, although my travelling companions, with the exception of young Smith, were content to think it so. I alone went through the stinking remains, looking for what I could find of use: no guns or arms of any kind were left, the corpses stripped clean. Also, it seemed some supplies had been taken: flour, whiskey, dried goods. It was a cowardly attack, at night, or perhaps the well was poisoned, first, and the gang that did this returned. I cannot tell if it was Confederates or some other hostile raiders. This one letter I found blown some yards away, stuck in a thornbush. I'll take it to Mr. Scalmarini, if he lives, as this seems the proper thing to do. No one would stop to help bury the remains: they remain to be picked clean by the dogs and buzzards. I do not know if one of those men was there to meet me. The trip to San Francisco seems very long, indeed, today with such foul brigands about us.