Hi, everyone, my name is Giovanni Williams.
Sure, I know my name sounds odd, sounds made up, but trust me, it's quite real. I'm a 36-year-old journalist, who works for the local newspapers of my Nevada hometown of Tonopah. Tonopah, like most small towns in the United States, isn't really popular, certainly not a place tourists would go to. However, like all places, it has some special key features, or feature? I don't know with Tonopah if it's one thing or multiple, because a lot of things happened from one thing, from someone, to be exact, around 150 years ago.
You might not know where I'm going with this, but if you do, then you know I'm talking about an urban legend that locals in this town know about. Hell, some people say it's a reality, but personally, I'm with the latter. Though, if I've gotta be honest, I'm conflicted on both opinions. A part of me says this urban legend is fake, but another part of me believes it. There's a good reason too, because as I'm writing this, I have my ancestor's journal here, Franklin Williams III. Back then, in the mid-to-late 1800's, Williams was a very popular rancher here in Tonopah, he was even the town's mayor at one point, and he was pretty damn good at his job too.
He had a good family: a loving wife and three girls, all who were well-behaved and well-educated. During his time in Tonopah, he would write some important things down in his journal that I have here, writing about his accomplishments, how much crops he had grown and sold, family matters, anything that was important to him, he wrote here in this very journal. However, there was something here that caught my eye, something that, if I'm being honest, scared me while reading this. Now, in reality, I'm not one to scare easily. You can show me horror movies, gore, all of that creepy and haunted media and most of the time I'll be fine. But this here, this got me good, really damn good.
It was on the night of May 23rd, 1875. Franklin Williams, let's call him Williams, had invited four of the town's wealthiest folk to dinner, along with three of its most prominent farmers, good men, ones Williams respected and admired. Two of those farmers had brought their wives and a couple of children along to enjoy the evening as well. It was a pretty big dinner. Plates were filled with cooked chicken, beef, fresh vegetables, and thick slices of homemade bread, a dinner fit for a lot of hard workers back then. The children, seated at a smaller table nearby, were lost in laughter as they ate. The adults gathered around the main table, they were deep in conversation. They spoke about the usual, politics, farm life, the challenges of the season's crops, typical conversation.
But then, one of the farmers seated at the table, Danny Mills, leaned in a little closer to the group. My relative ancestor always wrote dialogue like this in his journal from his point of view, like he was some sort of author. This is what happened based on what he wrote:
"Y'all hear what happened to the McMitchells?" Mills asked, looking around the table. "Found 'em dead this morning. Limbs butchered, bodies hacked to pieces like someone went at 'em with a machete or an axe."
The room fell silent. Even the children's laughter at the nearby table seemed to fade in the background as everyone's attention turned to Danny.
"Sheriff and the deputy came out when the bank's owner wondered why they weren't in at work on time. Found 'em both in their house, blood everywhere," Mills continued. "Folks think it might've been some outlaws on the run, or a prisoner that broke free, maybe even a murderer passin' through."
I glanced at the others around the table. I believe the same thought seemed to cross everyone's mind at once, mom included, but it was Danny who said it first.
"Some say it might be Tomahawk Richie."
At the mention of the name, I could feel and tell that a shiver ran through the room.
