Brady lived by himself in a small hovel dug from the side of a hill, south of the town of Beowawe, Nevada. It had been a mining claim at one point but long since abandoned and it worked well for the single man.
He like it this way. While he didn’t mind being neighborly, he enjoyed his solitude even more.
Evening time and Brady was sitting out front of his place on his newly built porch, enjoying a cup of coffee and a roll-your-own when he noticed the silence and the absence of the wild horses and pronghorn from the nearby hillsides.
The stillness was disquieting.
As he finished, he saw a vague movement beyond the sage line. Between two low set hillocks, a lone figure, dressed in all-black, moved with a sense of purpose towards him.
The being was tall, ashen skinned, with a black beard and black, deeply sunken eyes. He carried in each hand a gleaming scimitar and moved as if he were a puppet.
He knew he would soon be under attack and that where there was the one, there would be many. So without panic, but hurrying quickly, Brady went inside and retrieved his Winchester rifle and several boxes of ammunition.
He then took up position in the doorway. For 18 hours, he kept up a continuous fire, and when the shooting was over he counted 200 corpses, all of which he burned over the next three days.