The village lay on the jagged ridge between them, the only path up to it on a steep and rocky trail in clear view from the gates. He was hunting on the ridge of the Beartooth Mountains, so called for their distinctive twin peaks that looked like two canines. It was not unknown for them to steal a hunter's meal, if not his life, as he brought his prize back home. His only concern would be the wolves or even the wildcats now. The antlers made for good handholds, and the carcass slipped easily enough over the wet grass. The young elk was heavy, but he was not far from the village. Or maybe it was the coin that weighed down his pockets when he was paid afterward.
Perhaps it was the heat, or the way his muscles ached deliciously after a hard day's work. He preferred the work Berdon would occasionally give him, hammering and shaping iron in the forge. Although he was Fletcher by name, the amount of time he spent binding his arrows frustrated him. He removed the arrow carefully and was happy to see the shaft had not snapped, nor had the flint point chipped on the elk's ribs. The bloody froth bubbling from the elk's mouth was testament to that. A good clean kill, that's what Berdon would have said. He sprinted toward his prey and drew a skinning knife from the slim scabbard at his thigh, but the stag was dead before he got to it. The animal collapsed and convulsed, thrashing on the ground, its hooves drumming a tattoo on the earth in its death throes. It was a beautiful shot, taking the elk through the chest, into the lungs and heart. He heard the dull thrum of the bowstring jarring and then a thud as the arrow hit home.
He breathed and shot in one fluid motion, embracing the moment of stillness in body and mind that he had learned from bitter and hungry experience. A difficult shot, but the lack of wind brought its own rewards. Fletcher was crouched a good hundred feet away, hidden in the tall grass. The point swam in and out of focus as he centered it on the elk. It was slippery on his fingers he had coated it in goose fat to protect it from the moisture in the air. He took a shallow breath and drew back on the bowstring. It was his best arrow, the shaft straight and true, the fletching from good goose feathers rather than the cheap turkey feathers he bought in the market. He unslung his bow and nocked an arrow to it. Now he barely allowed himself to breathe. Normally the wind rattled the branches, allowing him to stalk through the undergrowth unheard. It was the meat he craved the most, gamy red venison that would drip sizzling fat into his cooking fire.Ī thick mist hung heavy in the air, coating Fletcher in a thin layer of dew. The antlers were in good condition, if a little small, they might fetch four shillings if he was lucky. It would probably make at least five shillings.
The thick coat would do well when the fur traders came by, especially as it was now winter. It was a fine specimen, with glossy fur and bright, intelligent eyes.įletcher felt almost ashamed to hunt such a majestic creature, yet he was already adding up its value in his head. From its small size and stature, Fletcher could tell it was a juvenile, sporting its first set of antlers. The young elk had just finished rubbing its antlers against a tall pine, scraping the soft velvet that coated them to leave the sharp tines beneath. If that happened, he would either have to bribe the guards with money he didn't have or take his chances in the woods overnight. He needed to make his way back to the village soon, or the gates would close. Dusk was fast approaching and he was already running late. If Fletcher didn't make this kill, he would go hungry tonight.
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