10 Pound Bag Ch. 176-180

**** Chapter 176 -- Cordite in the Air ****

By: Emmeran, 19 July 2021

Editor: nnpdad 21 July 2021

Cordite. That smell of cordite was my first impression after I released the shot.

It wasn't actually cordite - that substance had been invented and then eventually abandoned many decades in the future but the word cordite sounded a lot better than 'Ball Rifle Propellent WC844.' The AR-15 doesn't have much recoil and only a tiny bit of muzzle lift; however and in the hot, clean prairie air the smell of cordite was unmistakable.

Six hundred yards is well within range of the M16 variants and the round hit almost immediately, yet my brain registered the smell before the sound, the recoil or the small puff of dust that bloomed from the bulls hide on impact. The mighty beast took two more staggering steps before collapsing to the ground, I'd made a clean shot and he was dead before he hit the ground. The rifle report at that range was so small that the herd didn't even lift their heads from grazing, he was one of the outliers after all. Still too young to challenge any of the senior bulls but almost full size without the tough meat that developed in older animals.

I moved on to the next target.

The fourth shot didn't go so well because the bull decided to take a half-step back to gather some tasty morsel he had missed so I hit him square on the shoulder blade. That shot did disable him but didn't amuse him and his bellows of pain and anger got the attention of the entire herd. His bellows were the signal the rest of the hunters were waiting for and the hunt began in earnest.

Petalesharo had stationed everyone correctly and gotten them well hidden using hillocks, blinds and anything else they could come up with. Rifles and muskets fired from every angle on the sides of the shallow valley they had urged the herd into. Almost fifty animals fell with the initial volley as the active hunt got underway; everyone went to horseback and I was racing down the hill on Lunch with my AR-15 scabbarded and my M1911 in hand. It was thrilling and adrenaline was pumping through my veins. Mouse and Matilda were already moving down to begin butchering my first kills, Lunch was in his element and made up the distance with amazing speed.

We closed with the herd and my big stallion showed his bravery by pacing a bull barely two feet away while I put a round into the beasts spine right behind the head. I managed three additional kills that way totaling eight for my immediate family. My current family counted five people giving me three carcasses to trade to the butcher should I choose to. In the end I gave one to Aunty and two were traded off or donated to the butcher giving me a running credit at his shop. This hunt would jumpstart the market place in our little town and the butcher and tanner would soon be doing a thriving business.

All told between us and the Pawnee we took almost five hundred head of buffalo that day which amazingly didn't even put a dent in the overall herd. The herd had probably numbered close to twenty thousand animals and Pete later told me that it was much larger than normal as they had slowly forced multiple groups together for this event. They'd been working the herd for weeks to prepare the hunt and this little valley of mine was the perfect ambush location.

The Pawnee were happy which was obviously a good thing for my village, they rewarded us by giving us master classes in how to field dress a buffalo in as quickly as fifteen minutes without wasting a single part of the kill. Even the blood was captured and transported back to camp; Fritz, the butcher, simply stared in awe before he got down to the business of learning how to do it himself. At the end of the day there wasn't much left to show that the hunt had taken place there except for matted grass, blood stains and hoof prints. We had cleaned up any and all signs of our passing except for the buffalo chips, those had to dry for a few days before we could recover them. The kids would be out with the dog cart in the next weeks picking them up for later use. I visited that shallow valley again when I returned from my Fort Atkinson trip and there was simply no sign that anything had ever happened there, it was once again simply a small valley of swaying long grass sweltering in the summer sun.

While the herd was hardly dented and the valley left unscathed the same couldn't be said for our remaining stock of beer and whiskey kegs we'd brought back with us from St. Louis. The celebration of a successful hunt was truly a site to behold and an incredible example of gluttony at it's very best. We had musicians from a variety of cultural backgrounds competing and even combining sounds; we had a few truly talented folk who started to work together to combine the rhythms and sounds.

Naturally a few of the lads tried to get rambunctious in the manner that young men always had but we'd been smart enough to start the eating long before the drink was introduced and nothing got so out of control that a swift word from an elder didn't calm it right down. Naturally, there were a few contests over the affections of certain young girls, but again that was managed without even so much as a bloody nose or split lip. The offenders were normally sent off to deliver more food to the guards on duty and reminded that true danger still lurked at our borders. Usually a walk in the night air and a reminder that not everyone got to party was enough to calm the hottest of heads.

Morning brought groans and muttering across both camps yet the work of the hunt was far from done, it would actually be weeks more of effort to get all of that meat properly put up. People were bouncing from camp to camp exchanging tips and techniques, it was a fine example of cross-cultural technology exchange.

It also further cemented our relationship with an important ally and added an array of new techniques and recipes to our arsenal.

To be honest I would have done it all just for the recipes.

**** Chapter 177 -- Playing in the Hay ****

By: Emmeran, 19 July 2021

Editor: Tarasandia/nnpdad 27 July 2021

A week of preserving and storing. One very long week of drying, salting meat and everything else that went with the hunt. Tanning hides, preserving tendons and storing every tidbit of buffalo away to keep us over the winter. Brin and his pack were happy and well fed.

While the boatmen travelled and everyone else slaved over the buffalo carcasses under the close guidance of the Pawnee and Fritz, I was talking, deciding, ruling and judging. Oh joy. Honestly, I'd have preferred to be out picking up buffalo chips.

And then there were the ceremonies. The Pawnee had a ceremony for everything. My appointed wives Mouse and Banshee ensured that I properly attended all of them. And, of course, Rabbi had a ceremony or three he had to perform to sanctify the hunt.

And the fussing. Sonya, Aunty and Matilda -- one or more of them -- were there every time I turned around. I was cared for, but growing quite tired of the 'princely' treatment. And every single person in the camp had at least one question about the upcoming land grant lottery. I was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained.

Alone time came at night, when I least wanted it. Mouse was spending time with her family down at the Pawnee camp, and given that she wouldn't likely see her family again until next year's hunt, I was disinclined to call her back. Instead, after spending the entire day in meetings, ceremonies, and dealing with village disputes, I finally collapsed into bed alone at night.

Thankfully, the Pawnee were on the verge of returning to their village and I had a scheduled boat ride up to Fort Atkinson following soon thereafter. The only thing that stood between me and that trip was the first day of hay cutting, and we planned to start that effort the very next work day. I intended to help kick off the first cut before I jumped on the boat to head upriver; they didn't really need me, but I felt I needed to experience it.

It was an experience well had, but a brutal day nonetheless. For me personally, muscle groups that I didn't realize existed got an over-the-top workout just swinging the scythe. Even the tool itself was mostly unfamiliar to me. I was aware of its usage and purpose, but a complete beginner as to the actual execution of the task. I was impressed by the whetting stone carried by each cutter, and even more impressed with the water-filled leather sheaths in which they were carried. Even a little experience with the blade-dulling grass quickly made their utility clear. But it was that the blacksmith's peening station set up at the cutting field that took me completely by surprise. I kept my mouth shut and listened when they set me up with a beginner's short blade and assigned me a mentor. This was a far more skilled job than I had ever imagined.

Learning that we would attach cradles to the blades next year for our first grain harvest was a revelation as well. For hay, all we had to do was cut smoothly and cleanly, but grain would require us to lay down the stalks in a particular direction to minimize the work when it came to making shocks and drying grain. Our work on this day, however, was simply hay cutting. The women and children followed behind us with wooden rakes to pull the cut grass into rows for drying, then they would return every few days to turn the hay with a fork until it fully dried and could be safely stored for winter forage. And of course, the men still had to build hay barns with proper ventilation to store it all. We had our work cut out for us.

The reality was that while the townsfolk had a lot to get done, I had other priorities which held even larger implications for the community as a whole. So in the end, I only had one brutal day of swinging the scythe, and yet my muscles complained about that one day for a full week. A week in which they would be introduced to an entirely different type of task.

Toward the end of that day my efforts became more productive, but overall I was a hindrance to the endeavor; "good effort, poor execution" was the undeniable feedback from all around, just in much more polite words. Sheriff didn't fare much better, but it was a much needed learning experience for both of us.

On the plus side, I learned that Mouse was a natural at the art of the massage; her gentle fingers and hands put me to sleep many times in the following days. It seemed that something out there was determined to stand between us and our chance to have the proverbial 'roll in the hay.'

That evening, before I dropped off into very sore sleep under the blessed caress of her hands and fingers, I decided that I would like her to accompany me upriver to Fort Atkinson. We would get some very necessary quiet time together, and I might possibly go so far as to make her my wife in truth.

We spent the next day packing the boat and loading up a huge percentage of my gold nuggets for the trade with Leavenworth. I had other goals I hoped to achieve up at the fort, but laundering my money was my most pressing concern. We also needed more skilled recruits, and I planned to take advantage of any trade opportunities that I could find; even more importantly, I needed more skilled tradesmen.

I was late into an evening full of packing, loading, research and meetings before I poured myself into bed. We had an early call for the boat, and the beers I had with supper took their toll. There wasn't much left to me after my shower and deep, uninterrupted sleep was my lover that night.

**** Chapter 178 -- Cruising on the Mighty Mo ****

By: Emmeran, 20 July 2021

Editor: Tarasandia/nnpdad 27 July 2021

It was just a simple tent. There wasn't a whole lot to it but there was more than enough cover for both Mouse and me, as well as our belongings. We didn't sleep on the riverboat. That just wouldn't work, so we had our own little setup a dozen or so yards off to the side of our mooring site.

A simple tent can seem like a luxury suite if done correctly, and trust Aunty and Matilda's team to make that happen. I'll never know why they fussed over us so much, but they did, and I had long since learned that arguing with either of those ladies was about as worthwhile as trying to herd cats. It just wasn't going to happen. Regardless, it was utter luxury as far as small tents went.

Our food packs were also over the top. No we didn't have caviar or goose pate, but everything in there was a far level beyond our normal travelers' fare. Even more important, there was enough food for four, so Amos and Madeleine would be living as large as we were. I was quite sure that nothing here was accidental. Neither Amos nor I were completely surprised, of course, as we'd both been under the heavy yet caring thumbs of Aunty and Matilda before. But I was equally sure that he would be just as baffled as I was.

I certainly hadn't expected to be set up quite this well for our trip; it would only be a few days' travel upriver, and even faster on the return. Still, I was happy to enjoy the minor luxuries offered, including a supply of good bourbon backed up by a young but decent batch of rum.

Luxurious lifestyle aside, this was no pleasure cruise and I took my turns on the push poles to move us along upriver. They didn't want me there when we were negotiating any difficult patches but welcomed the assistance and breaks when it was smooth progress. It was tougher work than either Amos or I had imagined, and we both made major mistakes on multiple occasions. A great experience overall, but again I felt we were more hinderance than help. For the most part we simply stayed out of the way.

It wasn't a long journey up to the fort and neither of us were going to become skilled at the task that quickly. Even so, pushing those poles for even a couple of hours a day was enough to give our muscles reason for complaint, loud complaint. Mouse's evening ministrations were always welcome, and her strong yet gentle hands made a huge difference in my ability to recover each night.

I hadn't spent so long being that close to and alone with a woman without consummating the intimacy since I was a boy. Everything was gentle, romantic and comfortable with us. Acrobatics and advanced techniques were not involved and by the end of the third night neither was her virginity.

Never in my life have I provided explicit detail of my intimacy with a woman that I loved and that rule carried over with Mouse. Our moments together were ours. We had a lot of fun, but this wasn't just a fling for either of us. Love is a special thing emotionally and physically; I was extremely happy to be in love with my Mouse.

Was it a honeymoon trip? Probably.

Take away all the artifices of the modern tradition and honeymoons are simply time alone with someone you deeply love and are physically attracted to. Under that definition, we honeymooned all of the way up to what would become Omaha, spending a lot of time together and without the so-called benefit of twenty first century entertainments. As cruises went, I considered this the best I'd ever seen or experienced.

I was also downright positive that Mouse had taken pregnant on our first attempt. I didn't say a word to anyone, but Amos but felt quite sure that I'd hear that she was with child in a few weeks time. This pregnancy both excited and frightened me excited. Poor Amos on the other hand almost walked off the gunwale when he realized that he might be a father also. He hadn't truly considered the full impact of that act - not surprising as he was still just a teenager and held the short term version of time common at that age.

I strongly cautioned him to keep his mouth shut. Announcing and all of that was women's business, and there would be more than enough things for him to do later. Stealing your sweetheart's thunder was never a good idea in any era.

I focused on helping where I could on the boat, paying attention to my happy Mouse, and coaching Amos on how to treat Madeline. It's a delicate balance a man has to dance with his woman, particularly when she is younger and her demands change with her moods. And if you've gotten her pregnant, strap in and hold on for the ride: it's going get very interesting really quick.

All things said and done, that boat ride north was one of the happiest periods of my life. Patrick and his crew basically ignored us, but there was enough to do that Amos and I didn't get on the girls' nerves. Amos and Madeline were still absorbed in each other, and my sweet Mouse never missed a chance to offer me a kiss or a caress. Sweltering, muggy weather could have dampered thing had we let it, however passion and affection drowned those conditions out.

Waking up sweaty and sticky simply gave us an excuse to bathe together in whichever nearby stream we found, and the nightly music from the boatsmen's camp was always reassuring. We had good food and good booze to keep us amused; the only thing left to complain about was that the trip ended too early.

That little moment in my life was over far too soon.

**** Chapter 178.5 -- Private Time ****

By: Emmeran, 21 July 2021

Anticipation,

Realization,

Joy!

Squish squish,

Squelch squelch,

Convulsion!

Sigh,

Snuggle,

Sleep.

**** Chapter 179 -- Sirius Rising ****

By: Emmeran, 22 July 2021

Editor: nnpdad 17 Aug 2021

You could cut the heat, peel it back with the wrong side of a knife.

Budapest by Jethro Tull, Written by Ian Anderson

Bugaha.

What was known as Fort Atkinson in the year 1822 would eventually be a part of a city called Omaha in a state called Nebraska; the city which eventually gained the affectionate or disdainful nickname of "Bugaha." So much so that at one point their college sports teams were called the 'Bugeaters' for a short while; that particular nickname was dropped but was still a huge fan favorite in modern times.

With the 'Dog Days of Summer' fast upon us the conditions in Bugaha were almost as unbearable as they were in deep winter. It was also a good reminder of how little time we had left before the frost and hard freeze would arrive to deal with the bugs. Slow water, vegetation and heat made for happy, horny insects. Which meant we had more of them then we could possibly desire and they got into everything a person could possibly imagine.

The worst of these pests were the incessant gnats and the chiggers. Neither of these pests were life-threating, but both provided unwanted levels of annoyance and both were found in almost horrifying quantities in Bugaha. A smoky fire was always your friend this time of year along the river. The Pawnee, of course, had some salves to keep most of them away or at least to treat the rash but the sheer number of them made it impossible to avoid all of them short of becoming a shut-in recluse - not really an option in the oppressive heat and humidity of summer in the very Heartland of America.

Well the 'now' was currently 1822 for me and this was not the Heartland yet. This was actually an outpost on the far distant edge of the fledgling American nation. Fort Atkinson was in the territories and the tussle over whose land this actually was still had a long way to go. On top of all that the chiggers had gotten to me and I was a tad bit irritable; the salves provided to me only gave minor relief from the rash created by those annoying mites.

I was in a fairly grumpy mood when I approached Fort Atkinson on foot. I did my best to hide that and tried to be as cheerful and chummy as possible. Brin kept perfect heel the entire way and I spent most of the walk observing the shrinking camp town and cursing the humidity. The bustle of the camp town had diminished significantly with the draw down of the rifles regiment and there seemed to be an excess of unemployed men loitering on the streets.