Longhunter

CHAPTER 1: INTO THE UNKNOWN

"Over here!" George shouted, clambering his way up the rocky outcrop. He turned to glance back at his companions, loose pebbles tumbling down the slope behind him as he dug his boots into the loose earth for purchase. They were an expedition thirty-strong, mostly trappers and traders, clad in the rough leathers and furs of their profession. The men were laden with backpacks and gear, guiding a procession of horses along with them, the animals similarly encumbered. One of their number broke ranks, scaling the grassy hill to join him, George reaching out a hand to catch him as he lost his footing for a moment.

"Careful there, Sam," George chuckled as he steadied his friend by the tasseled sleeve of his jacket. Sam looked out at the view beyond, a rolling plain of grassland that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was pristine, untouched by the industry that was slowly encroaching Westward. They were out in the wilderness now. They hadn't encountered so much as a homestead or a fort for days.

"Well I'll be," Sam muttered, reaching up to straighten his wide-brimmed hat. "Just how long do you reckon it goes on for?"

"Guess we're going to find out," George replied.

Another of the men climbed up to join them, pausing for a moment to take a swig from the canteen that was hanging from his belt. He narrowed his eyes as he looked out over the sun-baked plain, squinting against the sunlight. Dawes was the leader of their group, a grizzled veteran who had spent more time on the frontier than all of the other men combined. His face was as leathery as the coat that he wore, tanned and wrinkled by the elements, his bushy beard reaching the fur lining of his collar.

"Lotta open ground," he grumbled, reaching into a leather pouch on his hip. He withdrew an ornate compass, the brass case pressed with intricate floral designs, waiting a few seconds for the needle to settle. "We'll have to cut straight across. There ain't no going around it."

"Looks like grazing land to me," George added, Dawes sparing him a glance. "The Company is gonna be very happy if we find land frequented by tatanka herds. That's meat, furs, good leather for the taking."

"Then, you make sure you mark it on that there map of yours," Dawes replied in his usual gravely tone. "You're our pathfinder, that's your job. Mine is getting you gentlemen where you need to be safe and sound. The Company ain't paying me to sight-see."

George wanted to tell the man he was indeed being paid to sight-see but thought better of it, holding his tongue as Dawes called for the rest of their party to keep moving. George's profession was cartography, naturalism. He was an educated man, which was somewhat rare in these parts, having made the voyage from Albion to seek his fortune on the frontier. Even a man who had spent his formative years with his nose buried in dusty old books could develop a thirst for adventure. He had been employed by one of the many powerful trading companies that had established themselves on the Eastern shores of the new continent, each one carving up the virgin land with deeds and Royal charters, staking their claim to the resources therein. Timber, coal, furs -- there were untouched riches just waiting to be exploited. His job was to journey Westward, to make a record of what he found in these uncharted lands so that more expeditions might follow. Civilization would spread in his wake, and he found no small measure of satisfaction in the idea of steamrails one day crossing this great prairie.

"Come on," Sam said, giving him a nudge. "We don't wanna get left behind."

George followed him down the slope, staying low so as not to lose his balance. The two had met back at the trading post before setting out on their journey some weeks prior, and had become fast friends during their travels. Sam had made his living hunting in the drainage basin of the great bay where the Company had set up their headquarters, and although he was less experienced than the more seasoned members of their band, he was skilled with a rifle and knew how to live off the land.

They rejoined the rest of the group at the base of the outcrop, following them out onto the plains. George had never seen land so flat. It was a far cry from the gentle hills and meadows of his homeland, and even the forests and waterways that he had left behind on the Eastern shore seemed so far away now. It was almost like a giant blacksmith's hammer had come down from the sky to stamp everything out. Even in the far distance, where his vision became obscured by the atmospheric haze, he couldn't make out any mountains or features. There was just a seemingly endless expanse of grasses and small shrubs, blown by the wind likes waves on the ocean.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Dawes called from the front of the procession. "We ain't got no formal relations with the natives this far West."

"You heard tell of any tribes this far out?" Sam asked. George reached down to brush his fingers against the leather pouch on his belt, feeling its comforting weight. It stored his charges, keeping them safe and dry, paper packages that contained a lead ball along with a measure of black powder. Every man in the party was armed with rifles of varying designs, either carried in their hands or slung across their backs. They were used both for hunting and defense, though George hoped that they would never need them for the latter. The native tribes that inhabited the Eastern lands could be amenable, and many were now trading partners of the companies, but those who had never seen an outlander before might react with fear. They had brought goods to trade, silver and trinkets to offer as gifts in exchange for safe passage should they unknowingly trespass. He had to hope that would be enough.

"Nothing certain," he replied. "I've been told stories of tribes who follow the seasonal migrations of the tatanka herds, but there's little else to go on."

"Wouldn't wanna be near one of those things for any length of time," Sam grumbled. "You ever seen one up close?"

George shook his head in response.

"Just sketches."

"They're a hell of a lot bigger than they look on paper, I'll tell you that much."

"I can handle myself," George added, gesturing over his shoulder at the smoothbore rifle that was slung over his back. "I did my fair share of shooting back in the basin. Bagged a hottah with antlers ten feet wide."

"Well, if you can hit a hottah, you won't have no trouble hittin' a tatanka. That first shot better be on the mark, though, or you'll be facin' down six thousand pounds of angry beast."

***

They walked for the better part of a day, eventually setting up camp when the sun began to set. The men staked the horses and unpacked their tents, bundles of oilskin tarp and long, wooden poles bound together by lengths of hemp rope. The shelters were simple and not especially effective in the snow and rain, but the sky was cloudless that night. There was a cold wind out on the plains, however, which necessitated that all of the tents face in the same direction to prevent the chill from creeping in through the flaps. In the center of their vaguely round cluster of tents, they set a fire going, the gale whipping at the oilskins and making the flames flicker as the best cook among them tended to a pot of stew.

Most of the men had crowded around the fire, the murmur of conversation rising above the whispering wind. George's eyes played across their faces, lit by the wavering glow. Each of them was an outdoorsman, someone who called this harsh land home and who knew how to survive its challenges. Their faces were weathered, some sporting impressive scars, and almost all of them had a bushy beard. Shaving was a luxury out here, and the blonde stubble that George had been cultivating made him feel a little less out of place in their company.

Beyond the campfire's glow, the darkness made it seem as though the earth and heavens had melded together, like they were sitting on their own isolated little island of warmth.

"Not much in the way of timber out here," Sam muttered, chewing on a piece of jerked meat as he gazed out at the endless expanse. "I hope the firewood we brought with us lasts until we reach the far side."

"Should be fine," George replied, glancing at the bundles of kindling that had been stacked beside one of the tents. "I'm sure we'll come across trees soon enough."

"Never been anywhere like this," he continued, tearing off another mouthful of dry meat as he examined his surroundings. "Back East, you can't hardly move for the trees, and there are rivers and streams wherever you care to look. You got places like this back home?"

"We have moorlands that are similar in Albion," George replied with a nod. "The lands of the Elenydd stretch for miles, vast, sweeping ranges of rolling hills covered in hardy grasses and purple heathers. There are stone formations carved by the elements over the eons, and the locals attribute the eerie sounds of the wind rushing through the rocks and valleys to the mournful wailing of banshees. Then there are the highlands to the North, which are much the same, if not more mountainous. I've never seen anything quite so...flat, though."

"I ain't never been to Albion," Sam continued. "I was born on this side of the sea. My father was a longhunter, used to trek out into the wilds for months at a time, livin' off the land. He'd come back with as many furs as he could carry, and that kept my mother fed when he was away. Taught me everythin' he knew before he passed."

"I'm sorry to hear that," George said, but Sam shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

"Wasn't exactly a surprise, it happens all the time. One day he went out, and he never came back. Could have been one of the natives got him, maybe an animal, or maybe he just tripped and fell into a valley. That's the life of a longhunter."

"You didn't follow in his footsteps?" George asked. Sam tossed him a piece of jerky, and he tore off a chunk of the leathery meat.

"I like the regularity of the company payroll," he chuckled. "Besides, I can put those same skills to good use out here."

The man tending to the cooking pot called out that their meal was ready, the rest of their company emerging from the shadows to crowd around the flames with their tin cups and bowls in hand. George and Sam rose from their seats to join them, the scent of the stew making George's mouth water as it carried over to him on the breeze. While he missed the singular cuisine of his homeland, hunger was a spice that could make almost any dish palatable, and a day of walking had his stomach rumbling. When his turn came, he held out his cup, the cook pouring a generous ladleful of steaming broth into the receptacle. There were pieces of meat floating along with the chopped vegetables, probably the last of the elk-like hottah that one of their number had brought down a few days prior. They had plenty of dried rations, but fresh meat was always at the top of the list when it was available.

Like everything on this continent, the animal seemed to grow larger than anything found in the old world. George remembered the dainty deer that inhabited the forests near his home, but they were dwarfed by the native equivalent. The hottahs could grow as tall as a man at the shoulder and weighed as much as fifteen hundred pounds. That amount of meat would keep even their thirty-strong party fed for days. Along with the impressive set of antlers on their heads, they had a set of tusks that jutted from their jaws, which they seemed to use more for shaving the bark off trees than for combat.

They returned to their seats with their meal, George blowing on the stew to cool it, juggling it in his hands as its warmth heated the tin cup. He reached into a pouch on his hip, rummaging inside for a moment until he felt the familiar texture of metal, withdrawing his trusty spoon. After fishing for a chunk of meat, he brought it to his mouth, blowing on it again for good measure. It was soft and succulent, perfectly cooked, impregnated with the flavor of the herbs and spices that it had been marinating in.

"Good?" Sam asked, George nodding his head as he ate another spoonful.

"Nothing like a hot meal to keep the spirits up," he said, pausing to chew on a piece of potato.

***

The rising sun was starting to burn away the morning fog that hung low over the plains, the grass beneath their boots misted with droplets of dew. It was a chilly morning, but not quite cold enough to be frosty, George watching his breath form a cloud of condensation as it left his mouth. He pulled his leather coat a little tighter around himself, thankful for the soft lining of fur. With a little more walking, he'd start to warm up.

They had packed up their camp and were on the move again, the thirty men spread out in a loose column with their horses at the center. The fog limited their visibility somewhat, so a few of the more cautious men had their rifles in hand as they trekked along.

Dawes was at the head of the group, and as they navigated the rolling fog, he stopped to raise his fist. The procession came to a halt, the horses starting to snort and stamp their feet, the men who were holding their reins struggling to keep them under control.

"What the hell has the horses so spooked?" Sam whispered, slowly reaching for his rifle. Many of the other men were doing the same, shouldering their weapons as they struggled to see through the obscuring haze.

George felt it before he could see it, a vibration in the very earth itself that traveled up through his legs. The sound of something heavy galloping along carried in from across the plain, along with a deep, resonating snorting that reminded him of a bull.

"Tatanka," Sam hissed, readying his rifle. The men began to spread out so as not to block the lines of fire, some of them taking a knee as they aimed in the direction of the sound. They were loading their weapons now, biting open paper charges and driving lead balls into the barrels with their ramrods.

"Just one?" George asked, checking the powder charge in his pan. "Don't they travel in herds of thousands?"

"If there was a herd nearby, you'd feel it," Sam replied. "When they run, it's like a goddamned thunderstorm. This fella is by his lonesome."

George wasn't too worried -- he was in the company of dozens of experienced hunters -- but not being able to see the creature was unnerving. It seemed to be getting closer, which suggested it probably wasn't aware of their presence. Even wild animals that had never encountered a man before weren't likely to approach a person by choice.
"Must be lost," Sam mused. "Separated from its herd, maybe."

In the shroud of obscuring mist maybe two hundred feet ahead of them, a dark shape loomed. It was hard to tell just how big it was at first, but as it drew closer, its features became clearer. It looked to George like a walking mountain, maybe seven feet tall all the shoulder, a hump of muscle and fat rising up to frame a massive skull almost as large as a man's torso. From its head protruded a set of bony growths and ridges that ran down between its beady eyes, a pair of ivory tusks framing its foaming jaws. They protruded from between its thick lips, curving slightly upwards, each one tipped with a point. As the men watched, it shook its head, its mane of matted fur whipping through the air. Its coat was black, somehow dirty, as though it was covered in dried mud. Twin streams of condensation billowed from its large nostrils as it snorted, pawing at the ground with its three-toed feet as though preparing to charge.

The horses were going crazy now, rearing up on their hind legs, several of the men having to rush to grip their reins as they threatened to bolt.

"I got the shot!" one of the men near the front yelled. George recognized his voice. It was Baker, one of the more experienced hunters in their company. The man knelt, pulling the wooden stock of his musket tight against his shoulder, a click ringing out as he cocked the hammer.

Almost on cue, the lumbering creature began to charge, five or six thousand pounds of furious beast kicking up clods of dirt as it set off towards the party. It was deceptively fast for its size, closing rapidly. Baker squeezed his trigger, a loud crack echoing across the plains as a plume of smoke and sparks erupted from his barrel. Rather than drop, the tatanka kept coming. Could Baker have missed such a large target at so close a range? Was it a misfire?

The beast was still coming, drawing dangerously close now, George having to resist the impulse to run as it barreled through the mist like a steam engine made of fur and horns.

More of the men stepped forward to fire off follow-up shots, George covering his ears to block out the racket, a cloud of smoke joining the fog to make it even harder to see what was happening. There was a monumental thud, and when the dust had cleared, the tatanka was lying on the ground.

"What the hell was that, Baker?" Dawes demanded angrily. "You tryin' to get us all killed?"

"I hit it!" Baker protested, jogging behind him as he made his way over to the felled beast. "I swear I ain't lyin' to ya, I hit that goddamned thing square in the face!"

"Bullshit you did," Dawes grumbled, coming to a stop beside the prone body. The rest of their party made their way over to get a look, save for the handful of men who were still trying to calm the horses, the pack animals whinnying and stamping.

George and Sam joined the loose circle that had formed around the tatanka. It was even larger up close, like a sheer wall of muscle and fur. Flies were already starting to swarm it, flitting across its matted coat, a stream of dark fluid joining the foam around its tusked mouth. Its eyes were glassy and lifeless, milky in a way that stood out as strange to George. He looked for bullet wounds, but couldn't make out any distinctive red on its hide.

"What's with the fur?" Dawes wondered, giving the beast's hump a prod with the butt of his rifle that made the mound of fat wobble. "Never seen a breed like this before."

"Smells like shit," Baker muttered, covering his nose and mouth with a checkered handkerchief as he knelt beside the creature's imposing head. "The coat is all matted, like it's been rollin' in a cesspit." He reached out with a finger, brushing some of the shaggy fur aside. "There!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet as he gestured to it. "I got that sucker right between the eyes, just like I said!"

"Bullshit," Dawes mumbled under his breath, kneeling down beside the thing. As he checked for himself, his eyes widened, withdrawing a finger covered in what looked like black tar. He brought it to his nose, then gagged, turning his head away. "Mustn't have gotten through the skull," he said, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as everyone else.

"There are more," Sam called out, gesturing to the beast's shoulders. It had been hard to see because of the animal's dark coat, but there were indeed more bullet holes leaking a black substance where the volley of fire had found its mark.

"Step back," another of their companions added, pulling a large knife with an ivory handle from a leather holster on his hip. "Somethin' ain't right here."

The circle of gawking hunters widened as he stooped by the animal's belly, drawing the sharp blade along a portion of its underside. Almost as soon as its thick hide had been pierced, a mass of dark viscera was violently ejected from the body cavity, spilling across the grass. The men nearby covered their noses, retching and coughing as they scattered, the butcher letting his knife fall as he retreated to a safe distance. There seemed to be no blood inside the thing, only an oily, black liquid that stained everything like ink. It was still warm, steam rising from the guts in the cool air.