Longhunter

"Smells like it's been dead for a fuckin' week," Sam said, his voice muffled by the collar of his jacket as he retreated inside it like a startled turtle. "Fuck, I ain't never smelled anythin' like it."

"Was it sick?" George wondered aloud, daring to take a few tentative steps closer. "Maybe that's why it was separated from its herd -- it couldn't keep pace."

"God damn it," Sam grumbled, slinging his rifle over his back. "And here I thought we'd be eatin' flame-grilled tatanka steak tonight."

He spat on the ground to better illustrate his disappointment, a worried murmur spreading through the crowd.

"Alright, alright," Dawes said as he raised his hands to get everyone's attention. "You've all seen sick animals before. The pelt and the meat are spoiled, and I don't want to hang around long enough to recover the ivory, so let's head out."

They returned to the horses, which had calmed down somewhat, the group starting to move on. The encounter with the tatanka had unnerved everyone, and there was tension in the air as they made their way across the flat terrain, most of the men keeping their muskets at the ready lest they encounter another of the beasts.

"You know about animals," Sam said, lowering his voice as he walked along beside George so as not to be overheard by the others. He adjusted the straps of his pack, hopping over a stray rock. "You ever seen somethin' like that?"

"Maybe," George replied, hesitating before continuing. What he was saying didn't make much sense, but all he could do was relay his observations. As a trained naturalist, he had dissected many animals, both fresh and preserved. "I once saw a beached whale on the shore of the Tywyll river," he began. "It had swum up from the sea and probably gotten lost along the way. It was an unusually warm summer, and it had been there for a few days, baking in the sun. When things die, they start to decay, and sometimes those gasses build up inside the body if they have no way of escaping. When they tried to move the whale, its body ruptured, and it expelled its innards with explosive force."

"Like the tatanka," Sam mused, George nodding his head.

"Now, that doesn't mean it was dead," he added hastily. "Just...that something caused those gasses to collect inside it. Maybe a ruptured intestine could have done that, I'm not sure."

"What about all that black tar?" Sam asked. The two shared a worried glance, but George had no answer for him.

***

They marched for another day without incident, then set up camp again, this time in the shelter of a rocky outcrop that gave them some measure of protection from the wind. It had been picking up during the day, and it was blowing a gale now, making an odd whistling sound as it blew between the rocks. It tore at the oilskin tents, making the fire waver, the men wearing hats and gloves as they pressed closer to the flames for warmth. The mood had changed after their odd encounter with the tatanka. Gone was the lively conversation and the joviality of the previous night. Instead, the men talked in hushed voices, glancing warily at the darkness at the edge of the camp as though expecting another twisted beast to come charging out of the shadows.

What discussion was still to be had centered around the animal, and George found that many of the questions were directed at him.

"You're an educated man, right?" one of the hunters asked as he took a seat beside him on the grass. He was wearing a leather coat lined with sheepskin, along with a fur hat that still had the unfortunate animal's tail danging from the back. Even though the men had all removed their packs and most of their gear, he still had his knife on his belt. Nobody wanted to be too far from a weapon right now.

"I attended the academy of natural sciences in Douvrend, yes," George replied. Sam shifted on the grass to his right, leaning in to listen to the conversation as he picked some of the dried mud from the underside of his boot with a stick.

"Daugherty over there is a bonesaw," the man continued, gesturing to another of their company who was sitting on the other side of the campfire. "He worked in an infirmary during the war, extracted his share of lead in his time. I asked him about what we saw today, and he told me he remembers that smell, can't rightly forget it. Says it's the same as what came from the guts of a man who'd been shot in the stomach. It's the smell of a festerin' wound. He swears by it."

"I'd agree with his assessment," George replied. "The animal must have been injured."

"We didn't find no marks on its body, though," the hunter continued. He reached into a leather bag on his belt, withdrawing a pipe carved from ivory and a tobacco pouch. George waited patiently as he filled the bowl, then struck a match, cupping it with his hand to shield it from the wind as he gave it a few tentative puffs. "Save for those that we made," he continued, waving the match until it went out.

"No obvious injuries, but I didn't have time to thoroughly inspect the animal," George replied. "Nor did I have the desire, to be frank. It could have been an internal infection, some kind of gangrene. I wondered whether the intestines might have ruptured, which could have filled the body cavity with putrefied gasses."

"Seemed strong as an ox, even so," the hunter added. "You'd expect a sick animal to be lethargic, weak. It's nice to hear that there might be some natural explanation, at least. Sets my mind more at ease."

"Want an unnatural one?" Baker asked, his sudden appearance startling George. He had approached from behind them, from the direction of the nearby tents. "Sorry," he added, chuckling at the reaction. "Didn't mean to alarm you gentlemen."

"We tellin' ghost stories now?" Sam grumbled. "I ain't sure that's gonna do us much good, Baker."

Despite the complaint, Baker sat down beside them, his bearded face lit by the firelight. George was already skeptical, but it wasn't like there was an overabundance of things to talk about.

"I hit that tatanka square between the eyes," he insisted. "It didn't go down, not until they poured a whole volley into it."

"Their skulls are very thick," George explained. "They butt heads during mating season like rams. If you put six thousand pounds of weight behind those blows, of course the skull is going to be appropriately reinforced. It's possible that the ball didn't penetrate or was deflected."

"At that range, with a twenty-two bore rifle?" Baker scoffed. "I mean no disrespect, Mister Ardwin, but I'd wager I know as much about firearms as you do about anatomy."

"I won't argue that," George conceded. "So, what's your explanation?"

Baker settled, shifting his weight to get comfortable, making it abundantly clear that he was getting ready to tell a story. Much like the hunter to his left, he produced a pipe, lighting it up and taking a puff before beginning.

"Back East, there are legends told by the tribes that live around the lakes of Kanadario. I used to do a lot of hunting up there, in and around Acadia. It was great territory for trappin' beavers. They talk of evil spirits out there that can possess a man when he's weakened by starvation and cold. They give 'em a hunger so insatiable that they fall upon men, women, even children like a starving dog. Yet, no matter how much they eat, their hunger can never be satisfied. They call them the Windigo."

"Hang on," George said, interrupting the story. "What does that have to do with the tatanka?"

"I'm gettin' to it," Baker protested, taking another drag from his pipe. "They say those possessed look like they're fresh from the grave, pallid skin stretched over bone, gaunt flesh and sunken eyes. They smell like death, too, on account of the carrion that they're compelled to consume."

"And this from folks who worship trees," Sam said, the men chuckling.

"The point is, it sounds mighty similar," Baker insisted, gesturing to Sam with the pointed end of his pipe. "That tatanka smelled like it had been rottin' in the sun for a good couple of days, and a bullet to the head didn't slow it down. Ain't no livin' thing that can survive that. What if one of them evil spirits possessed it? That thing was mean, even for a tatanka."

"It was sick," George replied adamantly. "Perhaps one tatanka crashed into another during a fight, caught it in the midsection, and ruptured its intestines. They're grazing animals, they ferment their food in their stomachs like cows, so maybe all that gas escaped into its body."

"And that would turn its blood to tar?" Baker asked skeptically.

George shrugged his shoulders.

"I like George's explanation better," Sam said. "Never seen any spirits out in the woods, myself. Superstition will have you jumping at shadows."

"We're trekkin' out into the unknown," Baker added, blowing a smoke ring. George watched it float up into the air, slowly dissipating. "Who knows what's really out here?"

***

The company continued their journey across the plain, but although they found evidence that herds had frequented the area recently, they didn't encounter a single tatanka. It was as if they had all fled. After a few days of travel, they finally sighted something in the distance, a mountain range that rose up above the flat terrain, capped with white snow.

As they neared, they saw that the foothills were carpeted in dense forest, the wealth of timber reinvigorating the tired men. This was exactly why they had come out here, to scour the land for natural resources just like this.

The plains gradually gave way to woodland, the trees straight and tall, the sound of a gurgling brook soon drawing the group in. Fresh meltwater from the mountains beyond made its way down into the valley, crisp and cool, the men filling their canteens as they stopped a while to let the horses quench their thirst.

It was nice to be beneath the shade of the trees again, the familiar terrain setting George more at ease. He glanced around, taking in his verdant surroundings. The trunks of the trees were coated in a covering of green, fuzzy moss, and the floor was carpeted in a sparse layer of ferns. There were felled logs here and there, covered over by more moss, sporting colonies of impressive mushrooms that would probably go down a treat in a soup. There would be game here, and lots of it. They had been living on jerked meat and dried beans for long enough that George was developing a hankering for something red and juicy.

The company was settling in for a longer stay, it seemed, starting to unpack some of their gear as Dawes gave out orders. It was as good a place as any to rest. There was shelter, fresh water, and plenty of firewood to be had.

George sat down on a nearby log and fished inside his pack, pulling out a small roll of leather bound by a hairy string. He unfastened the bow, then unfurled it, revealing half a dozen fountain pens secured in small loops. There was also a bottle of ink, as well as a leather-bound booklet. He opened the latter, then checked the inkwell of one of the pens, beginning to write on a blank page in looping cursive.

"What are you writin'?" Sam asked, approaching George with his rifle resting over one shoulder.

"I'm making a record of what we've found," he replied, glancing up at his friend. "That's my job, after all. When we make camp, I'll draw a map as best I can."

"I'm glad to see trees again," Sam mused as he turned on the spot, glancing at the canopy above them. "Not sure what Dawes wants to do now. We'll keep headin' West, most likely, see what else we can find. Could be gold in those hills."

"I'd like to survey the area, see what kinds of trees are growing here," George added. "The Company will want to know."

"I figure Dawes is fixin' to send out a huntin' party pretty soon," Sam continued. "Best ask him if you can tag along. I'll come too, see if I can't bag me a nice hottah or whatever the hell kind of critters are livin' out here."

"I'd settle for a rabbit right now," George chuckled. "Anything that hasn't been sun-dried and salted."

***

By the time George had finished making his journal entry, most of the tents had been set up, and there was already a burgeoning campfire surrounded by a circle of stones. He and Sam located Dawes, who was talking with a group of hunters, the man glancing up as they approached.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"We were wonderin' if you're ready to send out any huntin' parties," Sam replied. "Mister Ardwin wants to tag along, said he needed to document trees or somethin'."

"I'd like to catalog the native tree species for my report to the Company," George corrected.

Dawes didn't say anything at first, but he nodded his head, reaching up to scratch his beard pensively.

"We'll send out a couple of parties. Fresh meat will raise spirits, and we need to get the lay of the land, scout the area and make sure we have a defensible position here."

"Are we expecting trouble?" George asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Better safe than sorry," Dawes replied sternly. "Last thing we need is a band of braves stabbing us in our sleep or a pack of wayas deciding we look like an easy meal."

George bristled at the word. He had seen sketches of wayas back in Albion, and although they were fairly common in the Eastern parts of the continent, he had never crossed paths with one. They were large canines not dissimilar from the dire wolves of Europa, but with a heavier build. Their jaws were adapted for crushing bone to extract the nutritious marrow, and they had a pair of long saber teeth that they used to inflict deep lacerations in their prey, waiting for blood loss to weaken them before moving in for the kill.

"We'll send out three groups of six," Dawes continued, squinting up at the fading light through the sparse canopy above them. "The other dozen men will remain at the camp. I want each group to take a compass. Don't get turned around out there."

"We're losin' the light," Sam said, following his gaze.

"Better round up the men and get going soon," Dawes added with a nod.

***

George trekked through the forest, his rifle in hand, the underbrush rustling underfoot as he moved through the knee-high ferns. He was in the company of five other men. Sam and Baker were with him, along with the hunter he had met the night before, who he had recently learned was named Doyle. Two other experienced hunters from their party were with them, Meyer and Smith, experienced trackers who had spent much of their lives in the wilderness.

He wasn't sure what they were looking for exactly that would give away the presence of dangerous animals or tribesmen. Perhaps footprints, abandoned camps, and things of that sort. George contented himself with cataloging the different tree species, making notes in his journal whenever he came across something interesting. There were a few specimens he didn't recognize, so he made sure to take rubbings of their leaves on the off chance that they were entirely undocumented species. Botany wasn't his strong suit, but he wouldn't mind having a plant or two named after him.

The forest was so incredibly dense. The tall, pillar-like trunks were spaced far enough apart that a party of men could easily make their way between them, but they were packed together tightly enough that visibility rapidly diminished over distance. George found that he could rarely see more than a hundred feet in any direction. What's more, as the temperature dropped, a low mist began to roll in.

As the sun dipped in the sky, he pulled out his compass, the other men waiting as he took a reading.

"We should circle back around to camp in maybe forty minutes by my estimate," he said. He kept his voice low so as not to give away their position to any curious eavesdroppers. "We can stand to be out here maybe another hour more if we want to be back before nightfall."

"Yeah, I don't much like the idea of bein' out here in the dark," Sam muttered as he glanced around at the encroaching fog. "No sign of anythin' so far, though."

"I vote we cover a little more ground," Baker added, leaning against a nearby tree. There was a chorus of agreements, George following behind as they resumed their hike, climbing their way up an incline onto higher ground. Without the compass, they really would be lost. Everything looked the same to George.

It wasn't long before they found signs of life, Doyle waving them over to a nearby tree. He gestured to score marks in the bark with a proud smile on his face.

"Looks like we have hottas in the area," he declared, running a finger through one of the grooves. "See the tusk marks?"

"That's some good eatin' right there," Sam mused.

"I feel like I could eat a whole damn hottas myself right now," Doyle replied, giving his companion a jovial slap on the back. "C'mon, these marks ain't too old. Maybe we can still catch up."

The men picked up the pace, Doyle leading them through the trees, spotting a few more signs of activity on the way. Snapped branches, more scoring where the creature had used its tusks to scrape off tree bark, faded footprints in the wet soil. As they headed up the gentle incline, a sudden foul odor blew in on the breeze, George covering his mouth with his sleeve.

"The hell is that?" Sam grumbled, pulling up his fur collar to cover his nose.

"Smells like carrion," Meyer said, the only one of them with the stomach to take a second sniff. He reached up to straighten his wide-brimmed hat, then gestured up the slope. "It's up that way."

They climbed higher, the fading light and the fog making it hard to see very far ahead of them. Maybe it was just his imagination, but George could have sworn that the atmosphere had become somehow heavier, more oppressive. The usual chirping of birds had gone deathly silent, and all that he could hear was the eerie creaking of branches as they swayed in the wind. As they neared the source of the smell, it grew more pungent, Sam letting out a sudden grunt of disgust. George glanced over to his right, seeing him pulling his hand away from a tree trunk that he had just leaned on, looking at his palm with a grimace.

"What the fuck is this?" he wondered aloud.

George clambered over a felled tree as he made his way over, a few more of the men crowding around. Sam's hand was stained with what looked like black tar, and when George turned his eyes to the tree, he saw that there was more of it on the bark. It looked like someone had splashed it with the dark, oily substance.

"There's some of it on the leaves," Doyle said, gesturing to a patch of ferns that had been drizzled with the inky fluid. "Almost looks like something came through here that was covered in the stuff..."

Nobody had to voice their concerns. It was obvious from the way that they clutched their rifles, their eyes scanning the rolling fog. The terrible smell, the black fluid...it reminded everyone of the encounter with the diseased tatanka out on the plains.

"I don't like this one bit," Smith whispered, pulling the stock of his rifle tighter against his shoulder. Sam, meanwhile, was trying to rub off the tar on the leg of his pants without much success.

"Should we go back?" George asked, but Doyle shook his head.

"Dawes told us to scout out the area, check for danger. This sure as hell qualifies."

There were a few murmurs of agreement, the group deciding to press onward. Baker seemed even antsier than the rest, his wide eyes darting from tree to tree, his rifle at the ready. George remembered the ghost story he had told about evil spirits, but he did his best to banish such thoughts from his mind. As Sam had said, superstition would have him jumping at shadows.