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The roads ended long ago. Up you drive, into the true wilderness of the deep mountains. A raven watches your first steps, its black tar feathers unruffled and poised. You blink and the feathers drip rot down the old sugar pine. You blink again and it’s gone. Your lip curls. You draw and fire in a single movement, the sound of the shot racing joyfully around the lonely forest. The bird is dead before your piece is holstered.
The fat Indian told you whatever tales of the local tribes he thought your purchases entitled you to. One of them was that the Maidu are partial to seeing these birds dead in any manner of way one can manage. You figure you and the tribe are of the same mind, and walk over to pick up and carry the dead bird with you. You hook it into your gun belt, you don’t want it in your satchel with the food, and walk on.
You decide your most opportune course is to keep heading up, circling the peaks. The Maidu live in dugout houses, mostly underground and thus easy to keep warm in cold weather. They do not care about elevation.
Alone…this is what you needed, you are unstifled here in this great solitude. One foot trudges in front of another, always upslope, and the forest bleeds out into anemic huddles and the occasional stiff-backed sentinel. Your muscles are hot in your legs as you conquer countless petty steps. Your hands are cold, especially your fingers. Your gloves are army issue and are not blessed with the constitution for this weather.
You make a good pace and by the time the first spin of the solar wheel concludes you guess you’ve gone around thirty miles. Your beans rattle in their cans on your fire. The bread is for morning, the salt pork for the trail. You eye the chocolate waiting patiently in their tins, but decide against it for the first night. You settle back against a tree, using your satchel as a makeshift pillow despite the lumps, and begin to doze off, the arms of your campfire flailing in front of you.
A familiar caw wakes you. You snort out of your slumber and flip your head up to see a raven alight on a far branch. A second joins it, the sound of its wings a precursor to the tightening of your chest and the catching of your breath. It is dark. Your fire is low. It is unwise to sound yourself in unknown territory. You take yourself to your feet regardless, then fling two more spells of lead, one each. You hit both birds, and collect both caracasses, the reports of the shots still echoing as you do so.
