Back on the other side of the mountains, hatchets were easy to come by, marten furs much less so. The situation was reversed here. Accounts l balanced.
Too, back in the cities of the Commonwealths, Quick [ would have had to put up with the stink of coal smoke, railroad noise, and the endless presence of people. He had little use for pointless chatter.
Maybe that was one reason he got on well with sims: they lacked the brains to talk when they did not have something to say. Some trappers, Quick knew, treated sims like wolves or foxes or any other vermin, and hunted them savagely. Sims robbed traps, no doubt of that. They were hungry al the time, and meat already caught was easy meat. Quick was sure the sim in the clearing with him had eaten the marten's carcass as soon as the pelt was off it.
In a way, Quick fol owed the reasoning of the trappers ' who went after sims. Because of their hands and wits, sims made devilish thieves. But those same hands and wits made them dangerous enemies.
By the nature of things, trappers traveled alone or in small groups.
The ones who came down hardest on sims often never returned.
Quick had always felt that making them into al ies worked better.
His initial expense was greater because of the trade goods he bought before every journey, but he thought he got more furs by enlisting the sims' aid than by harassing them. He found a trap robbed every now and again, yes, but more often were cases like this one, sims doing his hunting for him.
The subhuman flourished the hatchet again, making the flair sigh.
Good, it signed, and left the clearing with no more farewell than that.
Henry Quick was not offended; he had scant use for ceremony himself.
He stretched the skin, fur side in, on a piece of wood, and set it aside to dry. He did not have many marten pelts back at his base camp, which made him doubly glad for this one.
He also thought he would have to be a lot hungrier than he was, to want to eat marten meat.
He walked the trap line to check the snares he had set within a couple of miles of the clearing. Blazes he had cut on trees at eye level guided him from one trap to the next. As far
as he knew, sims had not figured out what blazes were for. He had several sets of traps within the territory this band wandered, each grouped around a clearing. He tried to make a complete circuit every couple of weeks or so, to make sure none of the beasts he caught decomposed enough to harm their pelts.
His nose guided him to the first trap. He shook his head in annoyance.
The trap must have taken a victim almost as soon as he reset it the last time through. He was doubly annoyed when
he found the metal jaws holding only a striped ground squirrel, whose skin would have been worthless even if fresh. Doubly disgusted, he threw the little corpse away, set the trap again, stuck on a fresh suet bait, and went on to the next one.
Something, probably a bird but maybe a sim, had stolen the bait from that trap without springing it. Quick sighed and replaced it. The bait on the trap after that was stil intact.
Quick sighed again; he'd have to think about moving it.
When he neared the next trap, he heard a wild, desperate thrashing. He drew his pistol and sidled forward, soft leather boots sliding soundlessly over dirt and grass, leaves and twigs. Catching a sim in the act of robbing a trap would be tricky; finding one caught in a trap might be worse, for that could turn the whole band against him.
His breath hissed out in relief as he saw that the trap held fox.
The animal must have been fighting the spiked iron teeth for some time. It was nearly exhausted, and lay If panting as Quick approached.
His mouth tightened. This was the part of his job he tried not to think about, taking a dead animal from a trap was much easier than dealing with a live one there.
No help for it, he thought. On his belt by his pistol he carried a stout bludgeon for times such as this. He set the gun down, drew it out. The fox's yellow eyes stared unblinkingly at him. Next to the torment of its trapped and broken leg, he was as nothing. He brought down the bludgeon once, twice. The fox writhed and twitched for a few minutes, then sighed, almost in relief, and lay still.
He sat not far from the body, waiting for it to cool and the fleas and other pests to leave it. Then he pried apart the jaws of the trap, rol ed the fox onto its back, and began to skin it. He always took pains at that, and took extra ones today, with the memory of the marten fur still fresh, he did not want any sims work to outdo his.
So intent was he that he had almost finished before he realized he was not alone. A sim stood a few paces away intently watching him. It was a female, he saw with some surprise, unlike the males, they did not usually stray far from the clearing where a band was staying. He kept away from that clearing. Of al his traps, this one was probably closest to it, but it was still a good mile away.
Female sims, Henry Quick thought, were not so brutallooking as males.
Their features were not as heavy, and the bony ridges above their eyes were less pronounced. That did not mean the sim would have made an attractive woman. It lacked both forehead and chin, and short reddish hair covered more of its face than Quick's brown beard concealed of his own.
Like all sims, it wore no clothes, but like all sims, it was hairy enough not to need them. Even its breasts were covered with hair, though the pinkish-brown nipples at their tips were exposed. It had an unwashed reek like that of the one that had traded Quick the marten pelt.
Take shin? it signed. That, at any rate, was what Quick thought it meant. He had trouble being sure; it could not use its fingers well because its hands were ful of roots and grubs, and its gestures were blurry in any case.
Yes, he answered.
He must have understood correctly, for its next question t was, Why club, not noise-stick? It pointed at his pistol.
Not want hole in stil , he signed.
It rubbed its long jaw as it considered that, then grunted, exactly like a person who got an unexpected answer that was still satisfying.
As if putting a hand to its face had reminded it of the food it carried, it popped a grub into its mouth, chewed ; noisily, and swallowed. Like most wild sims, it was on the lean side. Quick glanced down at the fox carcass. To him, it was so much carrion. Not to sims. Want meat? he asked.
Me? It pointed to itself, brown eyes wide with surprise.
Male sims hunted, females gathered; probably, Quick thought, this one had never taken anything bigger than a mouse or ground squirrel.
But it did not need much time to decide. Want meat, it signed firmly, leaving off the gesture that turned the phrase into a question.
Quick handed the fox's body to the sim. It gave a low hoot as it stared at the unaccustomed burden it held. It turned to leave, then looked back at the trapper, as if it expected him to take back the bounty he had given. Keep. Go, he signed. It hooted again and slipped away.
Henry Quick went in a different direction, off to check his next trap. As he walked, he chuckled quietly to himself. There would likely be consternation among the sims toinight, especially if the males had had a luckless day at the chase.
The trapper paused for a moment, frowning. He did not want his gift to land the female sim in trouble. Among humans, that might happen if a woman stepped into men's territory. With sims, on reflection, he did not think it would.
Being less clever than humans, sims lacked much of their capacity for jealousy. Their harsh lives also made them relentless pragmatists.
Meat would be meat, no matter where it came from.
Quick found a rabbit in his last trap. It was freshly dead.
He skinned it, cleaned it, and brought it back to the clearing.
His pack of trade goods was undisturbed. Had he been ," one of the trappers who habitual y maltreated sims, he would not have dared leave it behind . . . but then, had he , been one of that sort, he would not have dared travel alone in this land where men had not yet settled.
He started his f
ire again, spitted the rabbit on a stick, and , held it over the little blaze. The savory smell the lean meat gave off made his nostrils twitch and his mouth grow suddenly wet. He smiled, wondering what roast fox smelled like.
When he woke the next morning, he rol ed up his ' blanket and went over to wash in a creek that ran near the clearing. The water was bitterly cold; he shivered all the way back to his campfire, and stood grateful y in front of it until he was dry. No wonder sims did not bathe, he thought as he dressed. And this was still August, with the days hot and muggy. In another month, though, snow could start falling among the peaks of the Rockies, the ultimate source of his little stream. He would have to think about heading back to inhabited country soon, unless he wanted to spend a long, cold winter living with the sims.
"Not bloody likely," he said out loud. No trapper had a lot of use for his fellow humans, but Quick ached to spend ' a couple of days with good bouncy company in a bordello.
He was bored with his hand.
His next set of traps surrounded a clearing a few miles northwest of this one. The way was blazed, and to guide him if he got lost he had a sketch map and a list of landmarks he had made when he first scouted this territory.
Except for the ones he had given them, none of the places hereabouts had names. No other man, so far as he knew, g had seen them.
The behavior of the local sims certainly argued for that They had neither fled from him on his first
appearance nor attacked him on sight. Having no hostile memories to overcome made establishing himself much easier than it , would have been otherwise.
As if thinking of the sims had conjured them up, Quick heard a crashing in the undergrowth off to one side of him find the hoarse, excited cries of several males. They must leave been chasing something big, most likely a deer. They ae tireless trackers, and more skil ed even than an out orsman like Henry Quick. They had no guns with which il at a distance, but had to rely on thrown stones and Fars either tipped with fire-hardened wood or made from a knife, gained in trade, lashed to the end of a sapling.
The Sims' voices rose in a chorus of triumph. They Could eat well tonight, and for the next couple of days. buick's stomach rumbled. He was not so sure of a good meal himself. When he got to the clearing that formed the center for his next set of traps, he set down his pack and went out to do some hunting of his own.
He came back near sunset, seething with frustration beneath the calm shell he cultivated. The sims had had more luck than he. He was carrying a squirrel by the tail, bet there wasn't much meat on a squirrel. He made a fire, coated the squirrel with wet clay, and set it among the flames to bake.
When he thought it was done, he nudged it out of the fire with a stick and began breaking the now-hard clay with the hilt of his dagger.
The squirrel's fur and skin came away with the clay, leaving behind sweet, tender meat ready to eat. Quick, unfortunately, also remained quite ready to eat more and the squirrel was gone. Along with his trade goods, he had about ten pounds of dried, smoked buffalo meat in his pack. He worried every time he decided to gnaw on a strip, he might need it later. He was only a little hungry flow, he told himself severely. He turned his back on the pack, avoiding temptation.
A noise in the darkness beyond the edge of the clearing had ice darting up his back and made him forget his bel y.
He grabbed for his rifle, peering out to see what sort of t beast was prowling round his camp. Light came back red From wolves' eyes, green from those of a spearfang. Even with the gun in his hand, he shivered at the thought of confronting one of the great cats at night.
Try as he would, he saw nothing. A moment later, he l realized why. A male sim stepped into the flickering circle of light his campfire threw. Like the eyes of humans, sims' eyes did not reflect the light that reached them. The male came toward him slowly, deliberately. He saw it t was the one that had brought him the marten fur. It carried its knife in one hand, the hatchet he had traded it in the other.
Neither weapon was raised, and the sim showed no hostility. Still, Quick stayed wary. No sim had ever visited t him at night before.
He did not set aside his rifle until the sim put down what it carried.
Even then he had misgivings. Sims were stronger than people; if this one chose to grapple with him, he was in trouble.
But it had only freed its hands so it could use signs. You It give food, it signed, amplifying, Meat. You give to female. Yes, Quick agreed. I not eat fox, not want to, He hesitated. Hand-talk had no way to express waste; the concept was alien to the sim mind., put aside, he finished lamely.
Why not eat fox? Meat good, the sim signed, and the trapper's tight nerves finally eased a bit. Still, the male's next question took him by surprise: Hungry now? Yes, he signed again, with a rueful glance in the direction he had thrown the squirrel's smal bones.
Then he was surprised all over again, for the sim signed, You come with me to our fire, eat there.
Go there? he asked, not quite believing he had seen correctly. He had always made a point of staying away from at the clearing the sims used as their own. That was partly what with people he would have cal ed politeness, but more the simple desire not to draw unwelcome attention to himself. Wel , he seemed to have drawn attention, but not of the unwelcome sort
This wild band owned flint and steel now, fire
and the nary of the time when they had not been able to make it loomed large in sims' lives. Fire meant to this male what home meant to Henry Quick. come, he signed, stepping toward the sim. It picked up its weapons, signed Follow, and plunged the woods. Quick fol owed, as best he could. Again he ; reminded how wild sims perforce became masters of st craft. The sim glided along so quietly that he felt slow t and clumsy by comparison; sometimes only its lingering fir let him stay close to it. He suspected it could have gone er had it not been leading him. kinking on in front of his nose, a firefly made him Up. Other than that, the forest was impenetrably dark.
The sim pressed on with perfect confidence. Just when Quick was beginning to wonder if anything behind that confidence, he scented woodsmoke on the breeze. The sim must also have caught the smell, for it said no!", a breathy, throaty noise, the first sound it had made all night, and hurried ahead. A moment later, Quick smel ed charring meat along with the smoke. He hurried, and soon saw light ahead. The male hooted before it entered the clearing where its band was staying.
Answering calls came back to it. They made Henry Quick think of shouts heard on the breeze, with the words blown away but the sense, here, welcome, remaining. .
Quiet tell as the trapper stepped into the open area. With the male sims, it was a measuring sort of silence. Quick had entered most of the dozen or so of them as they and he hunted; he had traded tools for furs with more than half of them. Meeting them as a group, though, emphasized the Inferences between him and them as solitary contacts could not. The females and youngsters, on the other hand, had Wryer seen him before, except for the one to whom he'd given the fox carcass. Their stillness was more than a little fearful. But they were curious too. A child (for the life of him, Quick could find no better word, especially since young sims, like grown females, had a more human seemblance than did grown males) of perhaps seven came up to him. It touched his suede trousers and tunic, then looked up at him, the picture of puzzlement. Strange skin, it signed.
A couple of males growled warningly, and one hefted a stone as Quick stretched out his arm. Al he did, though, I was roll up the fringed sleeve of his tunic to show what lay beneath. No hair, he signed. That was not strictly true, but by sim standards he might as well have been bald. put on animal skins instead. Warm.
The youngster felt the trapper's bare skin, jerked its hand away with a grimace. Hair better, it signed.
Startled, Quick burst out laughing. The sims laughed too, loud and long. The male that had been holding a stone threw it on the ground, came over to Quick, and hugged him hard enough to make his ribs creak.
He wished he could have ta
ken more credit for winning acceptance, but was glad to get it no matter how it came.
The male that had brought him tugged him toward the fire. Eat, it signed, and the trapper needed no further invitation.
One leg stil remained from the carcass of a buck, likely, Quick thought, the one he had heard the males chasing. The rest was bones, the big ones split to get out the marrow and the skull crushed for the sake of the brains.
A grizzled male had charge of the meat. As Henry Quick came over, the sim picked up a chipped stone and began to carve off a chunk for him. He started to offer his own steel knife instead, but stopped when he saw the stone tool gliding through the leg of venison. A steel knife lasted almost forever, was easy to hone again and again, and did not chip. None of that, however, meant stone could not be sharp. Quick's eyes widened slightly at the size of the piece the old sim gave him. Too much, he signed. Not eat al .
The sim shrugged and grunted. Someone, will if you don't, Quick thought it meant. Even the single gesture had been hesitant.
The trapper wondered on hand-talk had reached this band. Maybe it was so recently that the old sim had already been grown and only knew it imperfectly, as a man will have trouble speaking a foreign language he acquires after his youth.
Catching the meat bubble and brown as he held it on a stick over the fire drove such speculation from his mind. Beside him, the sim that had brought him here was roasting a larger piece. Less patient with cooking than he, it led its gobbet away from the flames, tossed it from hand to hand until it was cool enough to eat, then tore off one bite after another.
The venison disappeared with finishing haste.
quick sat beside the sim and tried valiantly to match its, but its bigger teeth and bigger appetite meant he was classed. Since they starved so much of the time, sims ate the most of good days like this one. The trapper was amazingly full by the time half his piece was gone, yet by then the male had almost finished and showed no signs of sing down.
A Different Flesh Page 19
