by Glenn Wilson
He saw then, in the moment he took to categorize the shift of events, that a total of two lines of the bulls were formed and charging at them. The largest, main line was coming straight at their company. The second line was somewhat smaller, coming in diagonally at their left.
Ian nearly fired a shot at the few bulls coming from their left, but decided he needed it. Getting ready to move, he shifted his aim to the main, larger row of the two that was coming at the captain and margrave near him. The margrave let off a shot that brought one down on the right as Captain Marsden hurried to reload. Ian looked long enough to see Will pulling at Lord Wester. Then the two were turning and running from the oncoming charge, the margrave still tugging at his cartridge.
They were never going to make it.
And Ian could see Corporal Hanley and Rory rushing to them from the right with their rifles raised.
They would never be able to stop it.
Ian looked back at the two lines of bulls—
There.
Ian turned his rifle a bit and put an angled shot into the lower reaches of the rightmost bulls of the line coming straight at them. Immediately pulling his eyes away after the shot was off so that he didn’t see the extent of its success, he threw his rifle to the ground and sprinted forward—
Sprinting toward the gap between the oncoming lines.
Of things external he only remembered the gap between the lines, brief and closing as it was. It was odd that he would be unable to see either the heavy mass crashing toward what was now his immediate right or the smaller but slightly closer row to his left, both intent on trampling what wasn’t immediately gorged.
There was pulling, straining in his lungs, but more in his arms and the tops of his legs as he struggled to push, to run faster than he could at the gap, the heat terrible on his face and his pulse wonderful in its pace.
Timing, the moment he couldn’t see but feel, the duration of one second, two seconds, three—
Not enough, he couldn’t make it through the gap running.
He lowered himself and leaped forward, his arms and the ground out in front of him.
For a moment nothing held him, and then there was grass yielding underneath him and then hard dirt, things pricking and prodding up into his hands. Then a tremendous impact clapped behind him, even as he surged forward on his hands and knees, before grabbing his lapse of faculties. He rose back to his feet to run another handful of yards before whirling to see what he had missed—or rather what had missed him.
Ian gave a short laugh back at what indeed had missed him, his life rushing down into his arms and legs in sharp, perfect bits.
It was difficult to make sense of it all. A great deal of long buffalo were milling about in various directions, making various noises. What he deduced—and indeed, some of that was probably more his own imagination working on egotistical induction—was that he had just missed the two closing flanks, and shortly thereafter, the innermost bulls from each flank had collided with each other as they’d tried to hit him. And while the center row had previously seemed inflexible in changing direction, the leftmost of that row had hopefully dragged their course inwards a little due to Ian. Hopefully, this caused their rightmost bulk to be somewhat disrupted by Ian’s shot, and even more hopefully, by whatever shots Ellis and Rory had fired.
Now, standing somewhat behind the ensuing scene, Ian could only watch with exultation at the general atmosphere of renewed retreat in the buffalos. This wasn’t an easy task, however, as the tangle of horns and impact of bodies left a lot to be sorted out. The bulls became terribly distracted by this, which was no doubt largely why they seemed to quickly forget why they’d come so furiously this way just a few moments ago. Ian was only vaguely uneasy at his position without his rifle. But as long as there weren’t any more shots, Ian thought that should be the end of it.
After a moment of some rather proud observation, he conceded that it was probably prudent to kneel back into the grass, though it somehow felt wrong waiting like that, his breath still needy and his hands tingling.
The buffalos seemed to retreat in pairs, like they were watching for each other, an uncommon trait among beasts. Their party was lucky, there had—
Ian heard a strained caw from near the front of the departing column of bulls. Jerking his head, Ian saw a somewhat larger specimen pointed straight at him and wearily tossing its head as it wheezed its warning sounds again. If anything, this only seemed to spur the rest of the buffalos on faster after their herd, but this bull stamped its front feet and continued to toss its head. It didn’t appear shot, but more likely hurt in the previous collision. The grass between Ian and this bull offered a well-trampled line of sight for the bull to see him. And it wouldn’t stop cawing.
“Crazy beggar,” Ian muttered as he tried to start away into thicker grass, but the last few of the buffalos were still passing nearby.
He half-stood, which quickly turned out to be a mistake as the bull made a start toward him. Instinctively moving away from the other buffalos passing by, Ian thought that would be a mistake as well, that it would only get him farther away from the rest of his company.
This bull seemed a lot larger, far more immediate when he had no rifle in his hands, unloaded or otherwise. He didn’t spare the time to look, but he could feel the last of the buffalos passing him. They would no longer be blocking him off from the rest of his company in just a moment if—
The bull gave a painful cry, and Ian stood. He ducked and tried sneaking off to the left, hoping to buy just a little more time with more distance, but the bull gave one final cry and came at him a few steps. But then it broke entirely and took off toward him, and Ian was dashing off to the left as fast as he could.
These few moments seemed to pass much faster, maybe because he was so certain he had no chance of dodging this time. He kept his eyes on it, even as one, then two shots from behind him flew over and behind the bull, his party’s aim disrupted by the last of the other bulls. The bull came at him at a terribly clumsy but furious rate.
Distance, then nearness, then inevitable proximity, and then—
The shot flashed in low and angled, just rising a bit into the buffalo’s chest as it progressed, a little bit biased to the right. Ian couldn’t remember his motions afterwards. He could only recall the image of the creature falling down where the shot had ended, its front legs collapsing, pushing back at the rest of it so much so that its rear half was partially lifted off the ground.
It was dead by the time it stopped, and all that was left to threaten Ian was the heat, rolling off his body in opulent waves, his pulse thundering in his ears.
But other things were touching him then, hands clapping at his back. He was jostled a good couple of moments before he took his eyes off the bull to find Corporal Hanley’s face surprisingly happy. His mouth was forming words, though Ian only kept hearing the corporal say brilliant, brilliant, over and over again.
Corporal Hanley had clapped him maybe once or twice, but Ian discovered it was Will who kept clapping his back, his countenance also bright.
“Thanks,” Ian said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He tried to make calming motions with his hands; it would look better if he didn’t soak in this sort of praise.
Looking over, Ian saw Lord Wester and Captain Marsden walking among the trophies, trying not to pay too much attention to the fracas Ian’s company mates were raising. They were headed they were headed in Ian’s general direction though, as the other Chax guide was already at work on the margrave’s trophy. And a bit further back from that, going slowly and seeming as if he didn’t want to appear that he was, Rory walked with his rifle down in one arm while looking off where the buffalos were occupying the distance.
“Haven’t got any speeches prepared?” Corporal Hanley asked, mostly coming down.
“Maybe next time,” Ian murmured, dropping his eyes to the ground when Rory saw him looking at him.
If that didn’t do it all. At least he ho
ped he had beat Rory in trophies—in number—quality—anything to even faintly ameliorate the fact that he had just been saved by his second.
And he wasn’t even sure how he knew that it had been Rory’s shot. It had been executed from a prone position, but the dust on the front of Rory’s uniform wasn’t much of a useful indicator. Everyone else had also earned that at some point. It wasn’t even that the shot had been so unique, unlike the other shots that had preceded it.
Ian just knew.
Ian looked around at the bodies of the buffalos and the stillness. It seemed oddly lonely, after so much life had been struggling over this area so recently. Noting now where the bodies eventually came to rest, it also seemed strange how scattered they were. Ian hadn’t realized in the midst of everything how far the situation had shifted in its progression.
As it happened, the margrave and captain reached them first.
“You showed a stout game,” the margrave said after a moment’s reevaluation of Ian. “It appears we’re all in your debt.”
Ian half-nodded, half-bowed his head with a, “My Lord,” though Captain Marsden was already talking.
“‘Twasn’t nothing to blow about too readily,” the captain said. “It seems to me that if we owe anything to Private Kanters, then we all—and he especially—owes that much more to Private Williams. It’s been a right long stretch since I’ve seen a shot like that.”
“Indeed,” Lord Wester turned to Rory, who stopped and made a choppy bow. “It was a superb shot.”
“Uh, thank you, sir,” Rory said.
“From where did you learn to shoot that way?” Lord Wester asked.
Rory shrugged. “Home I guess, sir. It was nothing special.”
Lord Wester lingered a reevaluation on Rory as well, and Ian surmised that it was something of a more dramatic increase than his had been.
Somewhere in his throat, Ian experienced thoughts to say something—a lot of things more, to elaborate, improve, or even merely fill in this calculated window of opportunity. But they quickly died before getting any farther, as he couldn’t find the will to voice them.
“Well, then,” Captain Marsden said, “we’d best be attending to these tasks, less rousing as they are. We don’t have a great deal of daylight left, and the brisa won’t have gotten off far. But we still need to catch them.”
Ian looked at the sun. It was going to be after dark either way.
“My Lord,” Will formally addressed the margrave, “how much of the meat did you wish to bring back?”
“However much is prudent,” Lord Wester said, already turning back toward his first kill.
“Indeed,” Captain Marsden said after the same tone when Will had to turn to him for a second appeal to authority. “Whatever is deemable as prudent, chero. But take everything you can carry.”
A blister of resentment surfaced in Ian’s gut at that, as that meant the rangers as well, but not the captain. Their superiors were off then, the margrave musing and the captain musing behind him out loud. Ian’s ill feelings were mostly doused when he looked again at the still hulks around them, his inner spirit of efficiency dismayed at just how little they would be able to carry anyway.
Bereft now of any imminent commanders, Ian turned back to Rory, where the unpleasant debt of formalities were hanging.
Ian swallowed a handful of phrases, deducing just how much was necessary and how much could be avoided.
“Thank you, Rory,” he said, sounding exceptionally stiff, even to his own ears. “Brilliant shot.”
Rory shrugged, or rather, mostly tried. “‘Twasn’t nothing.”
“You’re lucky to have such a sharp second,” Corporal Hanley said, but then sighed a bit, the excitement over. “I suppose we get to it now. Come on, chaps.”
Rory turned and went with him toward the margrave’s trophy, where they would start, leaving just Ian and Will for a moment.
“Well, Pawajisosomo,” Ian looked off at the horizon, “how do you feel all that went?”
“Very well,” Will said, still staring at Ian with slightly wider eyes when Ian looked back at him. “Very well I think, all things considered. I really didn’t think you were going to—succeed. But—you remembered my name?”
“Of course,” Ian said, smiling with good-natured exasperation.
“It just seems odd,” Will said, “it has never happened before. It is not an Ellosian name.”
“I try to make it a habit to remember a person’s name.”
“Come,” Will gestured toward the first bull that Ian had shot.
“An old family friend,” Ian went on, “always said that the sweetest word to any person is their name. It has an effect on people.”
“Do you merely do it to affect them?” Will asked.
Ian hitched. “No. I mean, yes, in a way. It often gets people to react more favorably, but—most of the time I do it to make them feel better.”
Will made a soft sound with his mouth. “But sometimes you do not?”
Ian paused for a long moment, weighing the truth. “Sometimes I don’t.”
“I see,” Will said as they stopped in front of the buffalo carcass. “I will show you how to take off the horns, and also the backstraps—however much you can carry. See, this is where you start.”
Kneeling down beside Will and peering as close as he could without being in the way, Ian watched as the Chax deftly worked his instrument around the bull’s rack.
“Do you think it’s bad that I might use somebody’s feelings for benefit?” Ian ventured in a lapse of Will’s instructions, even though he knew there had been plenty of room to drop the subject.
“Do you think that it’s bad?” Will asked.
Frowning, Ian looked over at how the rest of the party was progressing with the margrave’s buffalo. “I hadn’t really thought about it before. Isn’t it true that people do things in conversations all the time to please others?”
“People …” Will hesitantly, “do many things all the time. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they are right.”
“No,” Ian said.
“I only believe that it is best to seek to make people happy whenever possible. To be impartial to all people, to always return good for whatever is given us. Good or ill. Isn’t that what Christ teaches us?”
“Yes, but—it doesn’t seem like complete impartiality is always a good idea, or possible. Do you try to be impartial to everyone all the time?”
Will was quiet a moment. “No.”
“No,” Ian decided after a moment of silence hung between them, “I hadn’t given it much thought before. It’s good that you brought up the question—I’ll have to think about it some more. Right now, I’m not sure I’m in the best state of mind for it.”
Will smiled back a little—or at least Ian thought so. He hoped he was getting better at interpreting the Chax’s nonverbal signs.
“And are you feeling all right?” Will asked.
A little sick, Ian admitted to himself, but he knew it would pass. It was just all the excitement and heat. “Well enough, especially considering how intact I still am.” He took a long drink from his canteen.
“Well enough indeed,” Will said in a faster voice, “I have never seen anything like that. I thought you were brave before—you have a very brave voice. But I would not have ever guessed anyone would do something like that.”
“There’s probably a lot of good reasons why,” Ian said grimly, looking over at the plain, trying to relocate where the line of buffalos had charged.
“What were you thinking—when you decided to do it?” Will asked.
Ian shrugged. “I wasn’t. I just knew I had to do it. I was already running before I thought that there was anything else I could do. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
“Yes,” Will said, “I wish I were as brave as a person like you.”
“You already are,” Ian looked at him. “Look at what you’re doing now. You’ve already accomplished a lot—all of what
you’re doing now takes a great deal of courage.”
Will toyed at the knife in his hands. “And you would not just say that to produce the effect you wish for?”
“No,” Ian said. “I’m not. I promise.”
“It must be a good thing,” Will said, “to know what profession you enjoy and to already be able to do it.”
“Well, what do you want to be when you get older?”
Will frowned down at the buffalo, taking a moment before he answered.
“A good friend.”
Ian started a little in surprise, then in defense.
“Well, of course,” Ian said. But it wasn’t, of course. That wasn’t what he had meant at all. He had been asking professionally, but Will’s answer made that seem foolish. “I hope most people do.”
He meant to say more, thought he was going to, but found nothing when he started. And he wondered just how similar they actually were.
Will paused at his answer, then nodded.
“This is the difficult part,” he said, starting again on extricating the rack, “you must watch carefully, for it must be done correctly.”
Ian leaned forward and tried to follow.
* * * *
It was well past dark before the last of them reached camp. Surprisingly enough, it hadn’t been as awkward to haul the trophies and meat as Ian would’ve guessed. They were able to mount them on their packs. It was just a matter of managing the weight.
Their debt to efficiency had been mostly settled, and they had been just about ready to leave the hunting scene when Will had sprinkled the remains of the bull carcasses with omoxos pellets to help preserve them and keep scavengers away. Will had then activated a thin, red laser beacon that stabbed up into the sky. When asked, Will had told Ian that the nearby Chax tribes would come for the meat and the rest of the bodies. It was one of the ways the hunting parties that Will led repaid the local tribes for their goodwill in passing and the miscellaneous services they occasionally provided. And on their way back, Will told him about all the ways that the tribes employed the various parts of the long buffalo in their societies.