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 fire 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.
