"Grantville Gazette.Volume XVI" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Hunting Traditions
Garrett W. Vance

Walt Dorrman looked up at the cold blue skies of an early October morning and knew that it was time to go hunting. He went to his small but well loved gun collection and held them one by one, as if greeting old friends. He had grown up hunting; it was a tradition in his family as it had been for most West Virginians; the roads from Grantville now leading to Rudostaldt and Saalfeld instead of Fairmont and Monongah didn't change that. Walt pondered the forests of the Thuringerwald, could they bring him the pleasure that the West Virginia mountain country had supplied in such bounty? Walt aimed to find out. One by one he approached his old hunting pals, trying to get a group together as they had done so many times before the Ring of Fire. One by one his friends apologized, they'd love to come but they were just too busy with all the new responsibilities and challenges the seventeenth century had thrust upon them, even for a weekend hunting trip. Walt came home and slumped glumly in his favorite chair. His wife Crystal found him there staring at the black TV screen.

"What are you doing, honey?" she asked cautiously. They were still newlyweds and their love was good but she had learned that Walt occasionally had gloomy moods and that it was best to lead him out of them gently. Walt was having a more difficult time adjusting to their new century than she was and there wasn't anything in the self help and positive thinking books she had collected about dealing with time travel.

"I'm pretending to watch a football game."

Crystal laughed, laying her hands softly on his shoulders. "Who's winning?"

"The WVU Mountaineers of course."

"Who are they playing?"

"The Dallas Cowboys."

"But that's a pro team!"

"Hey, this is my fantasy. If you don't like it make up your own TV show."

"Okay, okay!" She began rubbing his shoulders gently. "Walt, is something bothering you?"

Walt slumped back, blowing out a sighing breath of air. "Yeah, I tried to get the guys to go hunting but nobody can make it. Everybody's busy trying to build an empire I guess. Me, I just want to do some hunting and get out of town for a couple days."

Crystal kneaded her understanding into Walt's taut shoulders. "I understand how you feel, honey. Could I go with you?"

Walt chuckled grimly. "Crystal, you couldn't flush a dead goldfish down the toilet without tears. You do not want to go hunting, trust me. I'm just going to go ahead and go alone; it won't be the first time."

Crystal's massage stopped. "Alone? I don't think that's a very good idea Walt."

"Why not? I used to go out alone all the time, even when I was just a kid."

"Yes, but that was up-time West Virginia, not down-time Thuringia. Things aren't the same here… they're more dangerous."

"Oh come on, what's dangerous about it?"

"Well, remember those bandits that attacked your mom and Mister Gerbald up by the lake?"

"Crystal, that was a couple years ago. The police have got things under control now."

"You can't tell me the Grantville cops have got an officer patrolling every wooded hillside in the region. At work I'm out on the roads and I see maybe one cop a day once you leave the Ring and there are some unfriendly looking dudes out and about. I stay in the grader most of the time."

Walt rubbed his temples in an attempt to coax out some patience. "Okay, sure, there are some bad guys in the world. But look at it this way: I'll be a lot better armed. Crystal, I'm going nuts here! I need to do something familiar, something so I can just feel normal again. I love hunting and I know what I'm doing; please don't give me a hard time. Besides, it wouldn't hurt any to have some fresh meat on the table."

Crystal gave him a long worried look and then smiled weakly. "All right darlin'. It's just 'cause I love you. Thinking of you out there alone in the woods at night just kind of scares me."

"I know, but really, I'll be fine. It's totally safe."

The next day Walt bustled about preparing his gear. His pack and tent were a bit musty so he laid them out in the front yard to air them in the sun. It was getting cold at night but the afternoons were still fairly balmy; perfect hunting weather in Walt's estimation. He studied the tent for a few minutes, he had only used it a couple of times back home where he could put the canopy on his old Chevy truck and park it at the end of some back road, an easy walk to the hunting grounds. Here in the sixteen hundreds his truck had been sold to the road department because gas was so expensive (which still irked him) and was no longer his at all. He'd just have to hike and use the tent and reasoned that the joy of hunting would be worth the extra trouble.

Around four o'clock Crystal said goodbye cheerfully as she left to go visit his mother, Pam. This was her own business; Walt still wasn't very comfortable with their chumminess, even though their friendship had started before Crystal even knew Pam was his mom. Thanks to Crystal's gentle pressure he at least talked to his mother these days, albeit for very brief periods of time and relations were still strained. He didn't say much to Crystal on the subject since Crystal had lost everyone to the Ring of Fire, except her aunt who lived in town, and Walt knew she was kind of desperate to build a new family. If she could find common ground with his mom where he never could, well, he supposed he was happy for both of them. A few hours later she came home wearing an expression of being most pleased with herself. Walt thought about asking her what was up but then decided that sometimes it was better not to know and went back to fussing with his gear.

Just after dinner a knock came at the door. Walt opened it to find a man wearing a sage green long coat, a misshapen mustard yellow hat and a shortsword belted to his hip. It took him a moment to realize this was Gerbald, his mother's hired man, or more accurately, bodyguard. In any case it was about the last person (other than his mother) who he expected to see at his front door. Even more surprisingly the man was smiling affably; the last time Walt had seen the ex-soldier he had worn a stony scowl that seemed permanent.

"Hello Walt. I am Gerbald."

"Yes, hello, Gerbald. I remember you. Uh, what can I do for you?" Before Gerbald could answer, Crystal's voice came from the kitchen.

"Walt? Who is it?"

"It's my mom's… friend, Gerbald, honey," he called back

"Oh, good! Don't just stand there, invite him in!" The woman was able to see through walls, one of many such super powers that Walt, after three months of marriage, was still discovering. He turned to the still patiently smiling visitor at his door.

"Sorry! Come in Gerbald. Can I get you a drink?"

"Beer, if you don't mind." This was something nearly all Grantville men, up-time or down, agreed on. It had taken some time to get used to the stronger flavors but the up-timers had now pretty much unanimously come to the conclusion that the local stuff was a damn sight better than that watery stuff in cans they used to get.

"Sure. Have a seat, I'll be right back." Before he could take one step toward their small kitchen Crystal appeared, carrying a tray with two tall glasses of golden Weissbeer.

"Hi, Gerbald! Thanks for stopping by!" Crystal favored Gerbald with her best smile, the one that could stop traffic; it came in handy in her job with the road crew.

"The pleasure is mine, Crystal." Gerbald sat carefully on a stool, to accommodate the sheathed sword that was his perpetual companion, the picture of a contented guest. He raised his glass to Walt, who still stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"To your health. It is so nice to see such happy young people." Apparently Crystal appeared happy enough for two. He drained his glass more than half way with the first swallow.

"Uh, thanks. Cheers." Walt joined his wife on the loveseat, where she sat beaming rays of sunshine from her freckled face.

"So, honey, why is Gerbald here?" he asked nonchalantly.

Crystal's penny bright eyes shone with satisfaction. "Well, you're going hunting next week and none of your usual crowd can make it and so I thought it would be nice for you to have someone to go with! I was talking to Pam and she told me that Mr. Gerbald here is a very experienced woodsman."

Walt stared at her. "So you invited him to go with me?"

"Yes! You two can go together! Gerbald knows his way around the Thuringerwald and he's an expert tracker, but he doesn't have a hunting rifle. So, he would trade his skills for a share of the meat, plus share any game birds he snares with us. If you guys joined forces it would be a lot safer, and you'd have a better hunt!"

Walt frowned. Gerbald smiled, contentedly making the rest of his beer disappear.

"Crystal, like I told you yesterday, I've gone hunting alone many times, since I was just fifteen! I know how to track a buck. Besides, I know what you're really up to. You're afraid of me going out alone so you're borrowing my mom's bodyguard."

Crystal rolled her eyes, and then narrowed them. "What if I am? Ya know, back in West Virginia there weren't people with swords and a general lack of guilt about killing other people roaming the countryside, either. Sure, things are better since we got here, but there are still wars going on all around us, as you should know mister army reservist, and a guy out alone is an easy target for bandits, deserters, the black knight, whatever. Gerbald was a soldier, he knows what's going on and he knows these woods like the back of his hand-pretty basically the best possible guy to go hunting with in these times, comprende, Bucko?" Her arms were crossed, which was a bad sign; reasoning would be futile.

Walt looked to Gerbald. "Gerbald, help me out here. I've been hunting since I was a kid, I don't need a baby sitter. In your opinion is there any real danger in hunting the Thuringerwald?"

Gerbald looked thoughtful. "Well, I am sure you are an able woodsman Walt, most Grantvillers are. You have faced dangers in the woods and handled them, I have no doubt. But, even though your excellent police have driven the worst sorts from our roads and towns, there is still the possibility that such men are about and the woods are still a good place to hide. In any case, bandits or not, I would be glad to have your gun at my side; I'm afraid all I have are a couple of pistols of the kind we had before Grantville appeared and I'm sure you are aware of their shortcomings. Your up-time weapons are much better."

Walt swallowed those salves to his wounded pride. He had seen the pistols of the day and they were like something out of an old pirate movie. Not seeing an easy way out he decided he might as well go along with it. Gerbald seemed like a pretty decent sort for an older guy and his English was nearly as good as a Grantvillers, he had even a developed a hillbilly twang in his accent. It would be kind of like going out with his dad's old chums like he had done when he was a little kid. Also, Walt very strongly wanted to show his bewitching new bride that he could put food on the table with his own hands and he reckoned it would be useful having a guide who knew the territory. He looked to Gerbald again.

"Well, let's do it then. It's early October now, when do you think we should go?"

"How about this weekend? My schedule is flexible. I know an excellent place as well, a wilderness under the control of an old friend, a most excellent hunting ground."

Walt nodded while Crystal's face filled with obvious relief.

"Oh, thanks for agreeing, Walt. I'll feel a lot better knowing you aren't out there alone." Crystal's mission was accomplished. "Here, let me get you guys some more beer."

After Gerbald's departure Walt sighed and shook his head. "So, I get to go hunting with Rutger Hauer as Daniel Boone. That's just wunderbar. "

"Walt honey, I'm going to sleep a lot better knowing you aren't alone out there. I'm a little old city girl, remember? I'm a'scared of the big bad woods!"

"Yeah, right, Farmington was a huge metropolis. And from what I've seen so far you ain't scared of nothin'."

Crystal smiled, a beatific expression gracing her face. "Maybe so, but I can be scared for people I care about. Now come here my mountain man, we got some cuddling to do."

Friday afternoon Gerbald came up the road with only a simple leather bag strapped over his shoulder. Walt was out in the yard with Crystal who was trying to help him and pretty much only getting in the way. He was now regretting agreeing to this team-up and was just wishing to be left alone.

" Waidmann's Heil!" Gerbald called out cheerfully. "That is the traditional hunter's greeting."

"Well, howdy do. Ya know, West Virginians have a traditional hunter's greeting as well: Hey dude, let's kill some shit! " Walt answered back in a slightly mocking tone.

Gerbald looked at him with a keen eye. "Ah, so I see, of course you have your traditions as well. Very well then, let'skill some shit , dude."

Although Gerbald was smiling broadly, hearing the older man repeat his sarcastic words made Walt feel rather small. Crystal saw his discomfiture and joined Gerbald in gazing on him with the patience of the wise and ancient.

"Walt, we must be respectful of traditions," she whispered at him chidingly. Walt scowled at her, his face growing hot. She was only two years older than he was and could hardly be counted in the ranks of the traditional.

"Well let's get going then." Walt turned and started marching down the drive. Crystal caught his arm and swung her arms into an embrace around his neck.

"Not without a hug, bucko." As Crystal jumped on him Walt looked around to see that Gerbald had managed to wander over to the garden's edge and become very interested in the stone border's construction. Walt hugged her back.

"I 'm sorry I've been so moody lately, Crystal. I'm still getting used to how things are here in this time, I can't help it. I never thought I'd be living in a world like this. Having to go hunting with our local representative of The Merry Men for a guide is just kind of hard to swallow."

"I know, Walt. We all feel that way sometimes, but this is our world now, this is where we're going to grow old and raise our kids. I want you around for all that."

"Kids? Jeez, Crystal, don't even say that word yet! We just got hitched a few months ago."

"That's plenty of time! Well, don't you fuss about our future joy right now, sweetness. Just go out in the woods and shoot some shit for me and have some man fun. I'll be here waiting… in those cut-offs you like so much." Walt felt his head starting to spin, raise our kids and those cut-offs held hands and danced dizzily in a circle around him singing tra-la-la. He kissed her quickly and disengaged himself- the Thuringerwald now beckoned as a refuge for all free men of the land, and those who used to be.

"Hey, Gerbald, let's go! Bye, honey!"

"Have fun, fellas." Walt glanced back to see her still standing in the yard with a serene smile. He waved and hurried his pace.

Raise our kids… US!?

Walt was still wrestling mentally with the concept of his not so blushing bride growing large around the middle and a future of diaper changes and late night bottles. For God's sake, someone had better reinvent disposable diapers before that happy event! They left the smooth but slowly cracking roads of Grantville for the more primitive surface across the Ring of Fire's rim. Crystal had most likely graded this stretch from a rutted wagon track to something resembling a modern road herself. A sense of pride in his hard working and very damn pretty wife swelled up in him; yes, he had done exceptionally well. If becoming a father was inevitable he at least knew he had made the right choice for a partner in that difficult venture. His own folks had divorced as soon as they thought he was old enough to take it and Walt had long ago solemnly vowed not to be like them. His love for Crystal was fierce, what she gave back was the same and sometimes the intensity of it nearly scared him. Walt decided to give his mind a break and tried to concentrate on the scenery instead.

They passed fields and farms. He saw a clanky up-time tractor working the same field as a team of oxen. Later they passed by an advertisement for" The Best Cheeseburgers in Thuringia "painted bright red in modern block letters in both English and German on the side of a barn that looked to have been erected in the Iron Age. These were evidence of the spread of America into their new time and country. It occurred to Walt that some of his usual resentment at missing out on the comforts of the 1990's had been replaced by a fascination with the new nation they were building here. If-no, better make that when -he did become a father this would be the world his children would live in. Looking at the pure blue skies and amber fields of a German fall he thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. At least they would have cheeseburgers.

They walked a long time through the pastoral storybook countryside, the leaves all the cheerful red and gold of autumn; then walked a long time again. Walt was now too tired to mull over his future complications or enjoy the scenery and simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. After a short rest near a muddy field in which Gerbald visited some bushes they continued to walk a long time again. The straps of Walt's pack, heavy with his hunting rifle and ammo, began to chafe his shoulders even through the thick material of his baseball jacket. His feet were beginning to hurt in his light hiking boots. He had born this long walking in stoic silence but enough was enough. Finally he asked: "Are we there yet?"

"Nope." Gerbald's tone was irritatingly contented.

"That's what I figured you'd say…"

After a further extended period of sore-footed ambulation the afternoon was growing late indeed. At last Gerbald came to a pause; he and Walt stood at the edge of towering pine woods sweeping up into brooding hills. Unsurprisingly the forest was dark, damp and inhospitable looking beneath the needled canopy.

"So, is this where Hansel and Gretel got lost?" Walt asked while regarding the intensely primeval quality of their destination with a doubtful expression.

Gerbald chuckled, the sound nearly swallowed by the enormity of the hushed woodland. "No my friend, that is a few miles west. This is the wood where Little Red Riding Hood met the wolf!" Gerbald laughed merrily at the jest, not making Walt feel in the least bit better.

They hiked up through corridors of giant grey-barked trunks, some well over five feet in diameter. The constant shade kept the undergrowth low but the footing was tricky due to loose rocks hidden by a carpet of rusted pine needles and Walt suffered more than a few scrapes from low branches and brambles as the visibility dimmed. At times they had to skirt around rocky outcroppings and lichen painted cliffs. Finally, at a somewhat level and open flat area on the wooded mountainside Gerbald declared that it was time to make their camp. Walt was too tired to cheer. Gerbald collected some rocks and constructed a simple fire circle under the cover of a six foot deep depression in an exposed granite wall; not quite a cave but enough room for them and the fire to stay mostly out of the rain if it came. Walt looked on, exhausted but knowing that he had better set up his tent before darkness fell. He made himself get up and scout for a good spot.

Walt soon found a lovely patch of small gravelly stones in a narrow bed. It was by no means flat but wasn't at too steep a pitch, either; just right for his one man tent. It was a camouflage lightweight hunter's model, a classic pup tent with a rain-fly. Walt lay down a plastic ground tarp, spread the tent down on it and then pounded the stakes into the gravelly ground with the back of his camping hatchet. He had quite a struggle erecting the ungainly structure but eventually the tent was up. Walt inflated his heavy duty air mattress with a small foot pump. He unrolled his foul weather sleeping bag and, sitting comfortably on it, took his waterproof gun and ammo bag out of his backpack.

He had brought along only two weapons since he knew there'd be a lot of hiking involved on this trip-no more driving his truck out to the hunting grounds, and guns and ammo were heavy. On his belt he wore the Smith amp; Wesson. 357 Magnum revolver that he had inherited from his granddad, a Viet Nam vet who had passed away before the Ring of Fire. Since joining the army reserves after the horror of the Croat raid on the high school he rarely took the thing off, figuring it was better to be prepared. Facing those medieval fuckers and their swords with just a baseball bat had removed any inhibitions he might once have had about going about his daily business armed.

After some debate he had chosen one of his favorites for the hunt; a 1963 Winchester Model 94 chambered in 30-30 he had found in a pawn shop in nearly perfect condition. It had been a real steal, and was considered by his dad's grizzled old hunting buddies to be a better rifle than the ones produced in later years. He had been tempted to get a scope for it but the older guys had laughed him out of it, scopes were for overeager kids who wanted fancy toys and wouldn't do him much good in West Virginia's narrow valleys anyway. Besides, Walt was gifted with keen eyesight. This rifle had been his companion on a number of successful hunts in the comfortable old woody hills back up-time; it should serve him well in these still foreign-feeling forests. The current circumstances made him treasure his guns all the more. He carefully hung the bag by straps in the inside peak of his tent to keep it off the ground and out of his way.

Satisfied with his accomplishments Walt crawled out of the tent. He found Gerbald looking on dubiously.

"You will sleep in that?"

"Yes, that's what it's for."

Gerbald walked around it. He lifted the edge to peek under it.

"Do you mind if I look inside?" Gerbald asked, pointing to the entrance.

"Go ahead." Walt said, amused at the down-timer's first encounter with a modern tent. Apparently he knew how to use a zipper and soon half of him disappeared within.

"You will sleep on the ground?"

"No, I'll sleep on that air mattress. It will keep me off the ground and warm."

Gerbald extracted himself still looking dubious. He gazed at the darkening skies visible through the lacework of pine and spruce branches.

"Big rain tonight, Walt. Better not to sleep on the ground, even with a mattress." Gerbald indicated the flat area Walt had pitched his tent in. "You will surely get wet here."

Walt felt irritated by the older man's questioning of his camping skills. "No I won't get wet, this thing is waterproof. It's kept me dry in some real humdingers back in West Virginia proper. It's you who ya oughta' be worried about rain, I'm gonna be as dry as a Sunday school picnic."

"If you say so…" Gerbald replied in a less than convinced tone and with a shrug wandered off into the woods. Walt set about gathering more firewood and kindling, albeit in a lackadaisical fashion; he was about purely beat from the day's long, long walk.

After a while Gerbald returned with a huge arm load of conifer boughs. He looked around for a minute and then headed to a fairly large oval mound formed by a group of big ferns; a raised but very uneven surface. He proceeded to lay the boughs crisscrossed over the mound to form a natural mattress spring, the green branches smoothing out the gaps. He went back into the woods. Walt got the fire going with his Zippo and some dry wood shavings. Gerbald returned with another armload. Now the mound was a lot less bumpy looking, having come to resemble a giant bird's nest perched about two and a half feet off the ground.

Walt tried not to look too interested in Gerbald's project and nonchalantly whittled a stick with his Bowie knife by the crackling fire. Gerbald disappeared into the darkening woods again. Walt heard chopping sounds.

Gerbald came back with three fairly straight wood poles that he had cut the small branches off of, except for a forked branch at the end of one five feet in length, the other two were both eight feet. He produced a small but sharp looking pick from an inner coat pocket and made a six inch deep hole in the ground at what must be the top of his bed-nest. Into this he drove the bottom of the pole with the forked end, placing several good sized stones at its base to secure it further. Now he stuck the ends of the longer poles in the fork and secured them tightly with twine, their bottom ends placed to either side of the nest's foot. Gerbald had constructed a tripod lean-to. One more trip into the forest and the structure was soon covered completely in green boughs. Walt had to admit to himself that it was a pretty solid looking arrangement.

"Won't the rain get in there?" he asked.

Gerbald grinned, pleased with his work. "No, the rain will run off the branches away from me. I will be quite dry." Gerbald looked confident.

"If you say so…" Walt commented wryly, returning to his whittling. Gerbald just smiled.

They ate a quiet meal of fat juicy sausages roasted on sticks over the coals. Another good thing about Germany, the sausages sure beat the hell out of the crappy processed weenies back up-time. This was some good eating! Walt noticed even his seemingly indefatigable expert guide was looking a little ragged around the edges from the day's work. After the meal they both found themselves nodding off and soon said sleepy goodnights before heading to their respective shelters.

That night Walt found himself on the deck of a frigate in a surging sea, hurricane wind and rain slapping the sail's sheets in a black fury. Lightning flashed to reveal an enormous wave- before he could react he was washed over the side. Somehow he caught hold of a loose timber to ride, but it was unstable and threatened to spill him into the tumbling seas. Another wave swept over him and he clung to his makeshift raft desperately. Lightning flashed again, revealing still more massive waves barreling toward him and a glimpse of the ship sinking fast into the roiling sea. The next wave would surely be his end, a black wall of roaring sea rose over his head and… Walt woke up. Although the sinking ship and deadly seas had faded into the mists of dream, the wind and rain were real enough and, to his shock, dark water was still very much in evidence. With a gasp he realized his air mattress was actually floating! He tried to turn over and slipped from his float into nearly a foot of icy water, which rushed to fill his warm sleeping bag with biting swiftness. He managed to extract himself from its sopping weight to sit freezing his cotton-brief-clad ass off in the floodwaters. What the hell was happening? Walt was stunned and disoriented.

The increasing cold serving as a slap in the face, he found his wits again. With a rush of concern he checked his hanging guns; they were safe in the tent top, the water must be entering from below. Walt fumbled around to find the submerged flap zipper which he pulled up sharply. This opened the way for a new surge of ice cold water, which washed cruelly across his belly! He finally realized he had pitched his tent in a dry runoff: No longer dry! The heavy rains had transformed his perfect flat spot into a swiftly moving creek! Worse yet, since there was no place for the water to exit in the bottom of the tent it was filling up like a water balloon, now nearly to his seated chest. By a stroke of luck Walt's hand fell on his floating flashlight, mercifully it was a waterproof fisherman's job. Working as quickly as he could in the increasing chill Walt started to relocate his gear from the flooded tent over to the dryness of the campfire's rock shelter. First he brought out his pistol belt; thank God it had been hung up with the gun bag. He carefully placed it in a crevice that he hoped would keep it dry. Next came the waterproof gun bag, he placed this as far back in the hollow as he could away from the fire circle. Last came his backpack, its contents were completely soaked and heavy with water. He thought about trying to take the tent down but was afraid it would wash away from him so he left it where it was, a bloated water filled sack. Gerbald had tried to warn him. He felt like a total idiot.

Walt huddled shivering in his cold wet underwear under the leaning rock face trying to get the fire going again. After an interminable period of suffering he somehow managed to reignite the dampened coals by fanning them with his damp baseball cap and adding more dry wood shavings from the back of the almost-cave. At last he basked in the glow of a hearty fire but it was four in the morning and the marshmallow had not been invented yet. Walt tried to calm down and make the best of it as he wrung out his clothes and draped them over sticks planted beside the fire to dry in the flickering orange light and soothing heat. He sat staring numbly into the darkness waiting for the dawn to come, listening to the rushing of the heavy rain.

Eventually the downpour slowed and then stopped and Walt was left alone with the silence of the forest. He used this quiet hour to curse roundly the Ring of Fire and the benighted backward century it had brought him to, full of troubles and trials and responsibilities that he wouldn't have had to face until he were much older-if ever-back in the comfortable modern times he'd been stolen away from.

Gerbald woke just before sunrise, arriving at the fire dry as a bone and looking supremely rested. He saw Walt in his underwear huddling under a semi-dry coat, then looked at the drooping tent pitched in a run off and then looked back at Walt with a concerned expression.

"You can say I told you so. " Walt mumbled sullenly.

Gerbald spread his hands in a gesture of piety. "I must apologize for not being clearer. I thought your tent must truly be waterproof. I am very sorry."

Walt could see that the man was sincere and so decided to spare him his life. He returned to his dark thoughts as beams of golden light began to shine through the sopping wet forest.

"Want some coffee?" Gerbald asked very gently.

Walt nodded solemnly. "That would be good."

They drank it in a silence punctuated only by the irregular music of dripping water.

The morning sunshine proved to be a cure for the night's travails. They lingered there somewhat later than they might have waiting for Walt's possessions to dry. Around nine they broke camp. Walt wore the Winchester rifle on his shoulder, ready to take a shot if any thing presented itself. They left the rocky slopes behind as they climbed over the ridge to descend into a wide valley. Reaching its bottom they tramped through dew sparkled glens and airy meadows. There were a lot of open spaces and Walt mentioned that it looked like good deer country. Gerbald concurred.

"We may find the rothirsch here. In English it might be called 'red deer'. A stag would be a fine thing to bring home to your lovely Crystal, let's see if we can find one."

"Too bad we don't have any dogs with us," Walt said gloomily. His had died before the Ring of Fire and not been replaced.

"Yes, dogs would make lovely company," Gerbald agreed heartily. After a moment he added "Let us see what we can do with our own eyes and ears. Here, do you see this tree?" Gerbald pointed to what might be an oak along the meadow's edge. Walt walked over to examine it. The bark on the lowest branch had been chewed up-a good sign! Walt looked down to see a bare patch of ground which a buck had scraped away with its hooves.

"A buck has been marking his territory. He chewed on the branch here, leaving his saliva and musk on it, and scuffed up the ground."

Gerbald smiled and nodded. "Yes, indeed. I see that you have experience."

Gerbald ambled over to the tree, looking casually around. After a moment he began speaking softly. "This branch has been used more than once. The bark has grown back a few times here, and you can see older markings amongst the new. Do you see anything else?"

"Well, the grass is pretty thick here and I don't see any tracks leading away. Hard to say where he went from here."

"Take a look at the bare place."

Walt looked down. There were many tracks, laid one over the other. These red deer must be big critters; the hooves were nearly twice the size of a West Virginia whitetail. "These suckers are big," Walt remarked, impressed.

"I believe they resemble an American elk. They are quite large compared to your whitetail deer-which I understand have increased their numbers and spread quite widely out of Grantville, much to the dismay of certain vegetable farmers." They both laughed. "A mighty creature indeed, the rothirsch." He looked at the tracks "It seems the stag usually stands facing this direction. I'll wager he travels this way often and always marks this place on his way. How old would you say these are, Walt?"

Walt examined the scraped area again. Some of the tracks were still sharply defined, the edges hadn't yet crumbled. "Hey, they're new! Fresh after the rain stopped this morning!"

"I agree. I think we should go in the direction of his tracks; it should bring us to the stag." Gerbald began walking. Shortly he stopped at an opening in the thick brush that formed a hedge along the tree line.

"We have found a path. Let's see where this takes us."

"How do we know he went in here?" Walt asked.

"We do not know for sure. However, game trails such as these are the highways of the forests. Many creatures use them; just like people they prefer the easiest route. They don't like to hit their heads on low branches or travel through thick brush anymore than we do. These paths always lead somewhere-perhaps to where our stag beds down."

They entered the forest and began following the winding path. With a bit of care it was easy going; the path of least resistance.

After a while Gerbald paused. Walt came up beside him to see deer droppings. Gerbald spoke quietly.

"These are fresh, Walt. We are following this stag most certainly."

Walt bent down to poke and prod at the droppings with a stick.

Gerbald grimaced. "Do you wish to see what it had for breakfast?"

"No, I'm just trying to see how fresh these are." A trace of annoyance crept into Walt's tone.

"I am sorry, Walt. Of course you are right to do so. I am a lazy enough fellow that if the shit looks moist and shiny as this does I am content to call it fresh." Chuckling, Gerbald continued on. Walt scowled at him behind his back. The spoor was indeed moist and shiny, and there was no doubt it had been left after the morning rain had stopped. Walt threw the soiled stick into the weeds and marched on.

The path led them into a narrow vale lined with bracken and brush. Walt realized that he had an eerie feeling he was being watched. It was beginning to bug him. Every time he turned around to scan the trees and thickets there was nothing to be seen but bark and leaves. He decided that it was just rattled nerves from his ruined night's sleep and tried to ignore it but the feeling was impossible to shake. At last he decided to mention it to Gerbald, even though he felt kind of silly.

"Uh, Gerbald? It's probably nothing but I feel like we're being watched." Gerbald nodded without looking at him.

"Yes, I feel it, too. Ever since we entered this valley."

Walt was surprised, and a little worried. Tales of cruel and desperate men lurking in the Thuringerwald were many and usually grisly; his wife had been collecting them for him all week. Certainly most were untrue or at best exaggerated, but still…

"Do you think it's… people?"

"I don't know yet, Walt. Let us continue our hunt as if we don't think anything is wrong. We will stay together and, how do you say? Keep our eyes peeled; a rather painful thought, makes me think of potatoes."

Walt didn't feel terribly comforted and forced himself not to look around again.

The game trail led them out into another region of open meadows striped by narrow copses of trees. They stayed near the cover as best they could, following the tree lines and watching for signs of big game. The feeling of being watched faded now that Walt had gone into his hunter mode; he now carried his rifle in his hands ready for quick action. It had become a matter of getting lucky and finding where their quarry had wandered to in this maze of grassland and trees; they both sensed they were getting close. Gerbald pointed at a rumpled spot in the tall amber grass.

"Look. I believe our stag has passed this way, the grass is bent down. Let's follow."

They stayed low. Moving as quietly as they could across the open meadow. Walt's pulse quickened, he was itching to bring down a nice buck; the thrill of the hunt sang an ancient song in him and all thoughts except locating his prey fell away. A tramping sound came from beyond a thicket of gorse. Gerbald paused and looked back at Walt, a wide grin splitting his face. He motioned silently for Walt to move ahead. Walt edged around the side of the thicket crouching low. Peering through the thorny branches he was rewarded with a wonderful sight.

About fifty yards distant stood the majestic form of the biggest buck he had ever seen rising above the grass, at least four feet tall at the shoulder. Its coat was long compared to a whitetail and a bit shaggy, making nearly a mane around its thick neck. Its fur was a rich reddish brown on the head and neck fading to an orange-ish gray on the sides and hindquarters; it was likely in the midst of its autumn color shift to a winter coat. Walt nearly gasped as he saw its mighty branching rack; much thicker than a whitetail's spiky growth, almost like a moose's! As he slowly raised his rifle some part of Walt's ecstatic mind counted seventeen tines on the most impressive antlers he had ever beheld. It was a full-grown animal, a gorgeous thing to behold and as always Walt felt a slight tinge of regret as he positioned the rifle on his shoulder. His mother, despite their many rancorous disagreements, had managed to foster a deep respect, perhaps even love, of nature in him. He would end this magnificent beast's life today, but it would feed him and his wife in the coming winter and Walt would never, ever forget its grandeur. He sighted carefully, a clear shot, a perfect shot. He disengaged the safety, breathing out as he slowly put pressure on the trigger…

There was a crash of branches across the meadow and the buck bolted just as Walt fired. With an echoing crack the bullet hit the moving buck's upper hind leg. The animal's hindquarters were pushed sideways by the blow for a moment but it regained its balance and continued bounding away, slowed by its injury but still moving fast; a stream of crimson running down its graceful limb.

"FUCK!!!" Walt cried out. "I fucking grazed it! What the fuck spooked it?" Gerbald quickly scanned both the direction of the disturbance and the flight path of the wounded animal which headed into some trees at the meadow's edge. Walt wildly considered popping off a shot in the direction the noise that had scared his buck had come from but kept his temper under control. He then saw that for some completely mystifying reason Gerbald had drawn his shortsword and was using it to chop off a branch from their cover, then another, each about three feet long. He walked quickly to where the buck had been shot and began messing around with the sticks.

"What the hell are you doing?" Walt asked, greatly upset by the botched shot. It should have been the perfect kill! "Let's follow that deer, it's injured goddamn it!"

"Not your fault, Walt, I saw it all. I am not sure what startled the stag but we don't have time to go find out. Before we follow we must place the anschussbruch to mark the spot where the animal was hit." Using his pick to stab a hole in the ground Gerbald shoved one branch in so that it stood upright. "Now I must place the fahrtenbruch to show which way the animal ran. It is a stag so the cut end is placed in the direction of flight, had it been a doe the branch tip would show the way." He laid the second branch on the ground from the base of the standing stick, pointing toward the spot the buck had disappeared into the trees.

"But Gerbald, why? " Walt felt frustration growing in him.

"These will help us track the deer, or others who may follow if we fail. It is a sign the hunter must leave, a message to other hunters. It is our tradition." Gerbald's voice was calm and full of conviction.

Walt regarded him as if he may be a lunatic for a moment but then the logic of the act sunk in. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Okay, I get it. Nice tradition. Now, can we get after that deer before we lose the poor thing?"

"Patience Walt, we shall not lose it."

Walt bit his tongue and followed in seething silence, quietly despising traditions, patient old farts and things that go crash in the bushes at the worst possible moments.

The trail was easy enough to follow, the profusely bleeding wound left a scarlet dotted line behind. Walt felt terrible; there was nothing worse than missing a shot and causing an animal to suffer. He silently cursed again at whatever had made that blasted racket and screwed up his shot, but didn't have time to dwell on it. Keeping pace with Gerbald in the brush required all his concentration and energy. After an hour of hard going they found their quarry slowly crossing a meadow in front of them, limping from its injury and breathing hard. They drew closer, reaching an angle for a clear shot. The buck looked at Walt but didn't increase its speed; its last power was spent. With a whispered apology Walt drew a steady bead on the wounded animal and ended its misery.

Gerbald walked over to the kill and took off his hat in respect. Next he took a sprig of spruce from a nearby tree and dipped in the blood from the killing shot. This he brought over to Walt who stood a few yards away feeling sad, tired and generally pissed off at the world. This was by far the greatest buck he had ever brought down and the joy was gone from it. He glared silently at the ground as Gerbald approached.

The older man spoke to him in a concerned voice. "Walt, I am sure I know how you feel. You must forgive yourself. As I said before, this was by no means your fault. Missing a kill and wounding an animal happens to all hunters at some time, you have done the right thing by ending what you started. It is an excellent stag and you must feel pride in your kill if only as a sign of respect to this great beast who will feed you this winter."

Gerbald reached out with his hand with the bloodied twig of spruce. "This is the schutzenbruch, the shooter's branch. I would like to place this in your hat to honor you and your kill. It is our tradition."

A hot, irrational anger was rising in Walt, teeming with the many frustrations that filled him in this messed up time and place, spiked with irritation from a miserable night and the shame of a hunt gone badly. He growled at Gerbald. "Ya know what? I'm not interested in your weirdo traditions. Keep your bloody branch, I want no part of it." Walt turned and stalked off for the shelter of a nearby copse, already hating himself for losing his temper but too upset for reason. If he had looked back he would have seen nothing but understanding on Gerbald's face.

Walt sat on a log and thought for a while. He had been wrong to turn on Gerbald, the guy was just trying to be nice. It was probably partly because his quiet manner reminded him of the countless soft-spoken fatherly lectures he'd endured from his dad over the years, to the point where they pretty much wanted to make him scream. Walt wasn't allowed to just plain old get mad growing up; arguments simply weren't done at the Dorrman house. Dad was always calm and correct and there was no reason for anyone to be otherwise. Come to think of it maybe that had driven his mom nuts, too. Interesting concept, that.

With an effort Walt stood up and pushed thoughts of his family problems aside. He needed to leave all that old crap in Grantville, and preferably in the up-time past. He was here now, he was out hunting and he needed to get his shit together. Straightening his shoulders he marched out of the trees and headed to where Gerbald was gutting the kill. Gerbald saw him coming, smiled pleasantly at him and then went back to work.

Walt stood awkwardly for a minute then coughed. "Uh, Gerbald, I'm really sorry about that. I've been in a piss poor mood on and off lately and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

Gerbald looked up at him with commiseration in his startling cobalt blue eyes. "It is quite all right my friend, no need to worry, I took no offense. Our hunting trip has seen more than its share of unexpected difficulties, has it not? Now, would you like to give me a hand with this? I believe you have some experience in preparing a fresh kill for travel."

Walt smiled, feeling relieved, and respectfully set about the bloody but wonderful job at Gerbald's side.

They made camp early in a nearby clearing sheltered by large venerable oaks. First they hoisted up their kill so that it hung from a high branch out of the way of night scavengers. Walt laid his tent out to finish drying in the meadow grass, then set about gathering firewood. The sky was still clear and they would have a nearly full moon tonight; it promised to be a pleasant evening. Once they had made camp Gerbald invited him to come along for some bird hunting.

"Walt, please allow me to show you some old woodsman's tricks."

A fair distance away from camp Gerbald proceeded to set up bird snares, producing a variety of twines and carved sticks from one of his countless inner pockets. He taught Walt the basic mechanics and Walt wished that he had pen and paper along to take notes. He tried tying a few himself but they snapped too easily; it was definitely a job that required skill and practice. Gerbald's snares were truly wonders, designed so that the animal would not be injured if Gerbald chose to release it. Satisfied with their work they went back to camp to relax for a few hours before checking to see if they netted anything.

They sat quietly for a time, enjoying the tranquility of the valley. After a while Walt broke the silence. "So, Gerbald, what do you think about us crazy up-timers anyway? What's it like to have weirdos from the future land their town in the middle of Thuringia?"

Gerbald smiled. "Well, I am quite impressed of course. Not just with the wonders you have brought us but with your ideals as well. You are free people and now you are giving that gift to the Germanies. You have brought us peace. I was a soldier for most of my life and have seen much suffering. You Americans are doing many good works and personally I am grateful. Do not tell my wife but I am not much of a believer in God, certainly not in his mercies, a heresy, I know. And yet it seems you have come with a great purpose and even an old soldier like me must pause to ask if it is somehow divine."

Walt chewed on that for a while. Heavy stuff, divine saviors from the future? A bunch of hillbillies with better guns than anybody else around was more like it. But still, if he looked at things from a down-timer point of view he could see it. Medicine, science, freedom of religion. Walt was beginning to feel like a patriot in this new nation they were building, something that he had never really considered back home in the big old USA. Here was a place and time where small-town folks like himself could make a big difference. He felt pride in that. It was pretty heady stuff and a sense of excitement in the possibilities ahead had already begun to grow in him, slowly but surely replacing his extended mourning for the life left behind.

Gerbald continued. "Also, I like movies, very much. Especially Clint Eastwood films. He is the coolest."

Walt laughed. "Well, there's something we have in common. I love High Plains Drifter. 'This is my gun, Clyde.' When he made them paint the town red, that was trippin'."

Gerbald nodded his approval. " Ja, that was good. For me it is Dirty Harry. 'Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?' I love that guy."

Walt applauded Gerbald's imitation, the guy was a natural mimic. "That's pretty good, dude! If we put a cowboy hat on you instead of that overgrown Smurf hat of yours you may just have a career as a replacement for old Clint-once we get around to making movies again, which I bet we will in a few years."

"Walt, that is my dream. I hope that it shall be; I very much want to be a movie star. Meanwhile let us see if our dinner has presented itself."

They found they had snared a male ring necked pheasant, a species that had come through the Ring of Fire. Gerbald gently let it go loose. "To honor your mother's wishes we do not hunt creatures from up-time."

Walt nodded in agreement; it was good to see so many familiar critters had come through the Ring of Fire with them and were thriving here. They made it feel more like home. There, something his mother and he agreed on, how rare.

"It's funny, those pheasants actually came to America from Asia. It looks like they're doing well here in Europe."

"A true American then," Gerbald grinned "All coming from somewhere else."

That evening they dined on something Gerbald called an auerhahn, to Walt it looked like a cross between a grouse and a turkey in blue-black feathers. Gerbald proved to be an accomplished camp cook, he produced a bottle of dried herbs and salts from one of his many pockets to give the feast some flavor. They stewed the bird with potatoes and carrots they had brought with them and some wild mushrooms Gerbald had collected. Walt was a little nervous about eating the mushrooms but determined that Gerbald was someone who knew what he was doing; they were delicious.

After the meal as they relaxed beside their campfire Walt reached into his pack to pull out a flask. "Hey, Gerbald, how about a nightcap?"

"A hat for sleeping? I just use this one, thanks." He pointed at the monstrous mustard mass that constantly occupied his head, apparently even when he slept.

"No, I mean some booze before bedtime. I got some quality moonshine here!" Walt produced two plastic camp cups and an unlabeled bottle of amber fluid. "This is a West Virginia hunting tradition."

"An excellent one indeed! We have a similar one-" From yet another inside coat pocket Gerbald pulled out a large flask made from some kind of a horn. " Barenjager, or 'bear hunter.' It is made from honey and a favorite of hunters."

They poured each other a cup of their respective poisons then raised their glasses in toast.

"To a successful hunt!" Gerbald offered.

"To tradition!" Walt replied.

They both drained their cup in one gulp and screwed up their faces in unison at the strange tastes.

A few rounds later Gerbald remarked "I think I am acquiring a taste for this moonshine. I shall have to procure a bottle back in town."

Walt regarded his cup of Barenjager thoughtfully. "I think… you are trying to kill me with this crazy poison. Hit me with that horn again please."

Yet a few rounds later they were swapping hunting stories, most of which were true or nearly so. Gerbald was interested in Walt's guns, a subject on which any hunter can wax poetically on.

"I got my first real gun for Christmas when I was eight years old and had been through seven years of extensive gun safety training from my dad. It was a Cricket bolt action 22 rifle, a real purdy little thing. I still take it out to plink cans in the backyard once in a while; a boy's first love never really fades. My mom told me I could shoot all the damn cans I wanted but could kill only what I was gonna eat, she didn't want me out popping off her precious songbirds. Naturally I disobeyed her and a few weeks later she caught me with a purple martin I'd canned. That night she had plucked the little sucker and served it up to me for dinner, fried with a side salad. It tasted pretty crappy but my dad made me eat it anyway, and gave me an 'I hope you've learned your lesson, son' speech-he's good at those. The funny thing is I actually respected Mom for that one. Cruel and efficient. Most of the time she was kind of a marshmallow, except when she was on me about doing my homework. Anyways, I never shot anything I wasn't going to eat again."

Gerbald smiled broadly at this tale. "Yes, your mother is a clever woman and not to be trifled with. I am pleased to count her as my very good friend."

Walt regarded Gerbald through squinted eyes. It was kind of hard to imagine his mom with friends. "So, you really like my mom? You don't just work for her?"

Gerbald cocked his head toward the young man next to him. "Very much so! Dore and I love your mother as we would our own little sister. She is part of our family now as well as yours. We know that your mother has great heart and vision. She cares about nature with a passion I have never seen before and wishes to protect it, selflessly. She has made me aware of how such things so often went in your other time… I do not wish to see all the Thuringerwald fall to the axes of progress. As hunters we should help your mother in her work so that we shall always have places like these to enjoy, and for your children to enjoy."

Walt looked a study in amazement. His mother? Pam Miller? With great heart and vision? Still, he had to admit to noticing something of a sea change in her over the last year; she certainly wasn't sitting around eating bon-bons and feeling sorry for herself anymore. Walt knew she was actively trying to protect wildlife, putting up posters and stuff, and was writing some kind of a nature book; all of it quite surprising to her only son. His mother had managed to win the love and respect of an interesting person like Gerbald whereas back uptime they usually forgot to invite her to the office parties.

Gerbald smiled broadly at him. "Ah, you see there is more to your mother than you might have thought. Strange times can bring out the best in people. I hope you will get to know her as she is now. She certainly thinks the world of you; and yes; she is enough like you that she wouldn't say it but we can see it in her eyes whenever you are mentioned. Now forgive an old man for talking too much, that moonshine has rattled my brains. Have a good night, my friend." And with that he rose from his place by the fire, clapped Walt amicably on the shoulder and headed off to his nest in more or less a straight line.

Walt stared into the flames and thought on these things late into the night.

Walt woke up to the sound of something moving through the camp.. . something large. There was a snuffling sound and a clatter as cookpots fell over. A bear? He wondered if Gerbald was awake, most likely he would be. The moon was high and cast a ghostly white glow even through the fabric of his tent. Shortly the sounds stopped so Walt slowly unzipped the bottom of his tent to peek out. He found himself looking at an enormous head with a mouthful of wicked four inch tusks and two beady black eyes. Hot, fetid breath filled his face. A great boar, a Wildschwein… a monster. This, this was what had been watching them, what had disturbed his buck. My God, it's HUGE! With a trumpeting snort the head swung, tusks catching in the zippered door. The thing's strength was incredible and Walt rolled helplessly as it uprooted the tent pegs and dragged the tent sideways. Tangled in his fallen shelter Walt struggled to get free. A glancing blow hit him in the side knocking the wind out of him. It felt like a sledge hammer and despite the growing panic at being trapped he realized it must be the great boar's hoof-if it had been the tusks he would be bleeding to death now. He heard a muffled shout through the tangle of tent canvas and the boar roared in outrage. A scuffle began and was moving away from his position.

Walt tried to stay calm, systematically freeing himself from the prison of his sleeping bag and crumpled tent. At last he was able to find the zippers and peel himself out. He managed to extract his pistol belt from the mess but before he could draw he froze at the sight of man and boar dancing in a circle, Gerbald hacking away at the boar's thick hide with his Katzbalger shortsword as the boar tried to aim its tusks into his gut. The thing was a true monster, weighing at least seven hundred pounds and was nearly eight feet long! Walt had heard of boar hogs even bigger down in places like Texas and Florida but to his eyes the creature they faced was utterly huge. Gerbald lost his footing in the deadly dance and the boar was able to get a shot in; its enormous head caught Gerbald at the waist with the top of the snout, narrowly missing connecting with its wicked tusks. Gerbald was flung eight feet through the air, landing hard against the side of a tree. The boar lowered its head for a charge, Walt realized Gerbald was stunned and wouldn't be able to dodge in time. The next thing he knew he was shouting and jumping up and down.

"Yeaaaaah! Over here, you sumbitch!" The boar turned with an angry snort, its attention now on Walt's ruckus. It was a great gray fell beast looming in the moonlight like a thing out of legend. Walt instinctively turned and ran; there was no time to draw. He had never hunted wild boar but he knew they were hard to kill head on, their thick flesh made a formidable shield. There was a scraggly looking birch tree a few yards ahead of him with some low branches; it was the only option he had to get clear of the charge. Behind him came the thunder of hooves, the drum beat of death on his very heels. The tree was in reach and he jumped, scrambling up into the branches with best speed, slowed by the pistol belt held tightly in one hand. Beneath him he felt the ground shake as the angry beast passed beneath seconds later. Walt scrambled higher, yelling like a madman to keep the boar's attention on him, hoping Gerbald would recover. A mad boar could be a man-killer as deadly as a bear or tiger. The boar skidded to a halt in the fallen leaves, angling around for another pass.

Walt somehow managed to get his pistol belt buckled on and the weapon drawn and cocked. He was only around eight feet off the ground and found himself wishing strongly for a bigger tree; he could feel his perch swaying beneath his weight. The boar had made its turn and was now coming fast, straight at his refuge. Walt drew a bead as carefully as he could, how could anything so big move so fast? He squeezed off a shot aimed at the eye but the bullet landed in the thing's meaty shoulder-it didn't even slow down. Cursing, Walt braced himself with his free hand; the boar slammed into the tree's small trunk with a mighty crack. Walt's stomach lurched as he felt the tree tipping backward, he lost his grip and fell gracelessly to the ground, concentrating on keeping the pistol in his grasp and pointed away from himself more than on making a comfortable landing. He impacted hard on his left side, keeping the gun above his head as stones and roots beat him savagely while he rolled. Once he came to a stop he saw a blurred figure shoot past, scarlet-stained silver caught the moonlight- Gerbald was charging the beast, shortsword raised high.

Walt found his feet again as Gerbald closed on the boar, which was somewhat stunned by the impact of its charge. This time Gerbald jumped onto its back and buried his blade deep through its thick hide behind the shoulder blade. With an ear-splitting squeal the great boar shook its head, trying to dislodge its unwanted passenger. Gerbald hung on tight to the hilt of his sword, twisting it and digging deeper into the enraged creature's flesh, his expression one of grimmest determination. Walt noticed Gerbald's ubiquitous mustard colored hat had fallen off and it made the retired soldier look strangely vulnerable. Gerbald and the boar were in a stalemate, the boar showed no signs of weakening despite the blood oozing from the sword wound, but Gerbald was unable to get his weapon clear for another stroke without being thrown off and put back in the path of those tusks.

The sight broke Walt free from his shock. He strode confidently toward the struggling pair, holding the Smith amp; Wesson in a firm two hand grip. He approached from the side, the enormous creature was too busy trying to buck off Gerbald to notice him; Walt knew its eyesight wasn't too good. The great boar stopped its thrashing for a moment as Walt came in close, a beady black eye focused on him in the phantom light. Walt aimed and fired at a distance of two feet: The shot went directly through the eye. The creature heaved and bucked one more time then collapsed with a jarring thud as Gerbald jumped free. They stood staring at the now lifeless beast that had nearly killed them both, breathing hard in the chill autumn night.

At last Gerbald looked over to Walt, who still stood with his pistol aimed at the massive head. "Nice shot. Very Dirty Harry." Gerbald said with a pale grin.

The battle ended around three in the morning but there was no way they were going back to sleep, hot adrenaline still coursing through their veins. Walt stoked up the fire and Gerbald made some coffee, which they both drank with heavy doses of Walt's moonshine. They often glanced over at the still mass lying nearby, as if to make sure it didn't get up and move again.

At last Gerbald stood up slowly, favoring his sore back; they were both battered and bruised by the encounter. "Will you indulge an old German hunter before we begin to prepare the boar for travel?" Walt nodded affirmative. "Bring your hat, please, Walt."

Walt extracted his Grantville Roughriders baseball cap from his fallen tent. Gerbald waited for him beside a spruce tree. With his still bloody shortsword he cut off a blue needled twig of three inches. He led Walt over to the fallen boar. Leaning over the enormous head Gerbald daubed the needles with blood from beneath the boar's bullet-punctured eye. His movements were tender and spoke of a deep respect for the fallen animal; even though it had nearly killed them both it was due this. Walt was beginning to understand the German tradition of the hunt and thought of some hunters he knew back home who treated their kills as a kind of joke… it was only themselves they degraded, he now understood.

Gerbald took the bloodied twig and beckoned Walt to come to him. He looked Walt in the eye solemnly. "Walt, this was your kill. I now give you the Schutzenbruch or 'shooter's branch.' Please lower your head." Walt obeyed and Gerbald gently tucked the twig into the braided gold colored cord stretched across the top of the bill. Walt straightened.

"You were a hunter of America before, Walt. Now you are a hunter of the Thuringerwald. Waidmann's Heil! "

" Waidmann's Heil! " Walt answered, feeling pride grow in him. Hail great hunter of the Germanies!

With still an hour to go before dawn Walt looked at the giant boar, and then looked at the big buck. He looked at the giant boar again, then looked at the big buck again.

"Uhh, Gerbald, how are we going to get all this meat back to Grantville? I mean, just the buck we could've handled, but now we've got King Hog here."

"Not to worry Walt, it is quite simple. First we must do more work on our kills, removing most of the larger bones. Once we have done this the load will be sufficiently lightened. Then we will make a sled from branches and drag our prizes back down the valley. We need not return over the ridge we came in by, there is another road at the end of this valley, much closer. Once there we shall hire a passing wagon, there is always someone on the road willing to make a few extra dollars. We shall be back home enjoying pork chops before you know it!"

"You make it sound so easy."

"It won't be…"

It was brutally hard work. In fact, it was a back-breaking son of a bitch and it took them half the damn day to drag their prizes the two and a half miles downhill to the road, but they got there, sweating and exhausted. Not long after a local farmer wandered by in a rickety wagon to stare white faced at the massive head of the boar; now he knew what had killed his favorite dog last year and was happy to take the job. Loading the kills on was a further heavy task and the weight threatened to break the rather tired old wagon, but they slowly made their way back to Grantville, arriving just before dusk. They paid the farmer with a hefty quarter of bacon and a still shiny 1987 dime that Walt had found in his pack. Their prizes now proudly displayed on the front yard's grass, they went in to get Crystal.

"Good lord! You killed a wooly mammoth!" Crystal exclaimed when she saw the great boar's head in the front yard. Several passersby stopped to gawk and admire it.

"You're pretty close, but no trunk."

"And what's this? Hell's bells, it's a moose! Look at the antlers on that thing!"

"I think it's some kind of elk. Gerbald calls it a Rothirsch."

"My heavens, all this will feed an army."

"We can freeze some of it here and some at your uncle's place and I want to give some to my dad… and my mom. I think she'd like some of the bacon. We can salt cure some as well, and make jerky." Walt was actually starting to salivate as Gerbald prepared his knives for a further proper butchering. He looked up at Walt and Walt thought he saw a glimmer of pride there, the pride a man has in a younger man who has been his student.

"So, Walt, since you made the kills, the heads are yours."

Crystal looked at the gigantic boar head, its tusks bared in a rather sinister grin, then at the majestic tree of the stag's rack.

"Oh no, don't even think it." Crystal's copper pigtails swayed as she shook her head emphatically. Walt was starting to grin.

"You know, I've always thought that it would be pretty cool to have some trophies on the wall of my den."

"You don't have a den yet! There is no way, Walt. Just forget it!"

"But honey, it's a German hunting tradition. Please, we must be respectful of traditions."

Crystal fumed and fussed, regarding the giant animal heads with a mixture of fascination and disgust. Walt and Gerbald were now deep in council, discussing the merits of various taxidermists while Crystal looked helplessly at the dead beasts she would soon be sharing her home with.

A few of weeks later Crystal found herself looking at the boar and stag's stern visages as she sat in her living room. Walt had tucked a blood-stained sprig of pine needles behind the boar's ear and told her not to remove it. Men, as it turned out were the strangest creatures of all.

Walt came out of his room carrying a rectangular box and headed for the front door.

"Where are you going, honey?

"I have a little something for Gerbald, a thank you for the hunting trip. I'll be back in a while."

"No problemo, darlin'. I'll just set here with Porky and Bullwinkle for company."

Walt found Gerbald in the sunflower field that filled his mom's front yard, doing some digging.

" Waidmann's Heil, Walt! " he cried out cheerfully, stopping his work.

" Waidmann's Heil, Gerbald! " Walt answered in kind.

"Here to see your mom?" Gerbald asked with a raised eyebrow, a hopeful expression there.

Walt flushed a little. "Well, maybe I'll go up and say hello for a minute." This brought a pleased glow to Gerbald's weathered face which made Walt feel kind of good, too. "Actually, I came to see you. I have something for you, a thank you for the hunting trip." Walt handed Gerbald the heavy box.

Gerbald looked at him with surprise, feeling the weight. He carefully opened it to reveal an unusual gun, somewhere between a rifle and a pistol. Gerbald looked at Walt in surprise.

Walt pointed at the weapon.

"It's a Snake Charmer, a shotgun with a pistol grip. It's compact, lightweight and portable, good for backpacks… or, in your case, coat pockets. I bought it a few years back in my gun craze phase. It's a great weapon but I hardly ever use it. I want you to have it."

Gerbald gave a solemn bow. "My young friend, it is a kingly gift but I surely cannot accept. You must keep this wonderful gun for yourself and your future sons; your friendship is quite enough thanks for me."

"I thought you might say that, Gerbald. How about this, then? I want you to use it to protect my mom."

Gerbald reflected on that, holding the small shotgun reverently in his hands.

"I haven't forgotten the things you told me up in that valley. What my mom is doing to protect the environment is… important. A lot of people aren't going to want to hear it. She's going to make enemies. I'm really, truly glad she has you watching her back. Use this for her."

Gerbald nodded. "I am honored to serve her and honored to do so with her son's excellent gift."

"Thanks, Gerbald. Ya know, don't let this go to your head or anything, but… you really do kind of remind me of Clint Eastwood."

The older man's face glowed like sunlight. "Really? I do hope we can have a Hollywood soon, I would so very much like to be in a movie."

Walt laughed and pointed at the gun. "Okay, show me what you got, Clint."

Gerbald's eyes narrowed and he lifted the Snake Charmer out of its box, holding it with a deft grip in his right hand. He looked like a supreme bad-ass, even with that crazy Cat in the Hat lid.

"This is my gun, Clyde."

Walt clapped his approval.

"You know, I think you've had a big hand in helping my mom find her purpose here, Gerbald. I'm still looking for mine; I guess I still have a ways to go. Meanwhile, let's go hunting again soon. Maybe you and I could make it a tradition."

"So we shall Walt, a fine tradition indeed. Waidmann's Heil! "