Page 27 of Shoshone Sun

“They come,” Flying Arrow whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat as he watched. There, at the edge of the clearing, a lone wolf stepped into the moonlight, its fur gleaming black and silver. It sniffed the air, ears flicking back as it tested the wind. Then, another appeared, and another. Soon, five wolves emerged from the woods.

Peter tensed, his rifle raised in preparation, but Flying Arrow’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Wait,” he said quietly. “Let them come closer.”

The wolves crept toward the bait, their bodies low to the ground. Their eyes were fixed on the meat scattered in the snow, their senses alert. Slowly, they moved into the funnel, a silent, deadly parade.

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, but he trusted Flying Arrow. The trap would work. It had to.

The wolves were nearly there. Another step and one would cross the trigger line.

Then it happened. The pack leader, a large, black male, stepped forward and—

SNAP!

The trap sprang to life. The noose tightened around the wolf’s leg with a sharp jerk. The animal howled in pain and panic, but it was too late. The snare held fast.

The other wolves froze, their yellow eyes wide with shock. Meanwhile, their leader snarled and yelped, struggling to free himself, but the trap had seized its prize and wasn’t letting go. The snared wolf thrashed violently, but Flying Arrow was already moving, his rifle steady in his hands. He shot two of the band in quick succession and then when the remaining two ran beyond the rifle’s range, he ended the life of the trapped wolf. Peter’s breath caught as Flying Arrow aimed and fired—one bullet to the leader’s head, quick and clean. The wolf collapsed, dead in an instant.

The trap had done its work. The two remaining pack members that had escaped would not return.

Flying Arrow lowered his rifle, his face unreadable as he surveyed the dead animals. “Three down,” he said simply.

Peter exhaled in relief, his hands shaking as he lowered his rifle. “You did it.”

Flying Arrow nodded once, and then turned to Peter, his voice low and steady. “I hated to kill these magnificent animals, but it is necessary to kill to survive sometimes. Now we finish.”

Peter watched as Flying Arrow approached the first wolf, kneeling beside it with the skill of someone who had killed many times before. The process was swift—cleaning the carcass, taking the fur, and preparing the meat for the homestead. Peter followed suit, joining him.

As they worked, the first hints of dawn began to break across the horizon, a pale light spilling over the snow.

“We’ll have food for the winter now,” Peter said, his voice quiet, his face set in a scowl.

Flying Arrow grunted in agreement. “If worse comes to worst, the wolf meat can be eaten. But eating it would be a final resort to avoid starvation. Tomorrow … we will hunt caribou.”

The two men worked in silence, side by side, as the night turned to day.

The next morning, Jane took the opportunity to speak with her sister. Susan had been on edge since the day Jane had left, her worry mixed with anger and frustration. But as Jane sat down next to her by the fire, the unspoken tension that had built between them began dissolving, bit by bit.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said softly, her voice heavy with the weight of their past. “I should’ve understood your fear. I should’ve realized how hard things must have been for you, how afraid you were.”

Susan’s eyes softened, and after a long silence, she reached for Jane’s hand. “I’m sorry too. I was scared. I didn’t want to lose you or Peter ... or … or … Petey,” she finished, as if the thought of losing her son was too hard to even put into words.

Tears welled up in Jane’s eyes as she squeezed her sister’s hand. “We’ll be all right. We’re family, Susan. We’ll always be.”

And in that moment, with the fire crackling softly between them, the divide that had once separated them seemed to completely melt away, leaving room for something far more powerful: the quiet, steady bond of love.

Chapter Fourteen: The Hunt

- Peter Jacobs Homestead, February 1867

Ninety miles west of Fort Laramie –

The morning air was crisp and biting, the sun barely cresting the horizon as Peter Jacobs gathered his gear. His homestead, still scarce and struggling against the elements, was quiet except for the faint rustling of snow in the wind.

Flying Arrow stood at the edge of the cabin, waiting for Peter to finish his preparations. The Shoshone brave was tall and lean, his dark hair tied back in a long braid that swayed with the wind. His clothes were simple—tanned deer hide moccasins, a fur-lined coat, and a well-worn bow strapped to his back. He had already shown Peter how to trap the wolves to protect his animals, but now, Flying Arrow would teach him another important skill.

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