Page 28 of Shoshone Sun

Peter fastened the last strap of his coat and approached the Shoshone man with a feeling of both anticipation and uncertainty. He had learned to trust Flying Arrow in their battle against the wolves the night earlier, and the idea of hunting with him was exciting. Peter knew that the Shoshone were skilled hunters, deeply connected to the land and the animals that lived there, a world Peter had little understanding of.

Flying Arrow met his gaze, his eyes steady and calm. “You ready?” he asked in a soft, measured voice.

Peter nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With a brief nod, Flying Arrow turned, mounted his horse, and started into the snow-covered hills, Peter following closely behind. The snow crunched beneath the horses’ hooves, the landscape white and quiet around them, save for the occasional gust of wind. Peter was still getting used to the solitude of the land, the silence that stretched for miles in every direction. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Hours passed in tense silence as they moved deeper into the forest, the landscape dotted with pine trees and the occasional cluster of low shrubs. Flying Arrow rode with an almost supernatural grace, his pony gliding over the snow as if it were part of the earth itself. Peter struggled to keep up, his horses’ hooves sinking deeper with every step, but he was determined not to fall behind.

After what felt like an eternity of riding, Flying Arrow paused, his head turning slightly to the left. Peter watched him closely, noting how still the man became. He followed his gaze, squinting into the distance.

A lone caribou stood near a grove of pines, its dark coat blending almost seamlessly with the shadows of the trees. The animal was grazing, unaware of the two hunters observing it from afar.

Flying Arrow dismounted and crouched low to the ground, motioning for Peter to do the same. Peter, his heart racing, dropped to a crouch beside the Shoshone man, his breath coming out in shallow bursts as he tried to control his nerves.

“Quiet,” Flying Arrow whispered, his voice barely audible.

Peter nodded, his pulse quickening. The caribou, though unaware, seemed to be moving slowly, almost peacefully. It was the perfect opportunity, but Peter wasn’t sure he could make the shot. He was definitely not a skilled marksman or hunter. He hesitated to raise his rifle, instead, looking at Flying Arrow, silently asking for help.

Flying Arrow didn’t wait for Peter to speak. He simply pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it in his bow with practiced accuracy. His hands were steady, his eyes never leaving the caribou.

Peter watched, amazed, as Flying Arrow took a deep breath, drew the bowstring back with a fluid motion, and released the arrow.

The missile flew through the air with a sharp hiss, and before Peter could even register the sound, it struck the caribou cleanly in the chest. The animal staggered but remained on its feet for a moment, its head twisting as it searched for the source of the attack.

Flying Arrow was already on the move, his body flowing like water as he darted toward the fallen creature. Peter, stunned, stood frozen for a moment before his mind caught up with the events happening around him. He scrambled to his feet and hurried after the Shoshone brave.

By the time he reached Flying Arrow, the caribou had collapsed into the snow, its breathing shallow but still steady. Flying Arrow knelt beside the animal, placing a hand on its head, murmuring something in Shoshone—words Peter couldn’t understand but felt the weight of. He had seen Flying Arrow do this before, with the wolves that had been killed on the homestead. He realized that it must be a way of honoring the animal’s spirit, acknowledging its sacrifice.

“Now,” Flying Arrow said, standing and backing away from the animal, his voice quiet but firm, “you kill.”

Peter nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Raising his rifle, he delivered a shot to the animal’s head, killing it instantly.

Peter had seen animals butchered before, but never with the kind of reverence Flying Arrow brought to the task. Slowly, Peter knelt beside the caribou, watching carefully as Flying Arrow unsheathed a sharp knife.

“Cut here,” Flying Arrow instructed, pointing to the caribou’s throat with the knife’s tip.

Peter hesitated, but the Shoshone man’s steady gaze gave him the courage he needed. He placed his hand on the knife’s hilt and followed Flying Arrow’s motions, slicing through the tough skin and muscle with slow, deliberate movements. Everything seemed to move smoothly, without hurry or panic—just a quiet, respectful process.

Together, they worked in harmony, removing the innards and preparing the caribou for the journey back. Flying Arrow demonstrated how to skin the animal, carefully peeling away the fur to reveal the soft, warm flesh beneath. Peter’s hands trembled at first, but he soon found his rhythm, the steps coming naturally under Flying Arrow’s quiet guidance.

When the work was done, Flying Arrow tied the meat securely, preparing it for transport, and loading it onto the backs of the horses. As they made their way back toward the homestead, Peter couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. The hunt had been a success, yes, but it was more than that—it was an experience that had changed him.

He had seen the world through Flying Arrow’s eyes, and in doing so, had learned not just how to hunt, but how to understand the land, the animals, and the delicate balance between life and death.

When they arrived back at the cabin, Susan and Jane were waiting outside for them.

Susan rushed to Peter, her face pale and tired but smiling at the sight of the packed caribou meat. “You did it,” she said, her voice soft with relief. “I knew you could.”

Behind her, Jane smiled at the men, her heart lifting at their success. “Good job!” she said. “Now we won’t go hungry.”

Peter sat at the cabin’s kitchen table, though his thoughts were still on the hunt, still lost in the quiet, sacred space of the woods. He glanced at Flying Arrow, who was now preparing the meat for cooking.

“I couldn’t have done this without Flying Arrow,” Peter said, his voice rough with emotion.

The brave nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “We hunt together. We survive together.”

And in that moment, Peter understood. It wasn’t just the hunt that mattered—it was the connection, the bond formed between hunter and prey, between man and man. And perhaps, in some ways, it was more than just survival—it was about learning to live with the land, to honor it, and to respect the animals that shared it with them.

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