M
Muirgen
Guest
Pat shook his head as he watched the hunter stalk away, laughing softly through his nose when he tossed the deer carcass on the table. He knew the hunter by face, not by name. Pat was pretty bad with names, but the guy didn't seem to be much in the way of 'sociable' anyway so he didn't count it some great failure on his part anyway. He shrugged.
His attention was for Wade, whose name he actually did know. Good kid really, just took himself a little too seriously, stuffed full of all the insecure pride that only a lost, hurting and rage-filled teenage kid could stomach. Flipping off the hunter like that? There was no need - the remnants of their caravan desperately needed this venison. The only thing that kept Pat from good-naturedly cuffing the boy upside the head, was the fact pride was all some of them had left.
"C'mere Wade," Pat called as he easily lifted the deer carcass from the makeshift table, carrying it to the side of their makeshift 'kitchen.' He smiled at Wade, as easily as he manhandled the dead animal. "I'm gonna show you how to field dress a deer." The kid peered up at Pat from beneath a fringe of light brown hair that probably should have been cut weeks ago, just to keep the possibility of vermin out of the caravan. Curiosity warred with suspicion in the kid's dark brown eyes, and in the end curiosity won.
Wade wasn't squeamish at all, and Pat didn't really expect him to be. There wasn't a single caravan survivor who'd been spared the sight of blood or carnage, all the way down to the youngest among them. He showed Wade how to hold the front two legs around the pasterns pulled taut and straight, to stretch the deer's torso wide as Pat kneeled between the back legs, using the weight of his knees to keep them wide. Pat's low voice was warm, congenial even as he used his grandfather's Ka-bar to slice away organs and open up the abdomen carefully, ensuring the meat wasn't spoiled – precious meat they really needed, that could be used in stews, roasts, even dried into jerky or ground into sausage. Nothing of the venison went to waste. The heart went straight to a pot of boiling water, and would be cubed and possibly even pickled with wild onion later if they had the time. The liver would be fried up imminently, the iron rich organ meat set aside for the youngest among the caravan survivors, or the women who might be pregnant. Even the femur bones would be cracked for the marrow inside, sliced and pan roasted in the bone.
It wasn't easy work, but Pat was patient and thorough, and in absolutely no hurry to get rid of Wade. And by the time the deer was ready to be bled out, the kid was almost smiling, something very like accomplishment in his expression now, his irritation with the hunter completely forgotten.
Pat hadn't forgotten him though. The hot water was boiling steadily, and he let the venison heart slip into the pot over the campfire.
"You might want to go easy on the cooks." The giant man grinned at the hunter with a sidelong glance, shrugging his massive shoulders. The guy looked like hell, exhausted, and Pat decided to go easy on him too. "They're the ones who're going to be making that deer edible – or at least, making sure your meal is."
His attention was for Wade, whose name he actually did know. Good kid really, just took himself a little too seriously, stuffed full of all the insecure pride that only a lost, hurting and rage-filled teenage kid could stomach. Flipping off the hunter like that? There was no need - the remnants of their caravan desperately needed this venison. The only thing that kept Pat from good-naturedly cuffing the boy upside the head, was the fact pride was all some of them had left.
"C'mere Wade," Pat called as he easily lifted the deer carcass from the makeshift table, carrying it to the side of their makeshift 'kitchen.' He smiled at Wade, as easily as he manhandled the dead animal. "I'm gonna show you how to field dress a deer." The kid peered up at Pat from beneath a fringe of light brown hair that probably should have been cut weeks ago, just to keep the possibility of vermin out of the caravan. Curiosity warred with suspicion in the kid's dark brown eyes, and in the end curiosity won.
Wade wasn't squeamish at all, and Pat didn't really expect him to be. There wasn't a single caravan survivor who'd been spared the sight of blood or carnage, all the way down to the youngest among them. He showed Wade how to hold the front two legs around the pasterns pulled taut and straight, to stretch the deer's torso wide as Pat kneeled between the back legs, using the weight of his knees to keep them wide. Pat's low voice was warm, congenial even as he used his grandfather's Ka-bar to slice away organs and open up the abdomen carefully, ensuring the meat wasn't spoiled – precious meat they really needed, that could be used in stews, roasts, even dried into jerky or ground into sausage. Nothing of the venison went to waste. The heart went straight to a pot of boiling water, and would be cubed and possibly even pickled with wild onion later if they had the time. The liver would be fried up imminently, the iron rich organ meat set aside for the youngest among the caravan survivors, or the women who might be pregnant. Even the femur bones would be cracked for the marrow inside, sliced and pan roasted in the bone.
It wasn't easy work, but Pat was patient and thorough, and in absolutely no hurry to get rid of Wade. And by the time the deer was ready to be bled out, the kid was almost smiling, something very like accomplishment in his expression now, his irritation with the hunter completely forgotten.
Pat hadn't forgotten him though. The hot water was boiling steadily, and he let the venison heart slip into the pot over the campfire.
"You might want to go easy on the cooks." The giant man grinned at the hunter with a sidelong glance, shrugging his massive shoulders. The guy looked like hell, exhausted, and Pat decided to go easy on him too. "They're the ones who're going to be making that deer edible – or at least, making sure your meal is."