A Different Flesh by Harry Turtledove

way also, the scout realized. A herd this size would surely draw wolves and spearfangs to prey on stragglers. Kenton smiled in anticipation. He would prey on them.
    â€œLet’s get some meat,” Kenton said matter-of-factly. Charles nodded and slipped off the trail into the trees. The scout followed. He could just as well have led; the sim and he were equally skilled in woodscraft. But he would not go wrong letting Charles pick a spot from which to shoot.
    Once away from the trail, the scout felt as though the forest had swallowed him. The crowns of the trees overhead hid the sun; light came through them wan, green, and shifting. Shrubs and bushes grew thick enough to reduce vision to a few yards, but not enough to impede progress much. The air was cool, moist, and still, with the smell of earth and growing things.
    Steering by the patterns of moss and other subtle signs, Charles and Kenton reached the clearing they had spied in the distance. It was even larger than the scout had thought, and full of buffalo. More entered by way of a game track to the north that was wider than most Virginia roads; others took the trail south and west out.
    Charles picked a vantage point where the forest projected a little into the clearing, giving Kenton a broad view and a chance to pick his target at leisure. “Good job,” the scout murmured. Charles wriggled with pleasure at the praise like a patted hound.
    But Kenton knew there was more to the sim’s glee than any dog would have felt. Charles’s reasoning was slower and far less accurate than a man’s, but it was enough for him to understand how and why he had pleased the scout. People who treated their sims like cattle or other beasts of burden often had them run away.
    Kenton shook his head slightly as he aimed at a plump young buffalo not thirty yards away. If Charles wanted to flee on this journey, he had his chance every night.
    The flintlock bucked against the scout’s shoulder, though the long barrel of soft iron reduced the recoil. Buffalo heads sprang up at the report; the animals’ startled snorts filled the clearing. Then the buffalo were running, and Kenton felt the ground shudder under his feet. If the sound of the beasts’ hooves had been distant thunder before, now the scout heard the roar as if in the center of a cloudburst. Charles was shouting, but Kenton only saw his open mouth—his cry was lost in the din of the stampede.
    The cow the scout had shot tried to join the panic rush, despite the blood that gushed from its shoulder just below the hump and soaked its shaggy brown hair. After half a dozen lurching strides, blood also poured from its mouth and nose. It swayed and fell.
    Several other buffalo, most of them calves, were down, trampled, when Kenton and Charles went out into the clearing, which was now almost empty. The scout took the precaution of reloading—this time with a double charge—before he emerged from the woods, in case one of the buffalo still on their feet should decide to charge.
    Crows and foxes began feasting while Charles was still cutting two large chunks of meat from the tender, fat-rich hump. Soon other hunters and scavengers would come: spearfangs, perhaps, or wolves or sims. Kenton preferred meeting any of them on ground of his own choosing, not here in the open. He drew back into the woods as soon as Charles had finished his butchery. They got well away from the open space before they camped, and Kenton made sure they did so in a small hollow to screen the light of his fire from unwelcome eyes.
    After he had eaten, he wiped his greasy hands on the grass, then dug into his pack for his journal, pen, and inkpot. He wrote a brief account of the past couple of days of travel and added to the sketch map he was keeping.
    As always, Charles watched with interest. Talking marks ? he signed.
    â€œAye, so they are.”
    How do marks talk ? the sim asked, punctuating the question with a pleading