A Different Flesh by Harry Turtledove Page B

break free and the spearfang to hold it in place with front legs and claws. At last the spearfang found the grip it wanted. Its jaws gaped hugely. It sent its fangs slashing across the buffalo’s throat. Blood fountained. The buffalo gave a final convulsive shiver and was still. The spearfang began to feed, tearing great hunks of dripping meat from the buffalo’s flank.
    Kenton swung up his musket, glad he had a double charge in the gun. Luckily, the spearfang was exposing its left side to him. He released the set trigger, took a deep breath and held it to steady his aim, touched the second trigger.
    His flint and gunpowder were French, and of the best quality; only a farmer would use Virginia-made powder. Along with the twin triggers, they ensured that the musket would not misfire or hang fire.
    The spearfang screamed. It whirled and snapped at its flank. But the wound was not mortal, for the spearfang bounded into the woods the way it had come.
    â€œOh, a pox,” Kenton said; the shot had struck too far forward to pierce the heart. He paused to reload before pursuing the big cat. He was not mad enough to follow a wounded spearfang armed only with a brace of pistols.
    As he had been trained, Charles trotted ahead to find the trail. Kenton soon waved him back to a position of safety; the spearfang had left a blood-spattered spoor any fool could follow.
    That overconfidence almost cost the scout his life. Once in the forest, the spearfang doubled back on its trail. Kenton did not suspect it was there till it burst from the undergrowth a bare ten yards to his left.
    Those yawning jaws seemed a yard wide, big enough to gulp him down at a single bite. He had not time to turn and shoot; afterwards, he thought himself lucky to have got off a shot across his body, his musket cradled in the crook of his elbow.
    With a lighter gun, he probably would have broken his arm. But one of the reasons he carried a five-foot, eleven-pound rifle was to let him take such snap shots at need. Because of its weight, it had less kick.
    The spearfang pitched sideways as the ball, which weighed almost a third of an ounce, slammed into its face just below a glaring eye. An instant later, Charles’s hatchet clove the beast’s skull. Kenton thought his bullet had already killed it, but was honest enough to admit he was never quite sure. His narrow escape made his hands shake so much he spilled powder as he reloaded, something he had not done since he was a boy.
    Charles had to set a foot on the spearfang’s carcass to tug his hatchet free. He used it and his knife to worry the fangs from the cat’s upper jaw, handed Kenton the bloody trophies.
    â€œThanks.” The scout wiped his sweat-beaded forehead with the back of his hand. “That, by God, is £5 I earned.”
    The sim shrugged. With his simple wants, money meant little to him. Ever practical, he signed, Good meat back there .
    Here in this unexplored territory, £5 was of no more immediate use to Kenton than to Charles. The scout nodded, made his wits return to the business at hand. “So there is. Let’s get at it.” He and the sim walked back toward the buffalo the spearfang had killed.
    Kenton made a semi-permanent camp near the salt lick, building a lean-to of branches and leaves for protection against the warm summer rain. He went back to the lick for both deer and buffalo, and added three more sets of spearfang teeth in less hair-raising fashion than he had collected the first.
    The hunting was so easy it required only a small part of his time. He ranged widely over the countryside, adding to his map and journal. The more he traveled, the richer he judged the land. Not only was it full of game, but the rich soil and abundant water were made for farming.
    Sometimes Charles accompanied him on his journeys, sometimes he went alone. The sim traveled too, though not as widely as Kenton. Often he would bring back to camp small game he had slain