Chapter Six: Hunting Roe Deer

The underbrush was low and tangled with scattered branches, ready to snap and rustle at the slightest disturbance. Fortunately, after a heavy snowfall, the starving animals were preoccupied with foraging.

Pushing aside the weeds within the thicket, a few figures emerged in the nearby forest clearing.

Several roe deer!

Roe deer are social creatures, typically forming family groups consisting of a mother and her fawns. This particular group was no exception—a mother doe frantically digging through the snow, nibbling on the grass pressed close to the earth, accompanied by several young ones.

Likely driven by hunger, the deer had yet to notice Zhang Tiejun’s presence.

A surge of joy welled up in Zhang Tiejun’s heart; opportunities like this were rare.

Quietly, he raised an old-fashioned flintlock hunting rifle, steadying it at waist height. This distance was just at the edge of effective range; hitting the target depended entirely on his aim.

Yet, Zhang Tiejun did not point the muzzle at the largest doe.

For a hunter, the act of hunting was undoubtedly a means of survival, not a burden to bear. But above all, a hunter must adhere to certain principles.

Loading the old flintlock took nearly two minutes per shot, and once the gun fired, the deer would scatter immediately—meaning Zhang Tiejun had only one chance.

If he were to kill the mother, the fawns would soon perish as well. Yet to wipe out the entire group would pose a logistical challenge: did he have the means to carry hundreds of pounds of meat back?

The fawns’ tender meat was more than enough to simmer a hearty stew.

Through the iron sights, Zhang Tiejun focused on the nearest fawn, holding his breath, his right index finger poised lightly on the trigger. He extended his tongue slightly to gauge the wind’s speed and humidity.

Just a second before he squeezed the trigger, the sound of a bird’s wings fluttering echoed through the woods, drawing the deer’s attention unexpectedly.

With no choice left, the shot had to be fired.

Bang!

A burst of white flame erupted from the muzzle, smoke wafting along the barrel, the acrid stench of gunpowder filling the air. The powerful recoil sent a sharp ache through Zhang Tiejun’s slender shoulder.

He glanced toward the source of the shot: a cloud of blood mist rising as a fawn collapsed instantly.

But Zhang Tiejun did not rush to retrieve the prey. Instead, he swiftly reloaded the powder and bullet. This was to guard against any sudden wild animal attacks and also to shield himself from the painful gaze of the fleeing deer.

As expected, the old flintlock, lacking rifling, caused the bullet’s trajectory to waver. Though Zhang Tiejun had aimed at the head, the wound was to the neck.

The small deer writhed in agony, its limbs thrashing as it whimpered on the ground. The smooth bullet had pierced through its fur and Achilles tendon, severing a major blood vessel. Fresh blood poured forth like a spring, its eyes reddening with hemorrhage. By the time Zhang Tiejun reached its side, the fawn had already breathed its last.

Gently, Zhang Tiejun patted the fawn’s belly, a gesture of respect for the fallen creature.

Unexpectedly, the mother doe turned back and approached.

Curiosity was a hallmark of roe deer, yet Zhang Tiejun refrained from further action. Today’s catch was sufficient.

After driving the deer away, Zhang Tiejun dragged the carcass to a spot upstream along a small creek.

It was nearly noon.

“I must hurry, or I won’t make it in time,” Zhang Tiejun murmured, wiping sweat from his brow.

For a hunter, pulling the trigger was the simplest task; the real challenge lay in processing and transporting the animal.

Taking out his heirloom dagger, Zhang Tiejun carefully sliced along the fawn’s abdomen. Warm blood flowed freely, and the still-beating heart pumped fresh life through its veins. The sharp blade cut through fur and skin, quickly revealing a complete pelt in his hands.

Next came the innards. He kept the heart and the prized “roe deer whip,” discarding the rest several hundred meters away beneath a large tree. Normally, these offal were valuable nourishing ingredients, but processing them required ample spices and cooking oil—commodities scarce for the Zhang family at present.

He placed the remaining meat in the cold creek water, letting the flowing stream wash away the blood and gamey scent. This made it easier to carry the meat back to the Qiao family store.

Watching the water clear gradually, Zhang Tiejun heaved the carcass out with some difficulty. But cutting through the bones proved laborious; unfamiliar with the anatomy, he lacked the finesse of a master butcher and several times found his dagger stuck deep between the joints.

He gathered a few sturdy leg bones and tossed them into his basket—prime ingredients for nourishing broth.

Weighing the rest of the meat, it came to around twenty to thirty pounds. After dividing it into evenly sized portions, Zhang Tiejun hoisted the basket onto his back and pressed onward.

A clever rabbit has three burrows.

Zhang Tiejun had no intention of putting all his eggs in one basket. To turn the Kanto Mountains into his granary, he needed to prepare for every eventuality.

The fawn was merely an appetizer; his true quarry was a moose, known locally as a “big mad bull.”

Bearing the heavy load, Zhang Tiejun threaded his way through the vast forested snowy plains. Near dusk, he finally located a natural cave marked on his leather map.

The Kanto Mountains stretched thousands of miles, dotted with countless caves—some bottomless, others winding and labyrinthine. What Zhang Tiejun sought was a safe haven.

A hunter wandering deep in the mountains could hardly expect to return home daily; solitude in the wild also invited the threat of predator ambush.

When Zhang Tiejun found this cave, he was pleased: its six-foot-wide, eight-foot-high entrance could block large beasts like bears. The empty meadow before it offered clear sightlines, and the kettle-shaped interior could comfortably shelter seven or eight people. Most importantly, it was a solitary cave.

Relieved to have found refuge, Zhang Tiejun let out a breath. Night was falling. With his portable fire striker, he quickly kindled a campfire, its warm flames illuminating the entire cave.

He threaded strips of meat onto a rope, suspending them over the fire on tree branches to smoke and dry.

This was the Sichuan method of curing meat—coating pork with coarse salt and spices, then smoking it over pine leaves to preserve it for a year.

Now, Zhang Tiejun had neither salt nor spices, but roe deer meat was less dense than pork, so the smoking time could be shorter. Though the flavor suffered, having meat to eat was a blessing in itself under the circumstances.