NOVEL NEXT chapter 6 - I’m Still Hungry
The next day.
Departing early in the morning, the group finally caught up with the long line of wagons stretched across the Oregon Trail by midday.
The Oregon Trail ran from Missouri in the Midwest to Oregon at the western edge of the continent.
Before the construction of the transcontinental railroad, it was the main route for settlers heading west.
Conall looked at the endless train of wagons and said,
“Are they all going to California?”
“Some might be headed for Oregon. Or maybe they’re Latter-day Saints heading for the Great Salt Lake.”
At their exchange, Max silently gazed at the caravan.
Go, go West!
The Gold Rush had faded, yet the flow of people toward the frontier only grew.
Especially the Latter-day Saints—commonly called Mormons—who fled westward for years to escape discrimination and persecution.
The city they established in Utah, Salt Lake City, would later become the headquarters of the Mormon faith.
As Max rummaged through the knowledge in his head—
Bang! Bang!
Gunfire cracked from somewhere ahead, snapping his nerves to attention.
“Most of the time, folks shoot rattlesnakes.”
The vast prairie teemed with snakes and grasshoppers.
Perhaps thinking of the time Max had thrown a knife to kill one, Conall snickered.
“Where you coming from?”
Every traveler asked the same question.
“California.”
“Then why’re you heading back?”
“Got business.”
They were people chasing dreams of striking it rich.
There was no need to spoil those hopes with grim truths. James’s answer was wise.
“Hey, isn’t that a coolie?”
“Sure looks like it. Heard a bunch of Orientals went to California—guess that was true.”
The reactions to Max varied from curiosity to contempt.
Can’t let them see me as easy prey.
Max didn’t look away from their eyes, giving off the air of a man who could draw his gun at any time.
Trouble comes when you look weak.
When you look strong, people quietly back off.
They had families, dreams, and long journeys ahead—too much to lose.
No one wanted to risk it all picking a fight with some lone Oriental who had nothing to lose.
As dusk approached, the emigrants formed circles with their wagons, building a wall for protection from Indians or wild animals. Inside those rings they cooked, rested, and slept.
If one didn’t belong to a larger wagon group, one had to camp a little apart from the others.
“Mom, don’t we have any meat?”
Conall whined at Mary as she prepared dinner. Somewhere nearby, the smell and smoke of roasting meat drifted through the camp.
“Where do you expect meat to come from all of a sudden?”
“It’s been two months of bread and beans!”
At that, Max nodded in sympathy.
Tiny bits of bacon hidden in bread.
And even that bread was scarce. Ever since coming west, he’d been hungry almost every day.
The smell of roasting meat was almost unbearable.
I want to eat until I burst.
Eat well, grow strong—that’s how the body rebuilds.
But his emaciated frame showed no sign of recovery.
How was he supposed to train his strength like this?
Now that I think about it, to eat and sleep well, you need a home first.
Past life or now—
money ruled everything.
If anything, it was worse this time.
How was he supposed to escape this state of starvation in the so-called land of opportunity?
Wouldn’t mind if some wanted man with a fat bounty showed up right now.
A jackpot on the prairie.
Sure, it meant killing to earn the bounty—but who cared about the quality of money? Quantity was what mattered.
First things first—fill my stomach.
The plains were crawling with American bison—buffalo.
The Harris family, just four people, could only watch others hunt.
But Max had had enough.
Tomorrow, I’m hunting, even if I have to do it alone.
Late the next day, with the sun dipping low, Max spoke to Mary.
“Mind if I borrow your rifle?”
“What for?”
“To hunt buffalo.”
“By yourself? You ever done that before?”
“...No. First time.”
Mary gave him an incredulous look.
“It’s dangerous. Spook one and it’ll charge—those horns can kill. And that’s not all. Wolves hang around the herds.”
Still, he had to get meat.
“I have a method.”
“There just... is one.”
“Oh! So we’re finally getting meat? Even Max couldn’t hold out anymore!”
Seeing Max’s confidence, Conall clapped and cheered.
Mary glanced at her husband.
James nodded, and she handed over the rifle.
A month together—and now they trusted him enough to lend a gun.
“You know how to use it?”
“Of course.”
Without suspicion, Mary also gave him five paper cartridges and a handful of percussion caps.
Though she didn’t say it, her eyes were just as hungry for meat.
Meat is the truth.
Taking the rifle, Max left the group and rode about two kilometers until he spotted a herd grazing in the open.
It was hard to believe that these countless buffalo would one day face extinction.
No wolves in sight... good.
He dismounted and examined the rifle.
Model: 1852 Sharps rifle.
A rifled musket—breech-loading, firing a conical Minié-type bullet with grooves.
As for loading...
“...Ah.”
Eyes narrowing, Max tugged down the trigger guard.
The breechblock dropped open, revealing the chamber—and inside sat a grease-soaked paper cartridge.
“So that’s how it works.”
Clack.
He snapped the guard back up, closing the breech.
Pulled the hammer back to full cock, fitted a percussion cap onto the nipple.
Then he aimed at a lone buffalo grazing away from the herd.
Roughly two hundred meters.
He pressed the stock to his shoulder and steadied his breath.
Target: the chest.
He squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
A heavy kick.
The smell and smoke of black powder.
Gunfire echoing across the plains.
And the buffalo kept chewing grass.
“...”
Max looked up at the sky.
“Getting meat sure isn’t easy.”
He sighed, pulled the guard again, reloaded another round.
That alone took a while.
Clack.
After the second reload, he stared down the sights again.
A capable sniper doesn’t blame his weapon.
That same precision that once guided his modern rifle must still live in his hands.
Unity of mind and gun. I am the gun, and the gun is me.
He whispered the mantra, finger tightening on the trigger.
BANG!
Thud.
The bullet punched clean through the buffalo’s chest.
“Guess I’m just born for this.”
A touch of smugness crept in.
Since he’d found the rhythm, it felt wasteful to stop now. He practiced on a distant cactus until all six shots were spent.
Satisfied, Max smiled, roped the fallen buffalo, and tied the line to his horse.
He’d read that, ten years later, hunters would slaughter a hundred buffalo a day.
Even now, the herd barely reacted—
just kept grazing as if nothing had happened.
Like monks who’d reached enlightenment, unmoved as their companion was dragged away.
****
BANG!
“That makes six shots, doesn’t it?”
Mary crossed her arms and snorted.
She wasn’t far enough away to miss counting.
With that last gunshot, she let go of her remaining hope.
“Guess no meat for us tonight.”
Conall sulked, and James scratched his head as he worked on the wagon.
“Maybe Max isn’t much of a marksman. If nothing else, I’ll go hunting tomorrow.”
“It’s dangerous. And you have to guard the wagon.”
Travelers moved in groups for good reason—
protection from beasts, raiders, and bandits.
The Harris family alone couldn’t handle all that.
Mary pouted and fetched the black-powder tin, starting to make more cartridges.
Wasting six bullets for nothing!
Even her bullets carried her irritation.
She was sure Max had failed.
And then—
With the sunset at his back, Max appeared.
Mary puffed her cheeks, glaring. Conall, meanwhile, squinted toward the dust rising behind him. As the shape drew closer, the object trailing °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° the horse came into focus.
“O-oh! That’s a BUFFALO!”
Conall shouted, Mary blinked in disbelief, and James straightened his back.
Rifle slung over his shoulder, Max dragged the buffalo behind him—
a picture-perfect hero.
“Better start dinner, then.”
Mary hummed a cheerful tune as she grabbed the pot and knife.
Nearby emigrants murmured to one another—
the “coolie” had hunted a buffalo.
****
As always, the area around the trail was dotted with wagon circles and groups sharing meals.
Max butchered the buffalo, slicing off lean cuts, rubbing them with sugar, salt, and pepper for curing, and tying strips to dry beside the wagon.
Emergency rations—check.
Hisss.
Fat dripped onto the fire.
The meat on the skewer sizzled, soon to fill their bellies.
Turning the spit, Max was utterly focused.
“Salt.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Pepper.”
“Yes, sir!”
When Max held out his hand, Conall placed the seasoning on it.
Mary and James watched with delight.
Then—
“Looks like too much for just four of you.”
Three Mexican men approached the fire like hyenas.
Max’s eyes flicked over them in an instant.
One wore a wide-brimmed sombrero and poncho, rifle on his shoulder.
Another pulled his coat aside to show off the revolver at his hip.
And the last—
“Wouldn’t you know it, we’re out of food ourselves. We’d appreciate your generosity.”
—tipped his hat toward Mary as if he were some gentleman.
James’s face hardened; Mary, not wanting trouble, offered a chunk of meat.
“This should be enough. Take it.”
“You’re kind, ma’am. But how are we supposed to eat this without a woman like you to cook it?”
So what, you’ve been starving all this time?
Mary frowned, and to make matters worse, the men sat right down among them.
“Meals are meant to be shared, no? Especially when a beautiful lady invites us—how could we refuse?”
That line made my skin crawl.
The meat shriveled on the fire as Max’s hands and feet did the same.
Mary trembled with fury.
James’s hand crept toward his gun.
Then—
BANG! BANG!
Two shots blasted into the air.
One of the men pointed his smoking gun at James’s head and shouted loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Try anything, and you’ll watch your family die screaming. We’re not that generous.”
James grimaced, fury twisting his face.
Nearby, other settlers armed themselves—but only to protect their own.
In the West, you couldn’t count on anyone’s sense of justice.
No one would help.
It was up to James’s family—and Max.
Conall hid behind his father’s back.
Max studied the three Mexicans with a strange expression.
Three bandits in ponchos.
Where have I seen them before...
Then his eyes lit up.
The Five Joaquins Gang.
At last—the prairie jackpot.
A band with fat bounties on their heads.
He’d even seen their photos in books and California museums.
They’d killed dozens of Chinese laborers, even white men, robbing and murdering across the state.
California had created the Rangers just to hunt them down.
That one—he’s Joaquin Murrieta.
He spotted the leader among the three:
curly hair, round eyes, a mustache, and the air of command beneath his poncho.
So they fled California after the Rangers drove them out.
As Max ran through their history in his head, one of the gang caught his eye.
“Huh? What’s this?”
An Oriental among a white family—now that was something new.
The man tilted his head at Max in curiosity.