We gather in the shadows, just inside the tree line, studying the verdant fields that slope gently down and away. We are positioned downwind – lest our prey should catch our scent and bolt.
There are three of them in the field and we wait – patient. If we are fortunate, and take all three, our people will feast for days.
Peckham fingers the tips of his arrows testing the points as he waits.
Melinda plays with her blade, balancing it on the tip of her finger.
I stand still and watch; my spear leaning against the tree, within easy reach.
Grass fed game is our preferred diet but, desperate times call for desperate measures. The hunt has been lean these last few years and most of the remaining big game animals have now migrated south and won’t return until spring.
We will eat the gatherers. We will eat the farmers.