"Do we still have a chance to hunt deer?"
Night had fallen at the pre-arranged campsite. Simple tents had been pitched, and the men had stowed their guns. Several campfires burned, simmering with fragrant venison soup. The atmosphere was split: some were high-spirited, others tense.
"We should have a chance," Zhao Zhan said, trying to lift spirits. "Tomorrow, after we get up, we'll stay around here until noon. If we haven't caught anything by then, well… we were just unlucky."
Jiang Hai smiled and removed the stem from a mushroom, slicing it carefully before tossing it into the simmering pot.
Don't mistake this mushroom for an ordinary one—it was a rare wild fungus, scientifically known as Boletus. These were expensive even in markets, especially wild ones. Alongside them, Jiang Hai had gathered other delicacies—porcini mushrooms, monkey head mushrooms, matsutake, and more. The aroma of venison combined with these wild mushrooms made his mouth water.
Unfortunately, most of the group were sighing and complaining. Their frustration was understandable—they hadn't managed to hunt any deer.
Yesterday, after a full day of tracking, the group had encountered a herd of around sixty deer. Twenty men had fired at the herd, and yet only three deer had been hit. Jiang Hai chuckled quietly. Without the three days of training, they might not have even managed that. Regardless of who had landed the shots, those three deer belonged to their assigned hunters.
The police had cut off the deer heads and sealed them for specimen preparation. About thirty pounds of meat had been taken from each, with the carcasses tossed into the forest. Predators weren't a concern—the group was well-armed, and even if shooting wasn't their forte, there were still twenty guns among them.
Even if a pack of hundreds of wolves appeared, they were 99% certain to escape unscathed. Humans were the most disruptive force in the forest—and besides, there were no real wolves here, only coyotes and foxes, which posed even less danger.
After butchering the deer, the group returned to camp around 4 p.m., pitching tents, fetching water, lighting fires, and cooking the venison. By evening, the campsite was alive with activity.
Unlike outside the forest, the moon was hidden here, leaving the night dim and mysterious. Jiang Hai and his group prepared the food, while Zhao Zhan and a few other uncles who were on friendly terms with him sat nearby. At the other campfires, some men boasted about having hit deer, while those who hadn't caught anything were silent or grumbling.
"Ugh, this is so frustrating!" one uncle exclaimed. "I had a chance! My bullet hit him in the butt, but he was unharmed! Damn it!"
Zhao Zhan felt the sting of disappointment. Before the hunt, he had assumed it would be simple: spot the prey, aim, and fire—like the shows on TV. But now he realized it wasn't that easy. Animals weren't stupid, and even experienced hunters had little luck if their first shot didn't hit a vital spot.
This is why hunting required rifles. A skilled hunter could aim for a vital area, hitting the deer effectively with a single shot. Of course, any meat around the impact site—full of pellets or damaged by the bullet—had to be discarded, as it was inedible.
"If only I'd chosen a rifle!" one uncle sighed, shaking his head.
"If I don't hit anything, I'll sign up again as soon as we get out," another vowed earnestly. Two others echoed him, but many simply groaned.
They were only here for a week or two, and five days had already been mostly wasted. Another five wouldn't guarantee success. If they wanted another chance, they'd have to wait—and who knew when that would be?
"You won't be able to register again immediately," Jiang Hai said after a pause, deciding to tell the truth. "You've been in the mountains, your physical strength is drained, and you'll need a few days to recover at home. Even if you're eager, it's unlikely you could register in less than a week. Also, this opportunity doesn't come every year. Autumn hunting only happens in autumn—once it snows, the mountains are inaccessible. In spring, everything comes back to life, and Americans don't hunt. Summer is for the cubs. Next autumn… we can't guarantee the same opportunity."
Hearing this, the men's spirits sank.
"Sigh…" The uncles fell silent. After dinner, they retreated to their tents. Jiang Hai and Bell followed suit. The three policemen took the night watch, while Jiang Hai simply helped maintain order.
The night passed uneventfully, though occasional wolf howls echoed in the distance. Whether it disturbed anyone was unclear; judging by the steady snoring, most were too exhausted to notice.
At six a.m., dawn's first light pierced the leaves, illuminating the clearing. Jiang Hai and the others were already awake. After a quick wash and brush of teeth, the older men stirred as well. Today, they could split into four groups and search the area—this was their last chance to hunt deer.
After a simple breakfast, Jiang Hai and Bell led Zhao Zhan and five other elders into the distant forest. Jiang Hai walked at the front, Bell at the rear, and the five men continuously scanned the area with their rifles.
Perhaps the forest spirits were on their side. After about thirty minutes, Jiang Hai raised his hand, signaling everyone to stop. He had heard the movement of a large herd. Zhao Zhan and the others froze, eyes fixed on Jiang Hai.
Using a large tree for cover, Jiang Hai parted the tall grass and peered through. A herd of deer grazed ahead.
As state officials had predicted, the deer population in the Appalachian Mountains had become quite bold. This herd wasn't far from the campsite—they certainly had guts.
Jiang Hai counted the animals: roughly twenty adult deer and a dozen fawns. He waved to Zhao Zhan and the others, who crouched low and crept forward.
The excitement was palpable. Yesterday, they had assumed hunting was simple; today, they had learned to be careful. Their hands trembled slightly as they gripped their guns.
"When aiming, go for the neck," Jiang Hai instructed. "Your rifles, besides the neck, lungs, or heart, won't cause fatal wounds elsewhere. You can't see the lungs or heart, so don't even think about shooting the legs. Hitting the thighs or calves won't stop them. Deer move while grazing—they need to shift to another patch of grass. You've only trained for three days; hitting a leg from fifty meters away? Forget it."
The men nodded and dropped to one knee, carefully aiming at their assigned deer. Once everyone was ready, Jiang Hai gave the order.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Five shots rang out in quick succession. The deer scattered instantly. Zhao Zhan and his team fired continuously, emptying a five-round magazine—but not a single deer was hit.
They stared in disbelief. What was going on? Who had said rifles were so powerful?
"Heh… nothing we can do this time," Jiang Hai muttered. Watching them, he shook his head. They held the rifles to their shoulders and squeezed the trigger, paying no mind to recoil or proper aim. Real rifles were nothing like a video game. Precision and control were essential—skills these men simply hadn't mastered.
This wasn't their failure—they lacked the technique. And who could they blame for that?
(To be continued.)