Such a good opportunity—how could David Thompson let it slip by? All his fatigue vanished. He took out an arrow, drew the bow to its full length in one motion, and released his fingers. The feathered arrow shot toward the roe deer like a meteor.

Wild roe deer in the mountains are known for their foolishness. Though they run fast, they rarely make sharp turns. Luck was on David Thompson’s side: with a muffled thud, the arrow struck squarely beneath the roe deer’s hindquarters, penetrating deep into its chest and abdomen.

“Moo!” The fleeing roe deer let out a plaintive cry and slowly collapsed to the ground. David Thompson was overjoyed, grabbed his bow, and ran forward. It was early autumn, and the wild game in the forest had fattened up all spring and summer, with thick, fatty meat. Dragging such a large roe deer back to his uncle’s inn would surely provide a signature dish for half a month. If he skinned the roe deer and sold the hide to a wealthy family for boots, he’d easily make another twenty or thirty coins.

Just as he bent down, preparing to grab the roe deer’s forelegs, a sudden chill swept through his heart. David Thompson jerked his head up and saw a wolf the size of a donkey slowly emerging from the woods, its green, ghostly eyes fixed on him.

“Ah!” David Thompson cried out in fright, straightened up, and nocked an arrow to his bow. Though he came from a lesser branch of the family, he was still a respectable young man, usually well cared for and with little experience hunting alone in the mountains. He had never even heard of such a large wolf, let alone encountered one face-to-face.

When meeting a wolf, the worst thing is to turn and run. David Thompson knew this rule by heart, but in this moment of crisis, his hands refused to obey. The arrow wobbled on the bow, up and down, unable to aim at the wolf’s head. The wolf drew closer step by step, about to crouch on its forelegs. David Thompson, scared out of his wits, let an arrow fly.

The arrow shot past the wolf’s head like a meteor and struck the ground half a foot deep with a “thud.” The beast was startled, let out a low, angry growl, scraped its front paws on the ground twice, then leapt into the air, lunging straight for David Thompson’s throat.

At this moment, David Thompson could no longer bother with aiming. He drew another arrow and shot it immediately. As soon as the arrow left his hand, he threw aside the bow, pulled out his self-defense dagger from his waist, and swung it wildly with his eyes shut. After flailing for a while, he felt no pain and heard no sound from the wolf. His heart, which had nearly leapt out of his chest, calmed a little. He mustered his courage and cracked his eyes open a sliver, vaguely seeing a long trail of blood on the ground—the donkey-sized wolf had already vanished without a trace.

Damn it, what kind of trick is that beast playing on me? David Thompson cursed loudly, rushed a few steps forward, and ran to a large tree as thick as two people’s arms. He pressed his back to the trunk, guarded his neck with the dagger, and spun around suddenly. To his surprise, the wolf hadn’t circled behind him for a sneak attack, as the stories said. In the vast forest, there was nothing but the shadows cast by the setting sun. The sound of autumn cicadas occasionally echoed from the branches, mixed with his own heavy breathing.

David Thompson could hardly believe that his wild flailing had actually scared off a fierce wolf. He circled around with his dagger several times, and only when he stepped on his horn bow lying on the ground did he believe he was truly out of danger. He spat angrily on the troublesome bow and raised his foot to smash it, but after lifting his leg, he smiled and slowly put it down.

“This thing is worth three strings of coins!” David Thompson said fondly, picking up the “treasure” that had nearly cost him his life and putting it back in the quiver on his back. “I’ll sell it to Zhang’s Little Five for four strings another day—he never hits the target anyway!”

Looking back at the roe deer, he saw it was already stone dead. Blood from the arrow wound in its belly had turned black, spreading in a large pool on the ground. Looking closely, he noticed a huge, deep scar on the roe deer’s hind leg, exposing the bone—clearly the work of that fierce wolf. Even if David Thompson hadn’t shot it, it would have bled to death soon enough.

“So that beast was mad at me for stealing its meal—no wonder it came after me!” David Thompson finally understood why a wolf had appeared just after he shot the roe deer. Thinking of his brush with death, his heart still pounded wildly. The mountain wind blew, making his skin prickle all over. He reached out and found his clothes were already soaked with cold sweat, clinging damply to his body.

Seeing the sun about to set, David Thompson dared not delay any longer. He walked to the roe deer and tried to hoist it onto his shoulder. His arms trembled and dropped weakly—his whole body was sore and limp, unable to muster any strength.

“Could that beast have guessed I wouldn’t be able to carry my prey down the mountain, so it didn’t bother to fight me for it?” David Thompson thought bitterly. Deep in the mountains, there was no hope of anyone coming to help. After a moment’s thought, inspiration struck. He cut a few branches and vines with his dagger and made a sled. He rolled the roe deer’s body onto the sled and tied one end of the vine to the sled, the other to his own shoulder.

“Heave!” David Thompson shouted, stepping forward. The sled creaked as it was dragged, slowly sliding along with his pull. After stumbling a few steps, David Thompson felt the wild grass under his feet slipping. Looking down, he saw a trail of blood on the green grass, slanting upward and pointing into the distant dense forest.

“Could it be that, in my panic, I wounded that beast with my arrow?” David Thompson wondered in surprise. Curiosity gave him a bit of strength, and his heart felt less faint. With his courage restored, he began to covet the wolf.

Wild animals shed their fur in spring and autumn—one season to lose fluff, one to grow it. So autumn pelts are the most valuable. Such a large wolf pelt was worth more than two bushels of wheat. Thinking of bringing the wolf pelt home and seeing his mother’s smiling face, David Thompson grew even bolder. He covered the roe deer with some branches, grabbed his dagger, and followed the blood trail into the woods.