~// Tuesday, March 27th, 1842

Fawnfold flicks his ear, he lifts his rifle quietly and slowly, he aims confidently before shooting. The vulture drops dead, blood pouring into the dusty dirt. He picks up the bird, plucking a few feathers and dragging the carcass back to camp, leaving it on a log of wood near the fire. Before putting down his gun into his tent, made of animal hides and sticks tied together.