America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 9 Camping outside Fort Worth

The embers of the setting sun turned the horizon a reddish-brown, and sparks from the crackling campfire mingled with the smoke, swirling and rising in the deepening twilight.

The iron pot hanging over the fire bubbled and simmered, the salty aroma of stewed meat mixed with the raw smell of beans forcefully assaulting everyone's nostrils.

"Coffee?" Margaret lifted the lid and stirred the broth, steam smearing half her face as she glanced at Tom, who had just washed himself in the river and changed into a clean coarse cloth shirt.

Tom shook his head, grabbed the tin cup, poured half a cup of hot water, and then pulled off the liquor pouch at his waist. The amber-colored whiskey drew a proud arc, creating a scorching vortex in the hot water.

He lifted the wine bag and shook it, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Who wants it?"

Elsa took it, first pouring a little into her own coffee, then pouring it into everyone's cups, except for John.

The five-year-old boy clung to Margaret's knees, staring longingly at the wine bag.

In this cannibalistic wasteland, whiskey is the lifeblood burning in the veins of the pioneers.

It can paralyze frozen bones and can also be poured into wounds to kill cholera bacteria.

If Tom remembers correctly, it has a 68% kill rate against cholera bacteria, according to data from an experiment conducted at the University of Kansas in 1881.

The night wind carried the smell of alcohol, and a loach lying under the old oak tree suddenly raised its head, its nostrils flaring rapidly.

The mule sprang to its feet as if electrocuted, pawing the ground a couple of times in agitation, but ultimately didn't dare approach Tom's feet; it still hadn't cleared the mud it had just shaken off.

Tom sneered and downed a mouthful of strong liquor, the burning sensation spreading from his throat to the bottom of his stomach.

In the distance, the loach's ears drooped into two dejected arcs, its head slammed heavily back onto its front hooves, and its eyelids were tightly closed, as if trying to block the alluring aroma of wine from another world.

"Tom, you're on night watch for the first half of the night, I'll take over for the second half!" James sipped his whiskey.

"No!" Tom's voice was firm and resolute!

"You'll exhaust yourself. You're the boss, you need to save your energy for dealing with the troubles during the day. The rules need to be changed: Elsa stays until midnight, then it's me, I'll stay until four in the morning. The very last shift is yours, Dad."

James and Margaret shook their heads almost simultaneously.

"We can't do this..." Margaret whispered.

“We’re in the wilderness, every step we take is a matter of life and death!” Tom argued, the firelight illuminating his young but determined face. “You have to be alert during the day. Me? I can catch up on sleep in the wagon. We’re family! Right, Elsa?”

"Yes!" Elsa nodded vigorously.

This was the first time Tom had made such a forceful decision.

The only sound in the camp was the crackling of the campfire.

Margaret's eyes reddened, and she reached out to hug Tom and Elsa tightly. "The children... are ours..."

"Don't say that, we're family!" Tom interrupted her, bending down to add some firewood to the fire.

The flames suddenly shot up, illuminating his tense jaw.

On the road to pioneering the west, those who go it alone don't survive long!

James remained silent for a moment, then slowly nodded, which was taken as acquiescence.

Late at night.

Elsa sat by the fire wrapped in a blanket, her little head nodding off.

The campfire gradually died down.

suddenly!

Tom, clutching a short knife, appeared silently behind Elsa like a shadow.

Elsa was jolted awake. Turning around, she saw Tom with his arm raised high, the blade gleaming coldly as he slashed down!

"ah--!"

A piercing scream shattered the tranquility of the night sky!

The tent flap was suddenly flung open, and James and Margaret rushed out.

The sight before them chilled them to the bone: Tom stood before Elsa, who was deathly pale, clutching a blood-dripping dagger!

James's hand swiftly gripped the handle of his gun at his waist, his mind still racing.

Tom moved!

With a flick of his wrist, the short knife flew out of his hand and slammed into the ground with a whooshing sound!

Beneath the blade, a venomous snake with its gaping maw, poised to pounce, had its head pinned down. It twitched twice and then fell silent! Elsa finally snapped out of her daze and screamed as she threw herself into Margaret's arms.

"Dad, this sulfur powder of yours probably won't work!" Tom muttered as he shoveled dirt.

James had just kicked the snake's severed head and body into the deep pit under the tree roots and was using the tip of his boot to push the soil in.

He straightened up, squinted at Tom, and his boot heels stomped over the loose soil around the ditch. "Kid, where did you learn that skill..."

Tom was completely rooted to the spot, as if nails had been driven into the ground, and he didn't move an inch!

But his inherent toughness instantly overwhelmed his panic.

"You know," he said, his voice low, his gaze fixed on James's face, "I've been a sickly child, skinny as a stick, and had no friends!"

"But you protected me, you managed to keep me from rotting in the ground..."

"Tom, you are our child!" James said firmly.

Tom nodded vigorously.

When he first opened his eyes in this body, the original owner was suffering from dysentery to the point of being unrecognizable.

He was thankful it wasn't smallpox, and even more thankful he had survived.

"As for these skills?" Tom's lips curled into a wild smile. "They're self-taught, yes, self-taught. James, haven't you noticed that the men of the Dutton family are all incredibly brave?"

He stepped forward, his voice like sand being sharpened on a knife: "There are only two kinds of men in this world: men of the Dutton family, and... other junk!"

"I'm proud of the Dutton name!" Tom stared intently at his father. "And you, James Dutton? As a man of the Dutton family, are you ready to lead the family to glory?"

"Get a good night's sleep, Dad!" he said, turning and disappearing into the darkness.

James stood rooted to the spot, his chest feeling like it was stuffed with a wad of soaked felt.

"I didn't mean to get involved," Claire's voice suddenly emerged from the shadows, sharp and barbed.

"Margaret is trying to appease Elsa; you two haven't come home yet." She paused, her gaze sweeping over James like a knife. "Well, well, the Duttons' 'real men'! I wouldn't be surprised if some woman popped out of the woods tomorrow with a child claiming to be your grandson!"

James let out a muffled thud: "A man of the Duttons wouldn't do such a thing!"

Claire snorted coldly, didn't look at him again, and turned to walk straight towards the campfire.

Tom was abruptly pulled from his sleep by a commotion in the early morning.

He rubbed his sleepy eyes, yawned, and crawled out of the tent.

What came into view was a group of unfamiliar people, busily unloading trucks.

Men, women, and children mingled among them, each face etched with the fervent anticipation of life in the "New World." They were a group of European immigrants who had crossed the ocean, willing to abandon everything from their homeland for the legendary freedom of the West.

Tom knew, however, that beneath this fervent hope lay countless bones along the pioneering path.

Just as he was feeling a bit wistful, he caught a glimpse of Elsa waving at him from a distance, a mischievous smile on her face.

Look in the direction she's pointing.

There was his own blue mule sprawled out under the shade of a tree, its belly rising and falling, snoring loudly!

The water bag next to it, which should have been bulging, was now shriveled up like a rag and lay limply in the dust!

Tom's face instantly turned a deep liver color, a surge of anger rising to his head. He opened his throat and roared like thunder:

"You damn mule! You fucking blew up all my liquor!"