Dead Man's Gold/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
on mogollon mesa
THE storm-cleared atmosphere was wonderfully crystalline as dawn broke in Stone Men Cañon. The four men breakfasted scantily and with difficulty made their way down the remnants of the trail. The narrow confines of the ravine had given the torrent its greatest power and the place was no longer recognizable. Not a tree was left standing. Most of them had entirely disappeared. Great masses of rock had been shifted, gravel scooped up, and mud and silt smeared everywhere. Where the ravine opened to the main cañon a great barrier had been piled up where the uprooted trees had interlaced. Buzzards were wheeling in the clear sky. But there was no visible trace of the Apaches.
"It's settled things in more ways than one," said Harvey. "Ye see, it's a hundred to one none of 'em escaped. Storm came too sudden an' too hard. Somewhar' down the main cañon thar's a mess o' horseflesh and human meat. Look at the buzzards. Our burros is thar, what's left of 'em. Now, figger it out. Course the dead Indians 'll be missed, but I doubt if much of the truth of the yarn ever comes out. Thet hamstrung chap may or may not hev' bin toted back to the reservation. I figgered he might be, in the first place but, come to think of it, they would be in a hurry to get to the reservation an' they might not have bothered with him. They ain't got much o' the milk of human kindness about 'em concernin' a wounded man, 'cept to save his scalp, mebbe. The bunch up on the reservation 'll shet theur mouths, 'cordin' to my experience. The so'jers 'll figger out thet the cloud-burst wiped out the whole outfit, includin' whoever owned the burros, if we don't make a roar about it, an' I don't see no sense in our doin' thet. The Agent 'll send in a long report an' thet'll end it, 'cept thet the tribe 'll be closer herded after this.
"Main p'int is, thet the coast is cl'ar for you to go on with yore gold-seekin' expedition after you git outfitted up ag'in. From the looks of things the cloud busted jest this side of the canon head an' the trail to the mesa's likely cl'ar. I'd say make for the crick marked on the map an' git down to the Verde Valley to refit. We may come across that T. B. camp. It's the shortest way out an' the easiest goin'. But we got to start now. Our grub 'll only last jest so long as fuel ter keep us in action. We got to git medical 'tention fer thet arm an', if we kin locate thet camp, we'll reach a doctor quicker."
Healy's arm had swollen badly over night. The heat was bound to induce blood-poisoning if any symptoms appeared, which seemed likely. It pained him considerably and he was not chary of expressing his feelings. He viewed Larkin with especial malevolence, though the Cockney had done all he could to help him.
"It's all one to me," he said. "It's up to you fellows to take care of me. I'm quite precious, if you're goin' to find that gold. You and Larkin wouldn't come through with your information, Stone. Now I'm the one to get hurt and I'll tell you right now, if I croak, what I know goes with me. So it's up to you to see me through."
He grinned as if in some twisted appreciation of a hidden jest. To Stone, noticing the crimson puffiness of the swollen forearm, the sardonic humour seemed to smack of delirium. And he resented Healy's suggestion that they would take better care of him because he represented to them the first of the three keys they held to unlock the treasure-chest of the Mogollones.
Stone Men Cañon narrowed swiftly to the apex of its V, the stream disappearing where it issued from the base of a basaltic formation that seamed the limestone and strutted it, explaining why the creek waters were not impregnated with lime but were sweet, or, as Harvey called it, aqua buena.
"And this is the last we're likely to git of it for a while," he said. "Drink all ye kin an' fill the canteens. I don't see thet pool with the petrified men in it, but I figger it's somewhar along them terraces. Trail goes up thet way. We ain't got no time to spare huntin' it up. Got to git as fur as we kin while the grub lasts. Thar's some hike ahead of us."
Half way up the cliff showed a series of terraces marked with what suggested guano. Stone guessed it to be the mineral deposits from the overflow of springs. The head of the cañon looked like a modernist scene-painter's ideal of the entrance to an inferno, lacking only steam to complete the illusion. The stream itself ran for a way in a rock-chute of its own carving and its irrigating possibilities had no scope. There was no blade of grass, no leaf, not even cactus. Below, the devastated ravine showed like a raw gash. All about them the burned-out rocks were piled in a confusion of strata that mocked all order and displayed all the colours of the rainbow. The cliffs were rent into splits filled with purple shadow, eroded into ledges, pyramids topped by sandstone caps fantastically carven by the weather. Here and there tilted dykes were thrust up fin-fashion, suggesting staircases, and everywhere crude reds and yellows and greens heightened or faded into pinks and orange, crimson, lavender, and gray, in contrast with the white dazzle of limerock.
The trail was hard to make, harder with Healy, who had to be bolstered and helped by his one good arm, lifted and levered along, while the sun grew higher and hotter and the rocks, which they were forced to clutch in the steep pitches, became scorching to the fingers. The weight of their canteens, their weapons, and their cartridges grew insupportable. Healy's guns they shared between them,
"I move we 'ide the bloomin' rifles, hanyw'y," suggested Larkin. "We can dig 'em up w'en we come back this w'y."
After some debate his motion carried, though they reserved a revolver apiece and a fair supply of cartridges. Already they could tell that every ounce of extra weight was going to count before they won through.
"You won't be so hungry after the first meal or two you miss," said Harvey. "We got enough backy to last through an' thet means a lot."
"Sure," said Larkin, satirically. "Nothin' hin the world for workin' hup the happetite like starving. Fine cure for hindigestion. Look at what's ahead of us. If goats made this bloody trail they was crossed with heagles, that's hall I got to say."
They had come to one of many similar places where the path was faced with the naked rock for several feet of smooth wall. To one man alone the way would be impractical yet there was the indisputable evidence that here was a pass to the mesa, or from it, long used by animals; goats surely, coyotes probably, and mountain lions. Larkin mounted on Stone's shoulders and scrambled to a higher footing, then Healy was boosted up by Harvey over Stone's living ladder while the Cockney, reaching down, hauled the wounded man up by main force, assisted by Stone and Harvey from below, thrusting him with grips about his ankles. Save for keeping his legs stiff, Healy made no attempt to help himself. He acted as if he was a pack of priceless merchandise that must be treated tenderly, nor did he spare suggestions as to his comfort, cursing Larkin in particular until the latter turned on him.
"A little more of that, my bucko," "Lefty" said, finally, "and hall the gold in the bloomin' world hain't goin' to stop me from droppin' you where you'll fall the 'ardest and the furthest. Tyke that from me."
Healy essayed a jest but was careful not to go too far in words after that. The very strength that Larkin displayed in uphauling him was calculated to emphasize his ability to carry out his threat. Stone gave his back to the Cockney for the mounting of the rocky slide that had called out his special indignation and Larkin stuck his stubby fingers into a crevice, chinned himself, managed to get a knee over the edge, and disappeared for the moment.
"I've found the stone men," he called down presently. "It's a rum sight. 'And up 'Ealy, an' 'urry yerselves."
From the ledge he had gained they looked down upon a series of bowls, the shape of half saucers, built up and out from a long slant of the cliff. The rims were white as marble and the water within them purest ultramarine. Some dozen of these nested about a pool next to the cliff from which welled the main supply of the water that gently rippled over the edges of the parent pool to supply the rest. Into the depths of the main cistern Larkin pointed.
"You got to shade yer heyes," he said. "It must be hall of twenty or thirty feet deep and they're right at the bottom, side by heach. See 'em?"
"It was impossible to determine accurately the features or even the racial colour of the two shapes that showed dimly in the bowl like the forms of two great lurking fish. The hue of the water coloured them to a deep blue, the angle at which they were forced to gaze prevented the fair view that might have been obtained from the cliff, lifting perpendicularly above them, impossible of access from the trail. The two figures lay with composed limbs, stripped of all clothing. There was the suggestion of a beard on one of them that indicated the impossibility of the body being that of an Indian. Shadow lay half across the bowl and they within its influence. Undeniably the outlines were those of humanity. Undeniably they were coated or subtly impregnated with lime that had defied decomposition. Apparently they had fallen, or had been tossed, from the very edge of the mesa itself, two hundred feet above the pool. They might have been there for ten years or a hundred. They might stay there for a thousand, if undisturbed.
"They ought to be given Christian burial," said Harvey. "Some day I'm comin' back here with ropes and git them out of thar. Scelped, both on 'em.'
"You've got better eyes than I have to make that out, Harvey," said Stone.
"Take a look. You can't see any hair atop of their heads, kin ye? An' one's got a beard thet shows plain enough. Men of the plains an' deserts used to wear their ha'r long them days. Didn't thet young chief say these was here when he was a kid? The ha'r 'ud show. They might both on 'em be bald, but I doubt it. Scelped an' chucked inter the pool for the devilment of it. Stripped naked, ain't they? Reg'lar Indian work. I'm goin' to see 'em buried soon's I'm able."
"I'm in with you on that," said Stone. "I've got an idea I may know who they are. May be able to guess at one of them, anyway."
Harvey looked curiously at him but said nothing. "We can't do it this trip, thet's sartain," he said. "We got to be movin'. Come on." He stood with his head bared to the hot sun, looking down on the remnants so strangely preserved. Larkin and Stone followed suit but Healy, after a short look, had leaned up against a boulder that was in the shadow. The long pull and haul had nearly exhausted him. His face was drawn and he complained of his arm bandages being too tight. The arm had swollen steadily and the edges of the wound were purplish and angry looking.
"You'd better hurry up and get me somewhere," he said to Stone as the latter, with Harvey, bathed the arm from their none-too-plentiful supply of water. "The pain of this thing is making me dizzy and I can feel it up in my armpit. Don't you wish you'd come through with the dope when I wanted you to, Stone? Then you could leave me by the wayside when the going gets bad and I'm a nuisance, or chuck me off the cliff like Larkin suggested. Drop me into that pool with the two images. Preserve me till Judgment Day like an egg in waterglass. Why don't you do it, you fellows? It's too late for you to come through with your end of it now. Wouldn't do me any good unless I pull through. Hate me both of you, don't you, but you've got to look after me. Presently you'll have to give up your drinking water to bathe my arm. Give me two rations to one to keep my fever down. Ha-ha-ha!" he laughed, suddenly. "It's a hell of a good joke on you two, I'll say. A hell of a good joke! And it's going to be funnier presently when you'll have to carry me on your own tottering legs. "Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The laughter was hysterical and Healy's eyes were glazed with fever. Stone checked Larkin's angry stride forward.
"He's out of his head. Lefty. Don't pay any attention to him. Let's be getting on."
High noon found them on the level tableland, plodding westward along the verge of its southern cliffs that overlooked the cañon of the Tonto Fork, the Tonto Basin and, far to the south, the tumbled peaks of the Apache Mountains from whence they had emerged at Miami. To the northwest mounted one great lonesome butte, red in the pitiless sunlight, so sheerly eroded that its walls showed only faint streaks of shadow. To the north the land melted off into hazy slopes save where a faint dazzle of snow showed on San Francisco, O'Leary, and Kendrick peaks, their vast bulks reduced to mounds on this vast expanse. Cloudless sky above them, arid soil under foot, nothing in sight but desert, the water already warm in their canteens, with practically no food; they were in evil case.
As in the Basin, the only living things they sighted were not fit for food. And, as the hours went by, with the sun sapping their strength, drying drop by drop, first the superfluous, then the essential liquids from their bodies, all questions resolved themselves into the two problems of sanity and progress. Down in the Basin they had at least plenty to eat, distasteful though food had been at times. Here they had but a handful of flour, an ounce or two of bacon, saved from their last two meals that had themselves been far from ample. They had gone through the fatigue of the fight, the suspense, the facing of apparently inevitable death, and the mental strain had left them physically weaker. They were engines with little oil—which was water—and less fuel—which was food—travelling a trackless waste toward an uncertain destination.
While their strength lasted they pushed on. Once or twice they essayed to rest, but there was no shadow save that which they themselves cast, and the heat seemed twice as powerful and irritating. At noon they looked across the rounded top of Promontory Peak and the gash of Tonto Fork to the chalcedony plateau over which they had struggled three days before. Across this tableland Harvey pointed out some specks that he declared were moving, though they looked no larger than ants. Stone was apathetic to Harvey's speculations on who might be trailing toward Tonto. His lids were gummy and his eyeballs smarting and he could not make out the dots with any satisfaction as to their identity with men or pack-animals. Larkin's eyesight was no better.
"To 'ell with 'em," he said, thickly. "You carnt tell me there's other suckers enough to trail that country. It took gold to drag me hover it and I'd give hall my share of old Lyman's find to be hout of this."
As for Healy, he saw nothing. He was the best off of all of them. The fever of his wound had brought on a semi-delirium in which he gained a false strength and walked on, seemingly unconscious of the pain in his arm, of thirst, of the heat, of the threat that he had made that they would have to take care of him. It could not last long but, for the time, he set the pace with them, muttering, occasionally laughing.
Mid-afternoon saw all of them silent. In the hearts of Stone, Harvey, and Larkin, a mutual admiration of each other's endurance was strengthening, with deepening individual resolves to stay with the game. Harvey was desert-salted but he was handicapped by his years. They hung on desperately to the few morsels of food and husbanded the water until the joggling of it in their canteens became an exasperation. Slowly their tissues burned away until it seemed that their flesh gradually vanished with their energy, as sand might run out of a leaky sack. The fuel in their stomachs had served to the limit of its capacity and they travelled on fast-diminishing reserves. Their mouths seemed lined with dry cork, their tongues swelled until they began to protrude between lips blackened, blistered, bloody. All spring had gone from their walk, all flexion from their joints, and they shuffled on in single file, scuffling the loose soil, often fine as flour, irritating, alkaline. Toward twilight little puffs of wind sent this dust into erratic whirlwinds, devil-dances of the desert, threatening to rise into a simoon, blowing the tiny grains into their bloodshot eyes. The big butte seemed as far off as ever though the eastern side of it was in deep shadow. It looked like the hulk of a stranded steamer, a strange simile for that waterless plain, yet it occurred to three of them, at least, for there was a suggestion of superstructure, and a chimney of rock that came into view as they travelled showed like a funnel. The prow was toward the west to which they travelled, guided by the sun and the southern rim of the mesa, which was marked by a purple void. The stony prow flamed in the sunset as they struggled along, looking vainly for some place to shelter them against the biting cold that would come with the dark. Chance of finding fuel there was none. They hoped only for a depression in the sand where they might huddle like sheep and last out the night.
Healy, in his madness, had gone into the lead, though they hardly noticed this. Each of the other three was secretly wondering how much longer they could keep on, doggedly plowing along step after step, halting, limping, staggering toward safety; afraid of the stop that must finally come; afraid of the lowering vitality of the night, mentally rather than physically conscious of the others' presence, as if they had been phantoms.
So long as Healy did not demand assistance it was each for himself, and they had not noted whether he led or followed until he stopped and pointed to the sand with a horrid effort to articulate. But they followed the guidance of his hand and stared, stupidly at first and then with growing wonder and awe at the weird spoor imprinted on the desert floor, slightly blurred by the wind, but not obliterated. There were only four of the marks. Perhaps the breeze had defaced others—perhaps …?
The things were sharply outlined by the low rays of the sun shading the edge of the impressions. What was this trail, cloven, enormous, portentous? The first chilly breath of the night blew over the mesa and they shivered. Then a hideous cackle broke from Healy's split lips. Harsh syllables formed croakingly.
"In hell! Trail of the devil!"
Certainly the things seemed no track of anything earthly. Far or near there was nothing in sight. Snakes had glided away during their pilgrimage, Gila monsters had puffed at them, lizards run, furry spiders hopped, but the bulk of this creature must be enormous, incalculable of belief, yet indisputable. Healy's insane gabbling seemed nearest to hit the mark. Absurd as it would be in normal circumstances, in the brooding, terrible silence of this place all things seemed possible, even the cloven hoof of some supernatural monster, as if Satan himself had touched the solitude that was fittingly a part of his dominion, and winged away.
It must be remembered that all of them were at the ebb of their strength, almost automata. Their minds did not react normally to the suggestion of Healy. They stared around in fear» and once more the cold racked them as the sun poised like a ball of molten copper on the far western edge of the plateau and then slowly sank, seeming to drag the darkness down after it. The prints faded into the dusk while they gazed at them, sharp stars came but above them, and the silence seemed tangibly to press in upon them, crushing their souls.
Stone was the first to shake off the oppression. A vague idea came to him that this American Sahara, part of the Great American Desert, might harbour some relic of antediluvian days. It was absurd, this thought. He dimly realized this and his will slowly crystallized to the prime fact that here was danger and that they must prepare to meet it. It might come on them in the darkness, soft-padding under the stars, but they had weapons. Also it seemed to him that they were safest where the thing had once passed, unless—unless—his fagged brain refused to coördinate. With an effort he took his revolver from its holster and nodded at Harvey and Larkin, who nodded back and copied his action. Healy had squatted on the sand, trying to trace the outlines of the imprints. The dark settled swiftly as they sank down and shared the fragments of food that Harvey had preserved, washing them down with tepid water. Healy took his in the palm of his hand, and then tossed them away, like a petulant child.
Larkin tried to find the precious crumbs but it was impossible in the soft sand and the dark. Bye and bye Harvey began to scoop out a place for himself. Talk was impossible, but they understood his effort and imitated him. The sand was warm and they covered themselves like children on a seashore. Healy, too, they bedded down and he took it as a child might have, making uncouth noises with his swollen lips. It seemed to Stone as if they had dug their own graves, so utterly did the effort exhaust him.
In the middle of the night something clutched at his arm and he started up out of his sandy shroud, groping for his pistol. It was Larkin, croaking an unnecessary warning. Over them loomed a mammoth shape, high stilted on misshapen, clumsy legs, a deformed body, a snaky neck, a musky odour. The thing sighed, its lips rolled back, showing the faint glitter of great teeth in the starlight. Then Larkin fired. The great brute snarled, wheeled, and galloped clumsily off, with a rolling, swift gait. Stone saw Larkin's face staring at him with eyes wide open, distorted mouth gaping. Hysteria swept over him, and the involuntary laughter was agonizing to his tortured mouth and throat. Yet he could not explain to Larkin or to Harvey who was sitting bolt upright gazing after the visitor which had vanished in the night. The shot had not awakened Healy.
Stone took hold of Larkin's hand and with it traced five capital letters in the sand. Larkin continued to stare at him, and Stone gave up the effort. It would take words to explain to Larkin, perhaps to Harvey, though Stone fancied the Desert Rat had recognized the beast on seeing it, though he might have forgotten the fact that the camels unsuccessfully introduced into Arizona as beasts of burden were, some of them, roaming wild about the desert and occasionally frightening the wits out of the ignorant who encountered them. At all events, Harvey lay down again and Larkin. with a grunt that might have been exhaustion, incredulity, or mere bewilderment, did the same. But it was bitterly cold, and their broken slumber could not be resumed. One kindly thing the night brought, in that it chilled what water was left and reduced the swelling of tongue and throat and lips sufficiently for cautious swallowing and gargling that gave some relief and let them talk sparingly in hoarse whispers. Moreover, despite their weakness, it put fresh heart into them. Larkin, after Stone's explanation of the camel and Harvey's brief endorsement, pretended to refuse acceptance of its being.
"There hain't no sich hanimal," he feebly jested.
Dawn fluttered the sky, brightened swiftly, and displayed them to each other. Ghastly objects, crawling out of their sandy coverlets to greet the sun, as Larkin styled them, "resurrected stiffs." They got wearily to their feet and looked down at Healy. Some time in the night he had got rid of his bandages and his swollen arm was a hideous thing. His eyes were open but saw nothing but the spectres of his brain. They bent over him and Stone took up his canteen. It was empty. The stopper was missing. If he had not drunk it all it had been wasted. His mouth was a horrible object with the lips working convulsively. They spared a little water to moisten mouth and throat until he mechanically swallowed some. Then they got him up. His legs were limp as rags. All the strength had gone out of him.
The three looked at each other.
"I reckon we made 'bout fifteen mile yestiddy," rasped Harvey. "'Bout th' same to Clear Crick. Goin' ter be hard sleddin without him. S'pose you two try 'n make it. I'll stay with him. You kin send back.'
Stone looked at Larkin.
"He said we'd have to carry him," he essayed in a husky whisper. "Well, he wins. But I'm not doing it because of the gold. I wouldn't leave a poor devil in this griddle of hell for a mountain of it. Not that he'll ever credit us. You go ahead, Harvey. Larkin and I will bring him along between us as best we can. Eh, Lefty?"
"We can make a bandy-chair of our 'ands and wrists for 'im," said Larkin. "'E's a mucker but 'e's 'uman. And you 'urry hup, 'Arvey, becos I'm needin' my breakfast," he grinned.
It was the best solution. Harvey was as strong as either of them and he knew more about the desert. They had one more united look at the map. They could hardly lose the way the rising sun showed them, using their figures for shadow pointers. The Mogollon ended westward in a tongue of land formed by the wedge of Clear Creek Cañon, deeply indented, a gap they could not miss. There was no time wasted in argument. Stone insisted on Harvey's taking an exact third of the water. This left three of them for their dual portion and Healy would need a good deal of that, but Harvey was going to force the pace and every drop might mean a furlong gained.
The sun was lifting fast and its beams already taking toll of what was left to them of endurance. Harvey tightened his belt, stuck a wad of tobacco in his left cheek, and shook hands with Larkin and Stone. Healy lounged against a sand pillow they had made for him, his face vacuous, as Harvey started off at a slow, long stride.
"'E's straight as a plumb line," said Larkin, indicating Harvey. "I thought 'e was in cahoots wiv this bounder, who's got some crooked scheme cooked on this deal or I'm a Prooshan, but 'e hain't. This treasure bizness mykes a cove suspicious but 'Arvey, 'e's hall man. Now we got to lug this halong and I'll bet hanyfing you like 'e'll die on our 'ands, if hit's honly for spite. Better try a chew. Smokin's too dry. I s'y, w'ot price that camel? I thought you were spoofin' larst night. Wish I'd shot the bugger. Might 'ave found water in one of 'is bloomin' stummicks an' got a steak off 'im. Gawd! A steak!"
That was the one thought that clung to them and tormented them as they struggled on, a few yards at a time, carting Healy between them on their interlocked wrists and hands. Food, in all its tantalizing variety. Neither could shake it off. It became an obsession, yet it kept their minds a little from the agony of the way. Luscious fruits, long, cooling drinks, even the fancied ripple of running water lured them on.
Every little while their knees would give way and the three of them would slump to the sand. Larkin and Stone would sit panting, looking straight forward until one would rise, on all fours first, and then the other, to take up their burden. Their swollen feet burned intolerably until they merged with their bodies into one great, blistering ache. Healy, in the irony of the situation, had lapsed into a coma that changed him to a pliable automaton, unconscious of pain or thirst or any sensation. The two carriers lost all thought of what he meant to them save that they were doomed to pick him up, to stagger on, fall, rest, scramble up, and reassume their burden.
Once they saw a mirage of tree-fringed waters and only stared at it apathetically, waiting for some strength to come back to them where they had collapsed until it suddenly dissolved.
It was noon when they saw the barrel cactus. What blessed freak of the soil had provided fertility for its bird-dropped seed meant nothing to them. It was the first they had seen, the first green thing since they had topped the mesa. Half blind, they had almost stumbled on its spiny column. Half an hour before they had used the last thimbleful of water, too little to drink, just enough to wipe the caking slime from the lips of the three of them.
To Larkin the cactus meant nothing but a mockery of the desert. Stone blinked at it, slowly gathering up force enough to crawl to it on all fours, to get out his knife and hack at the thing, regardless of its bristly defences, slashing until he laid bare its pulpy hearty scooping a sort of funnel in its pith in which its cool juice gathered.
They stayed there for two hours, eating the soft slices of the stuff, feeding Healy with bits of it, while the lopped cactus slowly wilted in the sun. It seemed to revive Healy more than it did them. It put some strength into his legs at last and, with them supporting him, careful of his frightful arm, which Stone had bandaged and slung with their bandanas, they made shift to totter on, a few paces at a time. The j nice had given them back for a wWle the power of speech but Stone and Larkin did not use it. They were listening to the babble of Healy with a seared intelligence that was barely able to store a memory for later comparison.
"We all lose," croaked Healy. "Stone and Larkin, damn 'em! They stood to lose all the time. But you lose, too, Castro, you sly, fat devil. You and me, we lose. The 'Paches coppered the bet. We saw the tracks of the devil—in the desert. He wins. Lyman's luck all the way."
The words came disjointedly, like beads from a broken necklace. But they were repeated over and over in little links of thought and sequence. And too tired for immediate significance, the effort keyed by the mention of Castro's name. Stone and Larkin tucked them away into their tired brains.
At four in the afternoon all three of them fell forward into the sand and did not rise again. In half an hour a speck appeared in the sky from the south, hovered, and then planed down. Another followed. By five o'clock six buzzards sat about the still forms, their naked necks stretched out, their eyes watchful, gradually hitching nearer with shuffling talons and half-spread wings, greed struggling with fear that this manna was not yet carrion, not yet ripe for their horrid feast.