He forgot the incident for ten minutes. Then a dull ache brought his hand again to his neck. He found a lump the size of an egg. First, he was merely annoyed, then mildly frightened as the dull ache turned into a sharp pain.
There were some drugs among his gear. He put down his pan and moved toward camp. Perhaps the wound should be lanced and disinfected. He had taken but ten steps when the lump seemed to bulge under his fingers. The sharp pain shot downward through his neck and into his shoulders.
Another step and agony such as he had never known took possession of his body. He tried to scream but his throat was paralyzed. A condition past all panic seized his mind as the agony became too great to bear.
In those last few seconds he lost his mind, asking for death with his last conscious thought.
And within fifteen minutes of the bird's attack, Gunnison lay dead in the bleak fastnesses of the Ghanati.
The natives found him and went into protestations of violent grief. They groveled and demonstrated their adoration by rubbing their faces brutally upon the ground.
But like the children they were, they soon became joyful in the knowledge that they could serve Gunnison in death far better than in life.
They lifted his body and formed a procession as they bore it to the center of their ruined city. Once there, they went deep into one of the caves and brought forth those things their heritage taught them were valuable only to the dead. Things they and their ancestors and the great race that preceded them gave only to the dead.
A casket requiring ten carriers for the lifting. A burial robe for the corpse. Casks and urns and numerous articles to be used by Gunnison in the next world.
They buried him reverently as it was given them to understand reverence. There was singing, dancing, and much joy.