He smiled as he shucked off his pack, enjoying even, the feeling of exhaustion. He'd made it! He had arrived for a last joust with fortune and the arena was all to his favor. He could not miss. The last little handful of time would pay off.
After taking nourishment he selected a rocky pocket overhung and buttressed on three sides and stowed his gear. As the sun lowered, he lifted himself to the highest knoll and looked over what country he could see. It was monotonously similar to the area on which he stood. Rough, basically level country rising very gently to a ridge in the distance. Beyond, there was probably a drop-off.
Gunnison returned to his pocket and settled in for the night. Perhaps this section was inhabited, although he doubted it. He checked his hand gun and closed his eyes for a night of hair-trigger sleep.
He awoke at dawn, unmolested and refreshed. He fed on dehydrates and drank deeply of the water and soon the sun poked its way up over the forbidden land. He took up his pan and rushed to a likely looking spot on the creek.
It was there—glittering yellow in the gray sand. Gunnison, oblivious of his surroundings, went to his knees and began panning. The results were good. With a set smile on his face, he worked another panful. After an hour he became conscious of the pain in his knees. He began to straighten slowly. He was halfway up when he heard the whistling sound.
He jerked around, clawing up the gun in the safe motion and faced the direction of the whistle just in time to hurl himself from the path of a whizzing missile. The whistle became a shrill screech as the object hurtled past.
Gunnison rolled over and studied the thing as it arced upward. His muscles loosened in relief.
A bird. A black vicious-beaked hawk of some sort. Its size was about that of Gunnison's two fists and its angry shrilling told of indignation against the two-legged intruder.
As Gunnison watched it keeled over in midair and went into another power dive. Its courage far outweighed its size as it rocketed down again—straight at his head. It came in screaming and Gunnison swiped at it sharply with his pan. He hit one outstretched wing and the scream of pain was more grating than the previous whistle of rage.
The bird caromed off drunkenly and missed the ground by inches. Gunnison watched as it limped frantically back up the air current and disappeared over a low ridge. Then he went back to his work.