Gunnison, his eye on the bird, did not see where they went. The bird arced down and Gunnison clipped it square on the beak, with his pan. The bird did a somersault, gained its wings, and headed drunkenly for the ridge, screaming in rage.
Gunnison turned his eyes on the crags. The natives were nowhere in sight. He pondered the situation for a few moments and then went back to work. The natives, he told himself with great satisfaction, were not a menace.
The passing days not only strengthened this belief but augmented it. They were not merely harmless. Their eagerness to be helpful was almost pathetic. They came regularly to sit and watch Gunnison at his labors. At times as many as two dozen crowded about to regard him with obvious awe.
Gunnison's identification of male and female was strengthened when two of the men hauled a woman to the edge of his camp and threw her forward almost into his gear pile. The woman seemed overcome both by fear and honor at the same time. The effect was ludicrous and Gunnison risked displeasure by signifying definitely that he did not want a mate. They took no offense. The female walked away sadly, her ugly head hanging.
Gunnison's camp became a depository for weird and useless gifts. These consisted of old bones, scraps of hide, various evil-smelling concoctions of food. Animal teeth strung in necklaces and laid proudly at his feet.
Gunnison was careful to show no annoyance at this expanding pile of debris. Not that he feared antagonizing them. He was convinced this could not be done. But out of compassion because they were so childlike, so innocent of evil save in their appearance.