“There come some more,” Westy whispered—in his fright he could not control his voice to speak aloud. Two more great birds winged out over the gulch and turned in air around the pine. They glided smoothly out on the wind with wings motionless, like monoplanes, but flapping hideously as they returned to their haven in the rocks. It became evident that something out of sight in the woods behind was frightening the birds.
“It’s Mr. Wilde!” Westy choked. “He’s driving the vultures at Warde on purpose!” As this idea dawned on Ed he felt himself as he afterwards described it “turning green around the gills.” Then his good sense returned.
“Oh, you’re crazy!” Ed snapped, and his positive tones cheered Westy greatly. “They don’t know he’s there! They’re just scaring the birds up to photograph them. Can’t you see through it? Warde was peeved at being left behind, so he sneaked off on us and beat them to it and now he thinks he’s the real smart Alec to get ahead of them out there after Mr. Wilde told us to stay behind. I did think he had more sense than that!”
Two birds were now circling lower and definitely toward the scout-clad figure under the tree. This figure remained so motionless that Westy shuddered and said, “Maybe he’s dead already, vultures act that way over dead things.”
“Dead, my eye,” contradicted Ed, sturdily. “He’s not dead. Maybe he’s scared to move, or fainted or maybe he’s just asleep. Let’s climb up higher yet and yell at him.” They climbed and shouted, but the distance was too great for their voices to carry and the giant mountains only threw back mocking echoes of their puny lungs at them.
“Those birds must have a nest near that tree,” Ed argued, as the huge pair beat their ragged wings against the scout. The two boys, watching, powerless to help, could only scramble higher hoping to reach a point higher up where they might be seen and signal, but they gained this vantage point just in time to see the khaki figure topple under the vulture wings and tumble down the sheer cliff into the rocks and trees below.
Neither Westy nor Ed dared rise from his place for several minutes, so sickened were they by this fearful sight. Then crawling to the edge, they both ventured to look down. Far, far below they could just make out the khaki figure lying with limbs distorted.
“He’s dead,” gulped Westy. “Every bone he has must be smashed.” He began to cry.
“No, look! He’s moving!” True enough, the scout, lying on a sharp decline, turned and slid farther down the ravine.
In another moment the boys above succeeded in getting their shocked minds clear enough to act like scouts.