“You’ll be the front party, most likely, though.”
A few more courtesies were tossed freely from one to the other, together with what little news had fallen in the way of both before they parted.
Half an hour later, as the return road before him sank gently to the lower ground, Tom’s eyes were again drawn instinctively to the tall cottonwood. Though still distant, he could already see the watchful eagle silhouetted from its topmost point. The sun was yet high—he might as well have a look at the nest. With this Tom drew the horse’s head in the direction of the great cottonwood.
The boy’s approach to the lofty tree was greatly resented by the pair of golden eagles who had chosen it as a site for their home. A little ball of cottony down showed itself over the side of the rude structure. There was at least one eaglet, and Tom knew then that it would be with no small danger to himself if he chose to investigate. Then there came to him the misty recollection of the tame eagle which Jack Warren, one of the cowboys, had brought into camp. With this bit of memory his hesitation vanished.
The tree was bare and barked. Its lower branches had long since rotted and now lay on the ground crumbling. Rough knots remained, however, here and there, and by grasping these Tom was able to make the ascent. The old birds whirled round the tree in giant spirals. First one and then the other would suddenly swerve from the circle and sweep past the boy’s head so close that he would involuntarily throw up his arm in defence.
When Tom was about thirty feet from the ground all thought of the infuriated birds was suddenly driven from his mind. At a distance of perhaps one hundred yards stood an unusually thick clump of cactus. In the midst of this, peering intently at him, was a dark, bronzed face—that of an Apache Indian. A wave of terror swept over the boy, and in his fright he imagined he could even discern the triumphant expression upon the swarthy visage, as it sank behind the dark barrier.
Then all of a sudden he became cool. He looked for his horse. To his dismay he discovered that the animal had wandered some little distance from the tree. Then he realized his danger.
If he descended at once it would be to certain death. His only hope lay in strategy.
Immediately he again began the struggle upward. All the suppressed energy of the moment went into the grip of his hands as they took hold of the rough knots. The eagles became more demonstrative, and more than once the swish of a powerful wing caused him to duck his head. But of this he was hardly conscious. When at length he bent over the nest, under pretense of examining it, Tom’s eyes were in reality strained in an attempt to locate the enemy. He never knew whether the nest contained one or two eaglets.
His mustang and the Indian were about the same distance from the tree. But how was he to reach the animal? A too sudden descent would arouse suspicion. At length, with every nerve on edge for the trial to come, he began to work his way down. The eagles, their courage increased with apparent victory, gave even freer utterance to their rage, and their shrieks as they swooped past his head rang in the boy’s ears for many a day afterward. On a sudden thought, as if in mockery, he took up the cries of the birds, imitating them by long, piercing whistles.