‘Buzzards,’ he said indifferently.
‘I tried to count them, but they weave back and forth so swiftly, and each one looks like the other.’
Hashknife relaxed and reached for his cigarette papers.
‘Scavengers, Rex; a big bird who smells death, they say. But I don’t believe it, because I’ve fooled ’em. I’ve stretched out on the desert, played dead, and had them down so close I pulled feathers out of their tails.’
‘Is there something dead over there, Hashknife?’
‘Undoubtedly. They’ve been having a feast, and are pulling out before dark. Mebby a coyote or two came along and started an argument.’
‘Dead cow, do you suppose?’
Hashknife squinted quizzically at the gyrating flock, slowly mounting higher. They were not splitting up, as a flock usually does, when the feast is over; but rather they were acting as though something had interrupted them. Hashknife grinned and turned to Rex.
‘Let’s take a rifle and go over there, kid. It’s in a little swale off the road, and we might knock over a coyote.’
Rex was willing. Hashknife called to Sleepy, asking him to go along.