When he returned, he had a couple of extra slashes of whiskey to take off the chill, stripped down to his longjohns and got in bed, read a piece in an old Argosy about some soldier-of-fortune in the Amazon who was adopted by a tribe of headhunters and married the chief's comely twin daughters and had five kids and ran around naked until the missionaries came, and with them hell, and all our daring escapes from hell. He didn't think it was too bad a story even if it was probably bullshit. He turned off the light and dozed.
He was dreaming of those lovely twin daughters snuggled warm against him as the full moon rose over the river blinding and clean. He heard a muffled cry, a child in another room, years ago, and then heard his name whispered, perhaps Tiny trying to wake him, or one of the chief's fine daughters murmuring his name in her sleep. He listened intently in the darkness, a concentration that seemed to draw him from himself into an empty poise. He heard his own heart quit beating, the last lungfull of breath leave him in a luminous silence. He waited, completely still. He heard his soft cry return through his flesh, fading toward the moon. And then the whisper of wings as he was lifted.
He could feel in the way he was borne that they weren't angels, wouldn't have them be angels, was so sure they were ducks that he didn't even bother to open his eyes. He patiently gathered another heartbeat, another breath, and then told them stubbornly, emphatically, without a trace of repentance or regret, "Well goddamnit, I was immortal till I died." He waited, but there wasn't another breath. Collapsing through himself, he relaxed and let them take him.