The hunters extended their wings and pulled up from their headlong dives, with the eagle closing rapidly. Buccari brushed river water from her eyes and looked up at MacArthur. The Marine was on his feet, assault rifle aimed skyward. The hunters leveled out above the raft and shot past MacArthur' s position, gliding with a rush of wind into the narrow confines of the trees, too restricted for the eagle to follow. The eagle flared above Fenstermacher' s head, spreading its wings to an unbelievable span, throwing a mantle of darkness over the shoreline. Its yellow eyes focused on Fenstermacher, glowing with atavistic hate, but also a glint of fear.
Buccari winced, waiting for the inevitable explosion from the rifle, but MacArthur stood steady, staring through his sights. He had but to pull the trigger and the eagle would be annihilated. The eagle was almost stationary; its massive wings beat powerfully, slowly lifting the great predator—an easy shot. Steadily it retreated. Buccari felt the skin crawl on her head; an overwhelming sense of relief flowed through her. She watched MacArthur blow air from his lungs and lower the weapon.
"Get out of here, baby," she whispered. And it was gone, the swishing of its wings diminishing to silence.
"I didn't hear anyone sound swim call!" Fenstermacher yelled, standing at the edge of the raft, glaring ferociously at the people treading water. He jumped back from a mouthful of river spit in his direction. Honey howled mightily.
"About time you got here, Fenstermacher!" MacArthur shouted, setting the rifle on the ground. "We got work to do. Get that raft secured and let's get the ramp up."
"Up yours, Mac!" the feisty boatswain shouted. "I'm early, and you know it. And don't go yelling at me. I'm officially a hero. I chased that buzzard away while these fishies were flopping around in the water." He turned back and bent over the side. "Gunner, I ain't never going to let you live this down."
Honey bawled as the dripping swimmers pulled themselves from the river. Chastain and Fenstermacher brought the raft broadside to the bank and secured it fore and aft. Buccari, soaking wet, started up the path winding toward MacArthur' s position. Goldberg gradually soothed Honey to a hiccoughing calm as the members of the foraging party sat on the river rocks, letting the dappling sunlight warm their wet bodies. Insults flew fast and furious, and soon everyone was laughing too hard to speak.
As Buccari arrived at MacArthur' s vantage point, X.O. and Tonto hopped from the woods. The hunters craned their necks as they waddled from beneath the tree cover, searching the skies. Satisfied that the threat had disappeared, they hopped up on boulders and watched the humans with great interest. MacArthur gave them hand signs that meant, "Death close," and pointed to the sky. The cliff dwellers chirped animatedly, and X.O. signed back, "Death always close."
The hunters turned and bowed to Buccari. The little creatures treated MacArthur and Buccari differently from other humans, showing each of them peculiar forms of respect. To Buccari they were formal and deferential; whenever she moved or spoke they took note and adjusted to her position as if she were a local sun and they were her planets. To MacArthur they demonstrated a jolly camaraderie, and they invariably followed him whenever they were around. It was with MacArthur and, to a lesser degree, Buccari that they attempted to communicate. To all other humans they were remarkably indifferent.
"A bunch of clowns," MacArthur said, looking down on the dripping hilarity.
"Laughter's great," Buccari commented, removing her dripping pistol belt and hanging it on a convenient branch. "I don't hear you laughing," he said.
She looked up without humor. "I have other things on my mind, Corporal. Like getting you guys back on the other side to do some work."
"Okay, okay," he said. "Point's made! But we're the least of your worries. These horses are going to make a big difference."
Buccari felt his steady look and her eyes were drawn to his. She lowered her gaze to the river.
"Hey, Chief! Move everyone down the bank," MacArthur shouted. "The fewer distractions the better."
Wilson waved, and the foraging patrol made their way upriver.
Buccari turned from the river and, once again, found herself staring into MacArthur' s gray eyes. Neither spoke. The spell was broken by the chirping of the cliff dwellers; the alert creatures gawked curiously into the woods. Buccari detected the sounds of approaching animals. Soon Shannon and O'Toole hove into view, descending the steep path that dropped from the cliff tops. They led two horses loaded with butchered segments of buffalo into the small clearing. The meat, wrapped in skins, was unfastened and dumped on the grass. Tiny insects buzzed about the bloodied skins.
"We're waiting, Winfried," MacArthur sang out. "How're you doing?"
"Ready here!" Fenstermacher shouted back. He and Chastain brought the raft against the bank and positioned the sturdy ramp. The height and steepness of the bank made the incline of the gangplank negligible.
"Okay, Terry. Let's do it!" MacArthur grabbed the reins of one of the horses, leading it down the last section of steep path. O'Toole followed leading a second horse, leaving Shannon to hold the other two. Buccari stood on the edge of the clearing and watched.
"Lieutenant?" Shannon asked. "Sir, would you watch the horses?"
"Sure, Sarge," she responded, walking over and taking the reins. Shannon bent down, grunted a parcel of buffalo meat over his shoulder, and trotted down the trail. The horses, sniffing and snorting, nervously accepted Buccari as their caretaker.
Loading proceeded without incident. The first two horses, eyes covered, were carefully led onto the raft. The sturdy craft accommodated their great weight, but Fenstermacher wisely interrupted the loading to reposition the raft out from the shore so that it would not be held aground by the increased draft. MacArthur crooned as he secured the horses to the raft, each with three lines. While MacArthur and Shannon were securing the horses, O'Toole and Chastain climbed back up the path and retrieved the butchered buffalo. Everything made fast, MacArthur looked up at Buccari.
"Lieutenant," he said, "would you mind staying with the horses? We'll send O'Toole off on the other side and get back for the second trip that much sooner."
"I could help with the oars," she replied. "O'Toole could watch the horses."
"Nah!" he replied. "The raft is sitting low. The more muscle the better, and the horses are behaving. Let 'em graze. You okay with that?"
Buccari looked from MacArthur to the horses and back. "Hurry up!" she shouted.
MacArthur jumped into the water and helped Chastain stow the ramp on the crowded raft. Shannon and O'Toole stood by the nervous horses. The raft was fended away and propelled toward the opposite shore, a cliff dweller perched on each forward corner— bizarre figureheads.
Alone with the horses, Buccari explored the small clearing, suddenly quiet and peaceful. In the stillness she listened to the muted buzzing of insects and the gentle gurgle of the river. In thedistance Honey continued to complain. The sun's rays cleared the wooded high ground close behind her, the warmth a welcome change from the chilly shade. She was still wet.
The horses grazed contentedly. Sunlight slanted down and warmed her. She picked up the field glasses. The raft, a speck in the distance, had reached the far bank, and the Marines were moving the horses ashore. Two down and two to go. She laid the binoculars on MacArthur' s gear, next to the assault rifle, and leaned back in the grass. A cloud drifted overhead. Buccari imagined it to be a rabbit. She yawned.
The pastoral quiet was shredded by a blood-curdling scream— Goldberg's. Explosive reports of a rifle punctuated the plaintive wail, and booming echoes reverberated along the river valley, accompaniment for Goldberg's mournful keening. Buccari instinctively realized what was happening. She searched the skies. The dark, sweeping form of a great eagle soared along the riverbank, the susurrant sound of beating wings distinctly audible. Suspended from the raptor's talons was the tragic and unmistakable figure of a human baby. Its pitiful screams pierced Buccari's soul.