original buzzard--or, anyhow, he
judged it was the first one he had seen--was swinging back and forth in
great pendulum swings, but closer down toward the swamp--closer and
closer--until it looked from that distance as though the buzzard flew
almost at the level of the tallest snags there. And on beyond this first
buzzard, coursing above him, were other buzzards. Were there four of
them? No; there were five--five in all.

Such is the way of the buzzard--that shifting black question mark which
punctuates a Southern sky. In the woods a shoat or a sheep or a horse
lies down to die. At once, coming seemingly out of nowhere, appears a
black spot, up five hundred feet or a thousand in the air. In broad
loops and swirls this dot swings round and round and round, coming a
little closer to earth at every turn and always with one particular spot
upon the earth for the axis of its wheel. Out of space also other moving
spots emerge and grow larger as they tack and jib and drop nearer,
coming in their leisurely buzzard way to the feast. There is no
haste--the feast will wait. If it is a dumb creature that has fallen
stricken the grim coursers will sooner or later be assembled about it
and alongside it, scrouging ever closer and closer to the dying thing,
with awkward out-thrustings of their naked necks and great dust-raising
flaps of the huge, unkempt wings; lifting their feathered shanks high
and stiffly like old crippled grave-diggers in overalls that are too
tight--but silent and patient all, offering no attack until the last
tremor runs through the stiffening carcass and the eyes glaze over. To
humans the buzzard pays a deeper meed of respect--he hangs aloft longer;
but in the end he comes. No scavenger shark, no carrion crab, ever
chambered more grisly secrets in his digestive processes than this big
charnel bird. Such is the way of the buzzard.

* * * * *

The squire missed his afternoon nap, a thing that had not happened in
years. He stayed on the front gallery and kept count. Those moving
distant black specks typified uneasiness for the squire--not fear
exactly, or panic or anything akin to it, but a nibbling, nagging kind
of uneasiness. Time and again he said to himself that he would not think
about them any more; but he did--unceasingly.

By supper time there were seven of them.

* * * * *

He slept light and slept badly. It was not the thought of that dea