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approached the robber's outpost. Do with it what you will, Pope Leo had said
of the gold. Not only that, the monk had now, in
cerned about whether the robber came today or tomorrow. So long was his
journey, that he would not be unhappy to enjoy a day of rest while waiting.
He sat watching the buzzards. Occasionally he glanced down the trail that led
toward his distant home in the desert. The robber had chosen an ex-
cellent location for his lair. From this place, one could observe more than a
mile ot trail in either direction while remaining unobserved in the thatch of
forest.
Something moved on the trail in the distance.
Brother Francis shielded his eyes and studied the distant move-
ment. There was a sunny area down the road where a brush fire had cleared
several acres of land around the trail that led southwest. The trail shimmered
under a mirror of heat in the sunswept region. He could not see clearly
because of the shiny reflections, but there was motion in the midst of the
heat. There was a wriggling black iota. At times it seemed to wear a head. At
times it was completely obscured in the heat glaze, but neverthe-
less he could determine that it was gradually approaching. Once, when the edge
of a cloud brushed at the sun, the heat shimmer subsided for a few seconds;
his tired and myopic eyes determined then that the wriggling iota was really a
man, but at too great a distance for recognition. He shivered.
Something about the iota was too familiar.
But no, it couldn't possibly be the same.
The monk crossed himself and began telling his rosary beads while his eyes
remained intent on the distant thing in the heat shimmer.
While he had been waiting there for the robber, a debate had been in progress,
higher on the side of the hill. The debate had been conducted in whispered
monosyllables, and had lasted for nearly an hour. Now the debate was ended.
Two-Hoods had conceded to One-Hood. Together, the
Pope's children stole quietly from behind their brush table and crept down the
side of the hill.
They advanced to within ten yards of Francis before a pebble rat-
tled. The monk was murmuring the third Ave of the Fourth Glorious Mystery of
the rosary when he happened to look around.
The arrow hit him squarely between the eyes.
sunlight and watched the curious buzzards. They had congregated, and they were
swooping rather low over the wooded patch. One bird made bold to descend among
the trees, but it quickly flapped into view again, flew under power until it
found a rising column of air, then went into gliding as-
cent. The dark host of scavengers seemed to be expending more than a usual
amount of energy at flapping their wings. Usually they soared, con-
serving strength. Now they thrashed the air above the hillside as if impa-
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tient to land.
As long as the buzzards remained interested but reluctant, the wanderer
remained the same. There were cougars in these hills. Beyond the peak were
things even worse than cougars, and sometimes they prowled afar.
The wanderer waited. Finally the buzzards descended among the trees. The
wanderer waited five minutes more. At last he arose and limped ahead toward
the forested patch, dividing his weight between his game leg and his staff.
After a while he entered the forested area. The buzzards were busy at the
remains of a man. The wanderer chased the birds away with his cudgel and
inspected the human remnants. Significant portions were missing. There was an
arrow through the skull, protruding at the back of the neck. The old man
looked nervously around at the brush. There was no one in sight, but there
were plenty of footprints in the vicinity of the trail. It was not safe to
stay.
Safe or not, the job had to be done. The old wanderer found a place where the
earth was soft enough for digging with hands and stick.
While he dug, the angry buzzards circled low over the treetops. Sometimes
darting earthward but then flapping their way skyward again. For an hour, then
two, they fluttered anxiously over the wooded hillside.
One bird finally landed. It strutted indignantly about a mound of fresh earth
with a rock marker at one end. Disappointed, it took wing again.
The flock of dark scavengers abandoned the site and soared high on the rising
currents ot air while they hungrily watched the land.
lighted with the bounty of good things which the nomads left lying on the land
during their ride-over toward the south.
The buzzards laid their eggs in season and lovingly fed their young.
Earth had nourished them bountifully for centuries. She would nourish them for
centuries more. . .
Pickings were good for a while in the region of the Red River; but then out of
the carnage, a city-state arose. For rising city-states, the buz-
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