Free Rose Eagle by Joseph Bruchac

nor had he mentioned them being in this area when he was drawing his map. He’d shown them way off to the northeast. But somehow, I didn’t find that reassuring. After all, flying things can travel a looong way. Thinking of that made this tight feeling, like a little clenched fist, in the pit of my stomach.
    So, we stayed off the road, keeping it to our left. We paused for shelter under whatever trees we could find, then ran through tall grasses and up and down ravines. I kept looking, hoping for the sight of something friendly floating down to me. A hawk, an eagle, even a turkey buzzard. Any bird that could tell me what lay up ahead. But the skies were empty of everything except the silver haze and the glow of the sun. That was not good.
    I stopped walking.
    â€œWhat is it?” Phil asked.
    I pointed with my lips toward a line of cottonwoods in a dip in the land off to our right.
    â€œSomething’s not right. We need to take a break. Down there.”
    That was all I said. No explanation. But Phil didn’t question me. We made our way down into the shelter of the trees that were being fed by the small seep of water that had created a shallow pool. It was green down there in the shelter of those trees and much cooler, not brown and dry as it had been next to the road. Phil slipped off his packs and sat on a flat stone that was marked with the swirling shapes of fossil shells, proof that the plains had been an ocean long ago.
    I took off my pack too. But I didn’t sit. Still holding the pack, I walked around the trees, looking up into them until I saw what I thought might be there.
    Not one bird, but a number of them. They were huddling close together on a lower limb a few feet above my head and far below the upper branches that hid them from the sky. And not just one kind of bird. Seven crows, a horned owl, a flock of songbirds of all sorts and even a small heron that I would normally have expected to see down in the reeds by the pool. And I could think of only one reason why birds of such different feathers — some of which would normally be totally avoiding, if not eating each other — would flock together like that.
    Fear.
    The owl rotated its head and then peered down over its beak at me. It hooted softly, and I understood.
    â€œPhil,” I called in a low voice, as I dropped my pack down by the wide base of the tree, which was the biggest cottonwood in that stand. I slid my shotgun from its holster and put my back against the trunk. “Get over here. Bring everything.”
    He heard the urgency in my voice and did what I said without asking, taking out his .45 and unslinging Uncle Lenard’s bow from his back. Then we stood there, side by side. The warmth of his muscular shoulder against mine was reassuring, but not enough to keep my knees from shaking.
    Both of us were looking up through the curtain of leaves. We could see glimpses of the sky through gaps in the canopy, but my hope was that anything we saw would not see us.
    â€œQuiet,” I whispered. “Stay still.”
    Phil answered by placing his hand over mine and squeezing it for a moment. It made my heart flutter, and I bit my lip, not sure if I wanted to say
Don’t do that
or
Don’t let go
. But I kept quiet, and he let go.
    Phil was the first to catch sight of it.
    â€œUp there,” he breathed in his soft, deep voice. “At two o’clock.”
    I moved my eyes, keeping my head still. And there it was, a wide-winged shape. Still high overhead, but gliding down toward the sheltered grove where we watched, holding our breaths.
    Closer, closer. I squeezed the stock of my shotgun so hard that my hand trembled. Then, as that black, gliding shape circled farther down, till it was less than a hundred yards away, I realized what I was seeing, and I relaxed, breathing out a sigh of relief.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I whispered. “Just a turkey buzzard.”
    I was right, but only