By late afternoon, the pine-covered mountains had grown more rugged, and the valleys deeper.
The clouds had burned off, making cover and discretion more of a challenge. Well, not really. I just flew slightly to the west of the long valley so that Naskiteh (or any humans) would have to look into the sun to see me.
Who?
Oh, Naskiteh. My quarry. The criminal I pursued.
May I continue?
Thank you.
It wasn’t long until I passed three bovine carcasses. Most of the bones of one animal had been eaten. A second looked like it had been ripped in half before having the flesh removed from the bones. The third lay in an unnatural, twisted position, its bowels hanging out and half eaten.
Indeed.
This was clearly the work of my quarry: sloppy, indiscreet, eyes bigger than his stomach. (I knew him well.)
The fallen animals were obviously members of a group of about thirty longhorns running aimlessly down the valley. Panting and wild-eyed, they had foam at the corners of their mouths. Though lost and terrified, they still had the instinct to form a predator-defense formation: calves and younger animals towards the center, and large, mature members forming a protective ring on the outside.
But I had to laugh.
Sure, against wolves, humans or other ground-based predators, it was a formidable, dangerous situation. But we quetz’al are not ground-based hunters. We strike from above. Horns cannot reach us or keep us at a distance. A two-dimensional defense is worthless against a three-dimensional attack.
I noticed two cowboys galloping from the south and scanning the skies warily. One of them pointed, and the other followed his arm to see a black, winged creature in the sky, hovering over the herd.
Amateur.
It was embarrassing that of the two lone survivors of a species that practically dominated the planet, one of them was acting like a hatchling. What’s even worse is that Naskiteh was old than me. At one time, I had learned much from him. Now? There he was: only a few hundred feet up (not nearly high enough to be hidden) and attacking in broad daylight. And within sight of humans.
Fortunately, preoccupation with his attack meant that my presence had gone completely undetected. I quietly pumped my wings and lifted even higher - probably several thousand feet above him. The sun was still behind my profile.
Well, he was rusty with his strategy, but his tactical skills were as polished as ever. Folding his wings tightly to his sides, he dropped like a stone - a spearhead, that is. His long tail pointed skyward, allowing him to make tiny corrections in his free-fall trajectory. His precision and technique were sublime.
I had to re-evaluate: he wasn’t sloppy, he was cocky. Most quetz’al couldn’t pick off something as large as a bovine from a height of five-hundred feet. But he was going to do it. I could tell.
Admittedly, when the low-frequency buzz/whoosh sound of his dive reached my ears, I felt some regret. Naskiteh had been a great and honorable leader at one time. But still, he had gone rogue and killed many of The People. The god’s justice must be meted out, and they had chosen me to be the instrument of fate.
Anger built within me. I felt angry with the gods. With my task.
But I wasn’t innocent in the whole affair, and the role of executioner was given to me to make amends for my own crimes. I had slain many whom I had called brothers and sisters at one time, mercilessly killing those who had trusted me and followed me into battle. My comfort came from knowing that the witch was ultimately responsible for all that had happened; it gave me a way to channel my fury. (One day she and I will meet again.)
In seconds, he was a blur, merely fifty-feet above the herd. I recognized the slight twitch in his tail a fraction of a second before he unfurled his wings. When they popped open, Naskiteh’s flight skin vibrated like a gigantic drum head. A sound like canon fire and thunder pounded the air.
Cattle started. Horses reared. Men’s hats were blown off.
The center of the herd disappeared in a cloud of dust and red spray.
