At last, apparently satisfied with the depth of the hole he had dug, Westy carefully lowered the dead bird into it, making sure it was so placed as to allow the tip-end of its wing to reach just above the top of the excavation. He then set to the task of refilling the grave and went about it with a diligence that his frenzy for Artie’s safety inspired. Making sure there was ever so little of the bird’s wing exposed, he packed the mound of earth around it, but not too hard, and covered it high with pieces of broken rock of a certain size, and over the whole he placed a larger rock than those which he had placed around the mound. All this time the birds seemed to be holding a sort of pow-wow as to what to do with Artie, who was anxiously wondering what Westy’s scheme would bring about. In one breath he would mutter “good old Wes,” and in the next one he would silently beseech him to hurry. It was awful, he thought, the time Westy was taking to do whatever he was at, when in reality it had not covered the whole of ten minutes. That one half hour of Artie’s life, he afterward recalled, seemed to have covered a span of years. Undeniably he was no end thankful that the bird hadn’t bothered him, and he realized it was Westy’s timely return that saved him from a fate he shuddered to think of. Westy had managed until now to keep his presence concealed from the ferocious birds. He wanted to; but now that his purpose was accomplished, he stood in full view of them, having crawled out to the edge of the precipice on his hands and knees. Taking out his penknife, he clenched his teeth, and gashed several fingers on his left hand without uttering a sound. He held his hand in such a way that the blood dripped over the ledge, and so walked back, marking a crimson trail over the gray-colored rocks, until he reached the little mound, allowing the scarlet fluid to saturate it and the earth around. The pain from his wounded fingers was so intense and his throat felt so terribly sore when he began his cry, that his hoarse voice, plaintively reverberating through the tomb-like hills and valleys, bewailed like some spectral chorus in the shadowy twilight. The aggressive birds listened now in silence. But only for a few seconds. Their shrieks of threatening retribution that had previously been directed down to Artie’s deafened ears were now transferred to the retreating Westy. He had gone down the trail a way and hid behind the protecting trunk of a large pine tree, still crying in answer to the eagle’s screeches, his voice almost unintelligible now. His anxiety was soon diminished and he gave way to a sheer exultation of feeling, for the eagles had left the precipice and landed on the cliff, scenting the trail of fresh blood that Westy had sacrificed.