THE SCAVENGERS 



FIFTY-SEVEN buzzards, one on each 

 of fifty-seven fence posts at the rancho 

 El Tejon, on a mirage-breeding September 

 morning, sat solemnly while the white 

 tilted travelers' vans lumbered down the 

 Canada de los Uvas. After three hours 

 they had only clapped their wings, or ex- 

 changed posts. The season's end in the 

 vast dim valley of the San Joaquin is pal- 

 pitatingly hot, and the air breathes like 

 cotton wool. Through it all the buzzards 

 sit on the fences and low hummocks, with 

 wings spead fanwise for air. There is no 

 end to them, and they smell to heaven. 

 Their heads droop, and all their communi- 

 cation is a rare, horrid croak. 



The increase of wild creatures is in pro- 

 47 



