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The first buzzard sat on the pony's head. Jody plunged into the circle like a cat.
The black brotherhood arose in a cloud, but the big one on the pony's head was too late.
As it hopped along to take off, Jody caught its wing tip and pulled it down.
It was nearly as big as he was. The free wing crashed into his face with the force of a club, but he hung on.
The claws fastened on his leg and the wing elbows battered his head on either side. Jody groped blindly with his free hand. His fingers found the neck of the struggling bird.
The red eyes looked into his face, clam and fearless and fierce; the naked head turned from side to side. Jody brought up his knee and fell on the great bird. He held the neck to the ground with one hand while his other found a piece of sharp white quartz.
The red fearless eyes still looked at him, impersonal and unafraid and detached. He struck again and again, until the buzzard was dead.