"The Mobbing", a (very) short story

The Mobbing
A (very) short story by Scott McPherson

The call went out and we knew a raptor was coming, probably more than one. I looked to my right and saw Val, my friend, snap his head around at the sound, then hastily back at me, the urgency and excitement merging in his devilish smile and bulging, impatient eyes. Neither of us needed to say a word; it was time to go.

We were up from the top of our large Weymouth pine tree in an instant and immediately saw the mob forming, off in the distance. There must have been forty of us gathered already, and just three of them – red tails, from the looks of it. Clearly things weren't going well for the bastards.

Were they on a nest raid, or just flying through?

Not that it mattered – they were going to pay for coming into our territory, and it would be even better than last Full Hunter's Moon when a kestrel came through. That was a rare prize, and we didn't let it go to waste; there was just five or six of us around that time, but he suffered dearly.

We'd stayed perfectly silent, hitting him from above in a synchronized assault that started a running fight across the sky. By the time it was over he was torn up something awful, struggling just to stay aloft. All of our boys were fine, but exhausted from the battle and far from home. We had to break off the attack and let him go, satisfied that he wouldn't soon forget the experience.

We'd given a good mobbing that day.

Mary, my mate, called after me – Be careful! – as I flew away from our nest to join my rallying friends, some already hard at work diving into the three invaders, smashing their heads and pecking at their eyes, squawking with such ferocity that those hawks just had to know they were in a bad place. Val was off to my left now, a little lower but moving just as fast. The hawks had switched course a mite but it was too late – we had them dead to rights. By a half-hour's end they would be gone, one way or another.

We'll show them who owns the sky, Val yelled as we rushed towards the fray.

Going into the mob I saw one of them – a big, nasty looking one – drop suddenly and sink his talons into a crow I didn't know. They fell for a second as the red tail held tight, ripping savagely at the crow's nape before releasing him.

There wasn't time to see if he was okay; Val had raced past me, going in close, barely missing contact as the hawk swerved hard to the right and up, Val passing beyond it but recovering quickly for another strike. I'd positioned myself perfectly so that the hawk came right into my line as it ducked away from Val. My hit was solid, and I knew it hurt.

Even above the din of shrieking, swirling crows, I could hear Val's cackling laughter. It was going to be a very good day for us...

The End

*See Washington's Partisan War, 1775 - 1783 and "The Dutch-American Guerrillas of the American Revolution"