Harvest of Fury (10 page)

“Another man will be welcome,” she said.

It was like going down a steep-walled cañon river, convinced there were deadly rapids ahead, but having no way to escape.

V

Güero gorged himself, mostly on meat. Between bites, he confirmed that Pete Kitchen was still holding out, as was the Patagonia mine where he'd had dinner. The dozens of mines and smaller number of ranches in the Santa Cruz Valley and the surrounding mountains had been deserted, plundered by Apaches or bandits. Rumors were that a Confederate general was at Fort Bliss in Texas, raising forces to complete Baylor's conquest of New Mexico and push north and west to take California and Colorado. If Shea was with Colonel Baylor, which seemed likely, perhaps he'd be sent this way and could get a few days' leave. Heartened at that thought, Talitha felt her peculiar fear and distrust of Güero ebbing and was able to applaud his singing when he borrowed a guitar and gave them, in a rich tenor, the boisterous song of a vaquero in from the mountains for a wedding.

The godmother, too, if she suits me
,

I can also carry along:

And a godfather is no problem
,

Caught here where my ribs are strong
…”

Talitha laughed with the others when he had finished the song of bragging
machismo
, but she couldn't smile when he sang about the man who'd finally possessed a woman who'd long resisted him.

“
‘As the pears fell from the tree that held them,
So you fell, into my arms, my darling!'
”

Then, smiling at Talitha, he gave the response in a coquettish falsetto that made even Pedro grin and clap.

“
‘Don't talk to me like that, you impudent devil!
Even though you see me thus, I've always been decent!'
”

Talitha didn't laugh. “It's time you were in bed, Cat,” she told the girl, who was speculating on the newcomer, “I'm tired, too. Good night, everyone. It was a lovely feast.”

“Yes,” said Güero, rising with a bow as she collected little Sewa and shooed Cat to the door. Chusma, her old tabby, got down from a warm
banco
by the fire to follow them. “Most lovely,
señorita
. I'm glad I came home.”

She didn't answer but swept her rebozo about herself, the baby, and Cat as they hurried through the cold to their room. After the children were tucked in, Talitha got quickly under the covers.

If Güero had to come back, she wished he hadn't appeared on the night of the Roof Feast. She knew that was foolish. An extra man would be useful. Just because he watched her as he did didn't make him a menace to the ranch. If she encouraged him, doubtless he'd try his luck; but she couldn't imagine, if she treated him with the icy courtesy she intended, that he, a vaquero raised in spite of his recent fortune, would dare lift a hand to her.

Even so, though Chusma curled warmly against the back of her knees, Talitha felt very cold and shivered for a long time.

As days passed into weeks the edge of Talitha's fear dulled. Güero attended to his duties, even helping grind corn and wheat in the little mill that was powered by a stream diverted from the creek, and for the first time seemed to fit easily in with his family and the other vaqueros. She'd been foolish, Talitha told herself. He'd only seemed different at first, dangerous, because he'd been away and naturally wished to swagger a bit over his travels and comparative wealth. Still, she couldn't relax or joke with him as she did with the other men, and his green eyes, when she caught them fixed on her, had the power to make her turn quickly away.

They celebrated Christmas and the Day of the Three Kings twelve days later, the smaller children receiving gifts each time, since by now Mexican and American holidays were hopelessly scrambled at the ranch. They celebrated St. John's Day, June 24, with roping, fancy riding, and barbecue; and on November 2, the Day of the Dead, the vaqueros and their families took food and flowers to the graves on top of the hill so that the returned dead could feast with them. This custom had distressed Shea, though he hadn't forbidden it, and Talitha had never gone.

Shea was always at the back of Talitha's mind, and Marc Revier came to her thoughts almost as often. Yes, in addition to Shea, who'd had her worship since she was seven, she remembered Marc and prayed for his safety, though she pushed away memories of his loving, which disquieted her lonely flesh. She and Marc had made love every night for a week after her abduction by Judah Frost, and after the first cleaning, Marc had sweetly, fiercely, taught her delights. When her deprived body dreamed its way to release, he was the man.

That disturbed her, though she could scarcely control her dreams. Shea was her dearest love, but she couldn't remember much of what had happened the night he'd finally taken her, except that it was ecstasy, shared loveliness past knowing.

Mostly, when she thought of Marc, she saw him smiling, saying with an ironic twist to his long mouth which had dealt so wildly and yet so sweetly with her body, “I still have the sun.”

So have I, thought Talitha, holding those bare, proud words like a talisman. But she wanted more: a life without constant threat and Shea home again, Marc safe.

There had been no word from either of the men. Talitha had hoped, though not expected, that they might be able to send a letter by some traveler who could leave it in Tucson till Pete Kitchen got to town and picked it up.

Pete did come by early in March with the news that a company of mounted rifles under Capt. Sherod Hunter had ridden into Tucson February 28 and run up the Confederate Stars and Bars, while his commander, General Sibley, was marching up the Rio Grande, promising the inhabitants to respect their religion and give them a “strong and lenient” government.

“I—don't suppose you heard anything about Shea? Or Marc Revier?” Talitha almost whispered.

The keen gray-blue eyes watched her with sympathy. Awkwardly, he patted her hand. “No, Miss Tally, I didn't hear any particulars, except that Captain Bascom—you remember he got in that wrangle with Cochise last year at Apache Pass—was killed at Valverde in a battle.”

The then lieutenant had come for dinner at the ranch once with his friend John Irwin. Talitha remembered him as a pleasant, serious young man only a few years her senior. Dead now, that eager life wasted in a battle where he'd fought on the opposite side from Shea's.

Would the whole war be like this? Hearing of battles, but not knowing if Shea or Marc—or John Irwin, was in them, if they'd been hurt? Wrenching away from that agonizing prospect, she asked Pete if he thought the Confederates could give the Santa Cruz Valley any protection.

“Those hundred men can't do much but garrison Tucson and scout around a little.” Kitchen shrugged. “There aren't many Unionists left in Tucson, but Hunter gave them a choice of swearing allegiance to the Confederacy or having their property confiscated and leaving the territory.”

He named several of them. Solomon Warner, who'd opened his store in 1856 just a few days after the last Mexican troops withdrew, stocking his shelves with goods brought in by mules from Fort Yuma. Leaving his painfully developed business in rebel hands, he was on the way to Sonora. Sam Hughes, born in Wales, a cook, hotelkeeper, and prospector in California, had come to Tucson in 1858 and prospered by supplying grain and meat to the Overland Stage Company stations. Staunchly for the Union, he'd set his face for California.

Gone from the territory, too, was Peter Brady, who'd visited the ranch with Andrew Gray's railroad surveying party in the spring of 1853 when the German artist of the expedition, Charles Schuchard, had painted for Socorro the picture of the ranch house that hung in the
sala
. Brady, after the survey, had gone into ranching and mining and had most lately been post trader at Fort Mojave, where Beale's wagon road crossed the Colorado. Gray himself had gone to fight for the Confederacy.

“And Don Esteban Ochoa, the merchant,” Kitchen went on. “When he wouldn't swear loyalty to the South, Hunter gave him just time to get his horse, weapons, and a few rations and leave town or be shot.”

Except for Brady, Talitha knew the exiles only by reputation, but they were all decent, honorable men. She hated that they'd lost everything achieved through such risk and persistence. It didn't seem fair that real Arizonans should be dispossessed by military forces of either side; but perhaps that was what war was all about: property and power.

It was a relief, after Pete had jogged off, to pick up little Sewa and carry her out into the bright sunshine. Always, when she was sad, Talitha found that the warmth of that honey-brown skin and the playful mischief in the big dark eyes were good antidotes. Holding Talitha's neck with one proprietary arm, the child pointed up the creek where two hawks were soaring.

“
Deelicho!
” She used the Apache word. Then, chuckling, she added in Spanish, “
Gavilán
.”

“Yes,” agreed Talitha. “And ‘hawk,' too. We'll have to ask Belen for the Yaqui.” Sewa spoke well for her twenty-one months. The main trouble was sorting out her Spanish, English, Apache, and Yaqui.

The red-tails had made their nest for several springs now in a big sycamore and didn't bother the smaller birds who nested close by, though Talitha had several times seen a group of robins chasing one of the hawks, pecking at the big bird, which made no effort to retaliate. Once, when ravens were after it, Talitha had marveled to see the hawk turn over and offer its talons, at which the ravens retreated, cawing as they flapped away.

The hawks rose in great circles, crossing one another's arcs till they almost touched, becoming small specks in the blue brightness. Then one dropped at great speed till Talitha could see it had partly folded its wings. When it seemed about to crash into the trees, it opened its wings and climbed high again, seeming to hang above its mate. Wheeling and plummeting, the birds passed out of sight as riders came into view.

All three O'Shea youngsters were learning how to track, how to fade into the landscape, and constantly increasing their skill with bow and arrow. Several times the twins had startled Talitha by speaking suddenly from behind piles of rock where they wore crowns of oak and brush that made them look like scrub growing behind the boulders. The boys could spear targets now with long lances of sotol, tipped with bayonets salvaged from the fort. The lances entered the cedar-bark targets with a force that made Talitha wince, for she had seen them used on people. If the boys were to live in this country, though, it was best they learned to use every possible weapon.

James was holding something bundled up in Cat's serape. As he came closer, Talitha saw a sharply hooked beak, open to show a pink tongue, and golden eyes that held some of the fire of the sun.

“
Gavilán-hawk-deelicho!
” squealed Sewa, reaching toward it.

“Don't touch,” warned Talitha, putting her down. “The hawk doesn't want to play. Goodness, James, how did you get it?”

“It's been shot with an arrow, which has dropped out except for the point lodged in the wing,” James explained, dismounting with great caution as Cat sprang down and took Alacran's reins. “It's a Chiricahua point. I think it was shot a good distance away, probably by someone wanting arrow feathers. The hawk could fly for a while, but then its wound swelled and the point worked in till the wing's lame.”

“We're going to get him well,” Cat said. “Aren't we, James?”

“We'll try. Can I make a nest for him in the old granary, Tally?”

She nodded. “No one goes in there. Can I help you get that arrow point out?”

“Yes, but take care. His talons are like knives.”

“
You
be careful, James!” hissed Cat;

“
You
take the baby inside,” he retorted.

Miguel, who had a rabbit tied to his saddle, led the horses off to the corral while Patrick, obeying James, fetched heavy gauntlets and restrained the hawk's head as James got out his knife.

“I think we'd better douse the wound with mescal,” Talitha said. She asked Anita, who was staring from the door, to bring some.

“Hold the wing back,” James said, “And keep that serape tight!”

Pus wept out as he edged the sharp blade down the side of the arrow. In spite of the restraining hands on him, the bird struggled convulsively. James worked to the front, tugging at the flint while he pried upward with the knife.

The point came in a welter of corruption that oozed down the hawk's white underbody and rust-speckled flanks. James took the gourd of mescal Anita offered and poured it over the wound, holding the angry flesh open so the harsh cleanser could reach deep.

Swaddling talons and beak, James carried the bird around the house to the granary, where Cat had already lined a large willow basket with straw and Miguel waited with the rabbit.

“All of you stay outside,” James warned. He tipped the hawk into the basket and stepped back quickly. It flopped over on its back, holding up its fearful claws. “We'll give you something to hold, K'aak'eh.” K'aak'eh meant “He was wounded,” and also sounded quite a lot like a red-tail's cry.

Drawing his knife again, James cut up the rabbit, leaving on the fur, and proffered a haunch on the edge of the knife. The talons gripped, Talitha heard the sharp snap of a bone.

Putting the rest of the luckless rabbit within the hawk's reach, James shut the door. “All we can do now is feed him. He's young, not a year old, though he's beginning to get his red tail feathers. He'll molt all summer and by fall will have his adult plumage.”

Cat skipped in excitement. “He'll stay with us, won't he, James?”

James glanced at her in surprise. “No. Not after he can fly again, hunt for himself.”

“But, James, I'd love to have a tame hawk!”

“Hawks aren't for taming,” he said sternly. “I'd kill one that hung around people waiting to eat their leavings. It would be like the Apaches around the forts in New Mexico who've given up their pride for some moldy corn.”