Harvest of Fury by Jeanne Williams Page A

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.
    â€œ Gavilán-hawk-deelicho! ” squealed Sewa, reaching toward it.
    â€œDon’t touch,” warned Talitha, putting her down. “The hawk doesn’t want to play. Goodness, James, how did you get it?”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œWe’re going to get him well,” Cat said. “Aren’t we, James?”
    â€œWe’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?”
    â€œYes, but take care. His talons are like knives.”
    â€œ You be careful, James!” hissed Cat;
    â€œ 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.
    â€œI think we’d better douse the wound with mescal,” Talitha said. She asked Anita, who was staring from the door, to bring some.
    â€œHold 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.
    â€œAll 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.”
    â€œBut, James, I’d love to have a tame hawk!”
    â€œHawks