A Mating of Hawks

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A Mating of Hawks

Jeanne Williams

F
OR
J
ULIAN
H
AYDEN
, el viejo maderado

Always an inspiration—

Though he is not responsible for some of the

views expressed in this book!

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I would like to thank my son, Michael, who served in Viet Nam, for advising me on Shea's portrayal and the Stronghold section. Bob Morse, my husband, checked birds and natural history. As always, my daughter Kristin's comments were helpful, and Leila Madeheim did her excellent job of preparing the manuscript.

Neighboring in hawk country with raptor experts like Drs. Sally and Walter Spofford has greatly enhanced my appreciation of these birds and the part they play in a healthy natural balance.

Two fine and sensitive editors have worked on this book, Meg Blackstone and Kate Duffy. And ever and always, my gratitude to that ineffable friend and agent, Claire Smith.

There are no words for what I owe Bill Broyles for showing me the Pinacates and Cabeza Prieta.

Pia Machita's story is true. The amazing account is in “Arizona's Last Great Indian War: The Saga of Pia Machita” by Elmer Flaccus in the Spring 1981 issue of
The Journal of Arizona History
.

I

A red-tailed hawk circled the mountain valley above the creek, gliding as if in search of something. As Shea braked the pickup to the side of the road, Geronimo Sanchez gave a soft whistle.

“Reckon that's her mate up there?”

“I think so. There's a relined nest in that biggest sycamore, but no eggs.” Shea glanced at the redtail loosely shrouded with burlap. She seemed a lot less nervous than Geronimo, who had a tight grip on her scaly pale-yellow legs above the wickedly curved talons. “I'll bet our gal is one of the pair that's nested in that tree for years.”

“You gonna walk to the creek?” Geronimo demanded. “Must be a half-mile!”

Snorting, Shea swung his long legs out of the cab and came around to Geronimo's door. “That love grass we seeded is just starting to come up. I don't want you, me or anybody, driving over it, savvy?” He punched his friend's ample girth with his fist. “You better walk a helluva lot more, Sanchez, or you won't be the lithe, agile savage of a maiden's dream!”

“Who wants a maiden?” leered Geronimo. “I'm a lover, not a teacher.” Sobering, he gave Shea a puzzled, almost worried look. “How come a scrawny rooster like you don't have a tender little pullet, or at least a tough old hen?”

Shea stiffened before he chuckled and shrugged. At thirty-two, sun lines were etched deep at the corners of his gray eyes. Thick red-gold hair waved no matter what he did to it. Since they were going to town, his worn denims were clean but his boots showed the marks of rocks and rough use. There was a faint scar above one eye, several hidden by his shirt, and his hands were ridged with scar tissue, the fingers apparently almost reconstructed.

“Now you don't think I'd clue you in to my supply?” he joshed.

Avoiding Geronimo's troubled stare, Shea grasped the redtail's legs, keeping the burlap over her head. So long as she couldn't see, that fearsome beak was no threat. Funny that a bird weighing less than three pounds could contain such energy and force, could kill a rabbit bigger than itself, though mice were the major part of the diet.

Striding across the greening field, Shea grinned at the hawk wheeling against the intense blue sky. “She's back, fella.” Pausing near the towering sycamore which held the hopefully relined nest in branches sixty feet from the ground, Shea eased the hawk to a fallen giant log, let the talons grip, and then moved back, lifting the burlap.

The hawk perched there a moment, golden eyes unveiling as the nictating membrane was drawn up. Sun glinted on the proud dark head, the short, broad reddish tail before she spread her brownish wings and launched from the decaying trunk, rising into the dazzling sky.

“May be too late to populate that nest,” Shea called after her. “But there's always next spring.”

He watched the hawk till he could no longer make out the dark border formed on the whitish underside of the wings by the tips of the primaries and secondaries. No hint in that soaring flight that six weeks ago, in mid-January, he'd found her mangled by a shot that had disabled one wing.

Weak from hunger and exposure, she'd still flopped over on her back and showed him her talons. He'd netted them and covered her with an old gunnysack rummaged out of the pickup. For the first few days, he'd force-fed her with cut-up mice the cats brought up. After that, she'd understood they were food and managed them herself, along with pieces of rabbit he and Geronimo shot as she needed more than the cats' leavings.

There was a shrill cry from high above. The male hawk wheeled around below and above the returned one, almost touching her. And then they rose, together, dwindling against the sun.

“Hurry up!” bellowed Geronimo as Shea marveled at them, feeling as if a part of himself rose with them on invisible but mighty currents of air. “That
chica
's going to wonder where in hell we are!”

Shea saluted the hawks and moved across the field.

Tracy Benoit bit her underlip and wondered if she should phone the ranch or simply rent a car. Vashti had said someone would meet her flight from Houston, but she'd been standing by her luggage for ten minutes, the arriving crowd had thinned away, and she was eager to get to Patrick.

Angered at her indecision, she told herself:
Wait five more minutes
.
Then call the ranch and say you're driving yourself. And, my girl, do it!

Six months ago she wouldn't have needed such a pep talk. Six months ago, she wouldn't have been afraid to drive to the ranch, or anywhere. Maybe that had been her trouble. But a news photographer can't insist on escorts to trouble spots—and it hadn't been at a street fight or explosive rally or even in a dangerous part of town that it had happened. No, it was outside her own apartment house, during that short walk from carport to building.

If she could even have screamed! But those hands had gripped her throat in the same instant that the figure looming out of the dark became a solid, bruising menace, crushing her to the gravel. Choked half unconscious, her next clear memory was of car lights, returning apartment neighbors running after her attacker, wrestling him down. The doctor who examined her assured her that she hadn't actually been raped; her assailant was impotent.

That made it ludicrous—and scary. To be almost strangled by a man unable to do what he wanted! A kind of horrified pity entered her mix of feelings when she learned he was out on furlough from a veteran's hospital, supplied with downers, which, combined with a few drinks, stripped away the few controls he may have had. When he'd flipped in Viet Nam, the results had been more lethal: five squad companions slaughtered by a blast of submachine fire. She had preferred charges, not for revenge, but in the hope he'd be kept where he couldn't brutalize anyone else.

“They'll crucify you,” her editor had warned. “In a rape case, the woman's on trial.”

It hadn't been that bad. The judge heard the case in chambers. Her attacker's counsel had hammered at her to admit she'd been drinking or high on drugs, or had at least invited the assault, but he hadn't been able to shake the truth. The young veteran was ordered to five years' confinement with mandatory psychiatric treatment. Tracy believed he was more of a victim than she was and hoped he could get well. But she was still afraid, she'd become a fearful person, and that was intolerable.

And now she was terrified to rent a car and drive alone to the ranch! Though her palms grew clammy and she felt as if she were strangling again, she forced herself to draw a few deep, calming breaths and move toward the nearest rental booth.

Intent on exorcising this paralysis that was ruining her life, she didn't see the two young men till they stepped squarely in front of her. Startled, she retreated a pace and looked at them, something she had avoided lately with strange men.

One looked like a Mexican brigand, barrel-chested, with a luxuriant black moustache that reached to curly sideburns. His cheeks were dimpled, though, and beneath the hirsute disguise, he had a round, innocent baby face and laughing dark eyes.

The other? Hair that had been blondish-red had darkened to a vibrant auburn streaked from the sun. The lanky eighteen-year-old frame had filled out with hard muscle and use, and gray eyes that used to tease her when he'd deigned to look at her at all now regarded her with cool, critical appraisal.

“Shea! Good grief, it's been forever!”

“Miss Benoit.” The austere line of his mouth relaxed in a slight grin. He returned a villainously battered gray Stetson to his head while his friend did the same with a concho-banded black one. “Did you ever know Geronimo Sanchez?”

There were a good many Sanchezes at the ranch, but she pursued a tugging memory and laughed delightedly, offering her hand. “You used to give me piñon nuts. You even cracked them for me! And you tried to teach me how to rope.”

He didn't shake her hand, but pressed his warm cheek to it for a moment and kissed it. “I thought you were the cutest
chica
around.” He grinned. “Now you're one damn beautiful
mujer!
Why'd you leave us for so long?”

“I went off to school six years ago while you fellows were rambling around Mexico and points south. And since I've had a job, it's been more practical for Patrick to come to see me.”

Geronimo scoffed. “You mean Vashti gives you the heaves.”

“If she makes Patrick happy, that's what counts,” said Tracy defensively. “Especially since he went blind. How is he?”