A Mating of Hawks (20 page)

Suddenly, a white, valentine-shaped face appeared in the big knothole. Though Tracy didn't want to take pictures that night lest she frighten the birds, she watched excitedly as the owl waited for a few minutes, then spread wide wings, and dissolved into the deeper night.

A moment later, the ghostly white body of its mate filled the hole before it, too, launched forth. There was not the slightest whisper of sound. Tracy remembered Chuey's telling her that the forward edges of an owl's main flight feathers were lined with soft fluff that made its flight inaudible as falling snow. Its prey heard nothing till the talons closed.

The terror by night. Tracy shivered and turned up the collar of her jacket. Somewhere in the darkness, in order to live and feed their young, the owls must kill. Their large ear openings would detect the slightest mouse rustle or movement. They hunted by night what hawks and eagles took by day.

This swift, impersonal doom in the night brought back to Tracy the attack outside her apartment. She told herself, as she had so often,
It happened to me but it wasn't me. It was the leap of a rabid beast, a bolt of lightning hitting the nearest grounding. Nothing personal. Think of it that way, a senseless accident
.

A screech sounded from the distance. The owlets began a “shh” that mounted in intensity as more screeches announced the return of a parent. Tracy could see only a blur of white as it lit. It was barely gone when the other owl flew in.

During the next hour, the owls made five returns but the clamor of their nestlings seemed no less demanding. Shaking her head at the rigors of being an owl parent, Tracy climbed quietly down and was soon in bed with Le Moyne's comforting bulk stretched out nearby. She touched the pillow where Shea's head had rested and hoped vengefully that he thought of her even half as often as she thought of him.

Flashbulbs startled the owls but they went on with their hunting and feeding. She got shots of them bringing in field mice, a small snake, a gopher. The adults' big dark eyes in the valentine faces must have been temporarily blinded by the flashes, but their brood's hungry slurping sounds soon had them scavenging again.

Tracy's photos were accumulating gradually, and their subjects ranged from the slapstick of a javelina making off with a bag of Fritos, to the tender one of a doe and a fawn touching noses. She had rigged a sugarwater container on a raised log and put out scraps each evening. A beautiful fox, its bushy tail as long as it was, loved the sugarwater and drank daintily each night though it vacated the log when a raccoon approached. Skunks fed with the slow deliberation of gourmets from the “salad” Tracy put out, elegant little animals who could fluff their tails in a manner reminiscent of a peacock's display.

The elusive fox thrilled Tracy, but her favorite was a ringtail, with its miniature fox face and luxuriant banded tail. It so enjoyed some hardened fig bars she put out that she began to toss a couple on top of the roof for it and attach from the edge its own special jar of sugar-water. The greedy racoons caught on to that, hanging over the ledge to grip the jar in their clever dextrous “hands,” so she abandoned that idea and kept more sugarwater down low.

Patrick enjoyed hearing about her creatures and told her of some of his encounters with wild creatures. “I killed a bear one time,” he said. “I never killed another. It cried just like a woman—cried for a long time. But that's not what stopped me hunting.”

“What did?”

“When it hit me that man's a killer at a distance—the only predator that can kill without touching his prey.” Patrick thought back as if picturing the scene in his darkness. “I was riding one day and came out of some trees to spot three deer. One took off. One kept feeding. The third made a couple of bounds, then turned to wait. It watched me as if it thought the space between made it safe.” He shook his head. “Nothing showy. It just made me sorry—kind of ashamed—that animals don't know what they're up against.” He went on after a moment. “Later, I thought man's long reach isn't only with guns. It's a time thing, too. Animals fight over territory or mates but they don't hold grudges the way humans do. People kill years after the first trouble. It's this awful knack we have for distance killing.”

“Have you ever talked to Shea about the war?”

“No. Have you seen him lately?”

“Not since we left that eagle with him.” Tracy turned to Mary, who was coming in with Patrick's shaving things. “Do you know how the eagle's making it?”

“Alive and meaner by the day, Geronimo says.”

“And how's Geronimo?”

Mary grinned. “He's studying mechanics along with Tivi and me. We're both a lot quicker than he is.”

“Wouldn't blame him if he kidnapped you down into the Sierra Madre the way the Apache Kid would have,” chided Patrick.

“I'd bend a wrench over his head,” said Mary succinctly.

Tracy laughed and kissed Patrick good-bye. She still got her mail at the ranch and the bundle of Houston papers made her wonder if the Stronghold article was in them.

It was, in the Sunday magazine section. The photos of Pardo and his trainees had reproduced well, and very little of the story had been cut. Judd's voice behind her made her jump.

“God job!” He flourished a clip of the feature. “Just got it from a friend in Houston. And that's not all, baby! AP's picked it up. I've been asked to be on one of those big morning talk shows! How about that?”

Stunned, Tracy said, “I didn't think you'd like the story.”

He laughed. “It's clear enough that you don't approve, but your interviews with trainees show they've got a right to be scared and getting prepared. Hell, some Houston businessmen were so impressed that they're asking me to tailor a special program they can fly over and take on a long weekend.”

Confounded, for the last thing she'd intended was to get Stronghold more clients, Tracy turned speechlessly away. Judd caught her arm. “I'm flying up to New York next week, cousin. Come along and we'll do the town!”

“Thanks, but I'm busy.”

His exultant smile faded. Tawny eyes probed hers. “Hey, you aren't still huffy about that deal I tried to pull on Shea? I'm the one who got hurt! Bushels of red tape, plenty of bribes and arm-twisting, and with it all, I got back only two-thirds of the cattle. Must be a couple hundred trucked off to the butcher or stashed out in the boonies.”

“Your hassles with Shea are one thing. Lying to Patrick is another.”

“Lying? Goddam! Man in his condition can't be told a lot of things.” Pausing, Judd reined in his anger and a broad persuasive grin showed his strong white teeth. “Tracy, you must know I have to be careful with Dad,” he said earnestly. “A real upset could kill him. Maybe I was wrong to tell him I had a new lease, but damned if I was going to sell the cows!”

“Well, what are you going to do with them?”

“Right now I'm buying hay and you can bet I'm cussing my brother with every bale!” Judd's face tightened. “It'll take time, but I'll get his lease revoked.”

“Patrick won't be very happy about that.”

“He doesn't need to know. I'll give Shea one thing, he doesn't run to Dad.”

“If you two could just compromise—”

“We could, if he'd let cattle on the lease.”

“He said he would if you'd reduce the number.”

“He can go to hell.” Judd's teeth showed again, but this time he wasn't smiling. “Come with me, Tracy. You won't be sorry.” His broad hands dropped on her shoulders.

“Well!” cut in Vashti's bright voice. She held a plum robe around her with one hand and a drink with the other. “I haven't seen you in ages, Tracy, though I know you're here almost daily. You must stay for dinner one evening or at least have a cocktail.”

“You could drop into your husband's room,” Tracy said. Stepping clear of Judd's hands, she turned and left the house.

XIII

She was sitting on a log next morning, brushing LeMoyne, who responded with soft rumbles of pleasure, when she heard the crunch of hoofs.

“Geronimo!” she called, rising. “I didn't know you ever rode anything but a pickup!”

“Try not to.” He grimaced as he shifted in the saddle. “We don't have a horse trailer, though, so Shea asked me to bring you this filly. Like her?”

Tracy gazed in delight and wonder at the golden mare he was leading. “She's for me? That's my old saddle and bridle on her.”

“Chuey rustled them up,” Geronimo explained. Getting down from a rangy bay gelding, he trailed the reins and patted the palomino's gleaming neck. “Shea was breaking Güera for himself but decided she was just right for you.”

“Why didn't he bring her?”

Geronimo flushed. “Now,
chica
, he was busy and anyhow you know how he is.”

“I know how he is. And I don't like it!”

Geronimo sighed. “He's not as cantankerous as Mary! How about some coffee,
chica?
She bumped a wrench into my head last night and it's still aching.”

“I wonder what you were doing,” Tracy commented unsympathetically. “Coffee should still be hot.” She went to bring him a cup.

When she returned, he was unsaddling the horses. “I'm leaving Sangre with Güera. They're special friends, the way horses get to be, and she wouldn't be very happy by herself.”

“Who's going to ride him?”

“Mary might like to when she's visiting.” He flashed a smile. “Or Shea or I will often enough to keep him from going bronco.” He drained the cup. “Will you give me a lift to the Sanchezes,
chica?”

“Sure.”
And as soon as I get back here, I'm riding that gift horse over to see why His Mightiness won't deliver his own presents
.

“One thing you better watch with Güera,” warned Geronimo as they got in the pickup. “She's scared of snakes. If she hears a rattler, she skitters, and sometimes she thinks she hears one when she doesn't.”

“In other words, she's spooky. Is this Shea's way of getting my neck broken?”

“Chica!
He wouldn't do that! Güera's sweet-tempered. She's got speed and endurance.” He shrugged broadly. “Horses are like people. They all have their little problems.”

“Some more than others.”

“Yeah. Mary and her crazy fix on being a hotshot mechanic!”

“I wasn't talking about Mary. Say, have you heard anything about Blondie? The guy Shea rammed into the wash?”

Geronimo's black eyes widened. “Didn't you know? He broke jail a couple of weeks ago. It was on the radio.”

Muscles tightened in Tracy's stomach. “Does Mary know?”

“Sure. I thought she'd told you.”

“Maybe she thought it'd make me nervous—and it would! It does!”

“No need. He's deep in Mexico by now. Doubt if he's in any hurry to come back.”

That was probably true. Tracy decided not to worry about it, but she was glad of Le Moyne.

She had coffee with the Sanchez women when she dropped Geronimo off. They were astonished that she'd want or dare to photograph owls.

“Very bad luck,” said plump Inez firmly. “When they hoot, someone dies.”

“But they hoot every night,” Tracy protested.

“Not where a certain person can hear,” asserted the older woman. “One night there were many in a tree outside the house. Chuey and the boys shot at them. Two fell, but the others kept calling.” She paused. “And that very hour, in Los Angeles, my brother died suddenly! He hadn't been sick at all. The owls knew.”

Tracy smothered the impulse to ask if the warning was adjusted to Pacific Standard Time, and turned the subject to Carla's baby. “It will be a boy,” predicted Lupe.

Carla pulled a face at her sister-in-law. “Have your own boys! I want a little girl.” She was scarcely more than a girl herself, coltishly thin except for her burden. Her large brown eyes fixed appealingly on Tracy.

“Will you be the child's
madrina
, the godmother?” she asked shyly. “Tivi and I want this very much.”

Patrick must have been godfather to half the children on the ranch, but Vashti had probably not inspired or encouraged such relationships. With a certain shock, Tracy realized that for a long time the Socorro ranch had lacked a mistress the people could feel close to. She was a poor excuse, but at least she was of the family.

“I'd be honored,” she said truthfully. “But do you want a long-distance
madrina?
I won't be staying here after—”

She broke off, but Inez finished for her. “After Don Patrick dies? But why not,
doncellita?”

“I will have no place,” Tracy explained. “I'm only his foster-daughter, you know. The ranch will go to his wife and sons.”

Inez sighed and shook her graying head. “If Don Shea were in charge—” She didn't continue, but Carla smiled at Tracy.

“All the same, I want you for
madrina.”

“Then I will be,” Tracy promised.

Strange, but accepting the responsibility, in this house beneath the dark madonna's serene gaze, gave her a sense of linking with this place where she had been nurtured, of taking up the obligations other women of her blood had long fulfilled. But the ranch was not her inheritance. And, it seemed, neither was Shea.

Tracy dropped in to see Patrick and then drove back to Last Spring. It was about a three-hour ride to El Charco. She'd have to leave right away if she wanted to be home by dark—and she did, more than ever now that she knew the blond thug had broken out of jail. Geronimo was almost certainly right about the fugitive staying safe in Mexico, but it was still unsettling.

Geronimo had put both horses in the old corral and pumped water into the tank for them. Tracy got an apple which she divvied between Sangre and the mare, talking gently to them both. Getting the riding gear out of the little shed, Tracy bridled and saddled Güera.