orchard. The one thing I swore I’d never do.’
‘I’m sorry, John.’ She turned to walk away.
‘You’re a great girl. A gorgeous girl,’ he called after her.
She kept walking. Her hands were shaking, her face burning.
Suddenly he was behind her again, grabbingher, forcing her up against the wall, his breath smelling of onions and alcohol, his clothes reeking of fish. There was a shiny smear on his chin and crusty white corners to his mouth. She pushed his heaving drunkenness away.
‘John, go home and sober up.’
‘You were always a tough bitch, Anna…you little ride.’ She stared at him, searching his face, but she found no trace of the John she used to love.
TWO
Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1978
‘He won’t bite you, Duke. It’s not his beak you gotta be worried about. It’s his claws. His claws’re his weapon. ’Bout sixteen pounds’ worth of pressure he can use to tear through your skinny little arm.’ Duke looked up at his Uncle Bill, worried. Bill was smiling.
‘Solomon won’t hurt you. You’re givin’ him food. He knows who his friends are. And if he laid a claw on you, I’d shoot him dead.’
‘Don’t you dare shoot him, Uncle Bill. Don’t you dare.’
Bill chuckled, ruffling Duke’s hair. He turned to the Harris’ Hawk perched on his hand, untied the leather straps that tethered him and with an outward sweep of his arm, released the bird upwards. They watched him land gently on a cottonwood tree high above them.
‘How ’bout you, Donnie? You wanna try it? I think Duke here’s a little scared.’
Duke’s eyes narrowed to a slit, his face hot with anger. He flew past his uncle and went straight for his best friend, Donnie, charging him to the ground.
‘Duke Rawlins is never scared,’ he hissed.
‘Jeez, Duke. Take it easy, fella. Take it easy. You OK, Donnie?’
‘Sure am, sir.’
Duke got up and dusted down his jeans, putting his hand out for the leather glove. Bill handed it to him, pulling a piece of raw meat from the satchel that hung at his side. He pressed the meat between the thumb and forefinger of the glove and went through the routine.
‘Stretch out your left arm, there, the one with the glove, and aim that shoulder at him. Then call him and wait for him to land.’
Solomon swooped down and landed on Duke’s hand, pulling with his beak at the meat until it gave way.
‘Now show him your open palm, so he don’t think you got nothin’ in it that he can eat.’ Duke held out a shaky hand to the bird.
‘Now catch a hold of the leather straps on his legs and slip them through your fingers, make sure he won’t get away.’
Duke fumbled with the straps and Solomon flapped his wings, but stayed where he was until he was secured.
‘Well done, Duke. Let him go now, just like I showed you.’ Solomon flew again.
Bill walked over to the bow perch nearby where his second Harris’ Hawk was tied.
‘Come on, Sheba, now it’s your turn.’ He released the second bird, who landed high on another cottonwood, flicking her head from side to side.
Bill was eyeing both hawks. ‘Always checkin’ out what’s goin’ on,’ he said. ‘Always watchin’, waitin’.’
Suddenly Solomon dived from his perch, swooping low, parting Duke and Donnie. A second flap of wings and Sheba was gone, in determined flight behind him. Bill moved after the hawks, calling to the boys to follow.
‘They’ve seen somethin’. You can tell by the way they’re flyin’.’
They arrived at an open patch of dry ground and saw a lone Bobwhite quail.
‘That’s what they have their eye on,’ said Bill. ‘That’s their quarry – whatever they’re lookin’ to kill. Like another word for prey.’
Solomon flew in low and just as he reached the quail, it scrambled desperately towards the scraggy borders of scrub along a row of mesquite trees. Then it stopped suddenly. Solomon overshot his target, too late to change his course and was forced to land high in one of
‘I’m sorry, John.’ She turned to walk away.
‘You’re a great girl. A gorgeous girl,’ he called after her.
She kept walking. Her hands were shaking, her face burning.
Suddenly he was behind her again, grabbingher, forcing her up against the wall, his breath smelling of onions and alcohol, his clothes reeking of fish. There was a shiny smear on his chin and crusty white corners to his mouth. She pushed his heaving drunkenness away.
‘John, go home and sober up.’
‘You were always a tough bitch, Anna…you little ride.’ She stared at him, searching his face, but she found no trace of the John she used to love.
TWO
Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1978
‘He won’t bite you, Duke. It’s not his beak you gotta be worried about. It’s his claws. His claws’re his weapon. ’Bout sixteen pounds’ worth of pressure he can use to tear through your skinny little arm.’ Duke looked up at his Uncle Bill, worried. Bill was smiling.
‘Solomon won’t hurt you. You’re givin’ him food. He knows who his friends are. And if he laid a claw on you, I’d shoot him dead.’
‘Don’t you dare shoot him, Uncle Bill. Don’t you dare.’
Bill chuckled, ruffling Duke’s hair. He turned to the Harris’ Hawk perched on his hand, untied the leather straps that tethered him and with an outward sweep of his arm, released the bird upwards. They watched him land gently on a cottonwood tree high above them.
‘How ’bout you, Donnie? You wanna try it? I think Duke here’s a little scared.’
Duke’s eyes narrowed to a slit, his face hot with anger. He flew past his uncle and went straight for his best friend, Donnie, charging him to the ground.
‘Duke Rawlins is never scared,’ he hissed.
‘Jeez, Duke. Take it easy, fella. Take it easy. You OK, Donnie?’
‘Sure am, sir.’
Duke got up and dusted down his jeans, putting his hand out for the leather glove. Bill handed it to him, pulling a piece of raw meat from the satchel that hung at his side. He pressed the meat between the thumb and forefinger of the glove and went through the routine.
‘Stretch out your left arm, there, the one with the glove, and aim that shoulder at him. Then call him and wait for him to land.’
Solomon swooped down and landed on Duke’s hand, pulling with his beak at the meat until it gave way.
‘Now show him your open palm, so he don’t think you got nothin’ in it that he can eat.’ Duke held out a shaky hand to the bird.
‘Now catch a hold of the leather straps on his legs and slip them through your fingers, make sure he won’t get away.’
Duke fumbled with the straps and Solomon flapped his wings, but stayed where he was until he was secured.
‘Well done, Duke. Let him go now, just like I showed you.’ Solomon flew again.
Bill walked over to the bow perch nearby where his second Harris’ Hawk was tied.
‘Come on, Sheba, now it’s your turn.’ He released the second bird, who landed high on another cottonwood, flicking her head from side to side.
Bill was eyeing both hawks. ‘Always checkin’ out what’s goin’ on,’ he said. ‘Always watchin’, waitin’.’
Suddenly Solomon dived from his perch, swooping low, parting Duke and Donnie. A second flap of wings and Sheba was gone, in determined flight behind him. Bill moved after the hawks, calling to the boys to follow.
‘They’ve seen somethin’. You can tell by the way they’re flyin’.’
They arrived at an open patch of dry ground and saw a lone Bobwhite quail.
‘That’s what they have their eye on,’ said Bill. ‘That’s their quarry – whatever they’re lookin’ to kill. Like another word for prey.’
Solomon flew in low and just as he reached the quail, it scrambled desperately towards the scraggy borders of scrub along a row of mesquite trees. Then it stopped suddenly. Solomon overshot his target, too late to change his course and was forced to land high in one of
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