Falconer's Prey

by April Hill

  Claire smiled. "You're not one of Mr. Linus Thacker's brightest hands, are you?"

  Suddenly unsure of himself, the man backed his horse off a little. "Well, I reckon as how it'd be all right with Mr. Thacker if you was to just squat here for tonight, if you've a mind to—if you ain't got somewheres else to sleep. But if you know what's good for you, you'd best be gone come mornin'. Just get your tail outta' here by then and I won't tell nobody I seen you."

  "You may tell anyone you wish, and please tell them my name, as well. It's Claire Parkins Maitland. My grandfather was Colonel Noah Parkins, and I fully intend to stay right where I am—in my house, on my land. Tell Mr. Thacker if he'd like to ride over and have a cup of coffee with me to discuss removing his illegally posted signs and boundary fences, I'll be here in the morning—and every morning from here on, until hell freezes over. Now, get your damned horse out of my string beans!"

  The man grumbled and swore mightily but finally rode off, spurring his horse mercilessly up the hill. Claire knew it wouldn't be much longer before Linus Thacker or one of his henchmen paid her a visit.

  As the afternoon wore on, Claire kept herself busy sweeping the years of accumulated debris from the interior of the house and into the yard, all the while keeping a cautious eye open for unwelcome company. She'd sleep here tonight, but go back into town tomorrow to buy what provisions she needed—and try to find out why the ranch hand she'd hired hadn't arrived. When she saw another rider approaching at some distance, she went inside and loaded the ancient rifle her father had carried at Appomattox Station. He'd died there on April 8, 1865, during General Custer's raid on the Confederate supply trains. Claire was two years old when the news came, and the only real memory she had of Daniel Parkins wasn't really a memory at all, but a photograph— a handsome face in a cracked and fading tintype left to her when her mother died. Carefully, she leaned the rifle just inside the doorway and sat on the crippled porch rocker to watch as the rider approached.

  When he reached the fence—or what remained of it—the stranger leaned down from the saddle and opened the broken gate, then rode on through and up to the house. He was tall, lean and blond, and he looked vaguely familiar.

  "Afternoon, ma'am," he said, touching the front brim of his hat. "Can I trouble you for some fresh water for my horse?"

  She nodded to the cistern, which she'd filled that morning with buckets of water carried from the creek below the house. "The pump doesn't work. If that's not enough, you'll find plenty of water just down the slope, there." She pointed in the direction of the wide creek that flowed through the property thirty yards from the back porch.

  "Thanks," he replied, patting the horse's damp neck as he dismounted. "I'll just walk him on down there and not use up what you've carried. That's mighty hot work on a day like this."

  Claire got up and followed behind him as he walked down the hill to water his horse at the creek. The stranger was well-muscled, with broad shoulders and strong, calloused hands—a man accustomed to hard work. His hair was longer than fashionable and tied at the back of his neck with a strip of rawhide, but he was dressed in the familiar worn jeans and faded shirt favored by local cowhands. This stranger was no cowhand, though. There were no spurs on his boots and no coiled rope over his saddle horn. A Winchester rifle in a beaded leather case hung alongside his saddle, and he wore a holstered Colt .45 low on one hip.

  He knelt on the creek bed to inspect the horse's feet. "This place has been deserted for quite a while," he observed, pointing back to the house. "It kinda' surprised me, finding someone living out here."

  "I inherited it," Claire replied, watching his tanned, sun-lined face for a reaction. "The house, and several hundred acres around it, anyway. This creek's mine, too. What is it you wanted, here?"

  He looked up at her and smiled. "Just the water, for now."

  "Are you from around here?"

  He stood up. "Nope, just passing through."

  "And your business?"

  "Well, now, ma'am, I figure that's pretty much my business, wouldn't you say?" he asked, loosening the horse's bit to clean it in the cool creek water.

  When he'd finished watering the horse, the stranger filled three canteens, hung them over the pommel, then turned and started walking back to the house. She called after him. "Do you have a name?"

  "I do."

  "Well, what is it, then?" she asked irritably.

  He stopped and turned around. "You always this polite to people you just met?"

  "Do you want to work for me, or simply make idle conversation, Mister?"

  "I hadn't planned on working here. Just passing through, like I said."

  "Oh, I," she stammered, flustered by her error. "I thought you were one of the men I hired. Mr. Walker at the bank was supposed to be sending one of them over. That was three days ago, and I've been waiting...."

  The stranger stopped walking. "Did this fella you hired have dark hair and a long scar on his cheek?"

  "Yes, that's him. He said he'd been injured by a pitchfork last year. A Mister Jesus Hernandez. Do you know him?"

  "You can stop waiting. Hernandez won't be coming."

  "Why not? He told me he needed the job very bad."

  "Not any more, he doesn't. I buried him last night." He pointed down the road. "About six, seven miles back, between here and town."

  "Buried him!"

  "Had to. Looked like he'd been dead about two days. Smelled that way, too."

  "Dead!" Claire gasped. "But, how?"

  "Could be he fell off his horse."

  "That's ridiculous," she said irritably, annoyed by his mocking tone. "The man told me he was an experienced …."

  He swung up into the saddle. "It wasn't the fall that killed him," he said. "Someone put a load of buckshot in his back."

  Claire sank down on the porch step. "Thacker!"

  The stranger looked at her curiously. "Linus Thacker? Runs the Silver Star?"

  "Yes. Do you know him?"

  He nodded. "I've heard the name. Tell me, is Linus Thacker in the habit of shooting your hired hands?"

  Claire sighed. "Well, I can't prove it, of course, but...."

  "Then maybe you should be more careful about accusing people of shooting other people."

  "And maybe you ought to shut up and mind your own business!" Claire snapped.

  He nodded calmly. "Always good advice, but I've heard it put more polite."

  Claire looked him over again, noting the worn clothing. "What about you? You certainly look like you could use work. I'm prepared to pay well. Do you want the job or not?"

  "Might be, but from what I've heard so far, it sounds like it might be a real short term position."

  She sneered. "You're scared, then?"

  "I've always found being scared at the right moment a pretty good a way to stay alive," he observed mildly.

  "Ride on, then," Claire said coldly. "I'm not interested in paying good money to a whining, spineless coward."

  He grinned. "Those are mighty unkind words. A fella could get his feelings hurt. And out here, a lady could get her rump paddled for less."

  "Oh, really? A man could get himself fired, too."

  "I don't recall hiring on," he said pleasantly. "And I figure you might not be the most agreeable lady to work for. I never could abide bad manners—or a lack of hospitality."

  Claire pointed to the gate. "If you don't wish to work for me, you may leave the way you came in."

  The stranger held up one hand. "Just simmer down a little. Before I risk my whining, spineless skin, I'd like to ask a couple of questions, if it's not too much bother. Such as, do you know anything at all about cattle?"

  "No, I do not. But I intend to learn, and to make this place what it was when my Grandfather ran it."

  At the mention of her grandfather, the stranger raised an eyebrow. "That's a mighty tall order. The Circle P was a big outfit."

  "You knew it?"

  Ho nodded toward the ridge. "I grew up about ten
miles from here, over that hill there. My folks worked our place for twenty years, until we hit a string of dry years. When we got down to the bone, Thacker bought us out, same as he did just about everybody else around here. That's when Pa hired on with your granddad to keep us all from going hungry. The name's Campbell. I used to hang around this very house and pull the pigtails of some whiny little runt everyone called Stump." He grinned. "She had hair about the color of yours, come to think of it."

  "You're Lucas?" Claire cried, recalling a lanky, blue-eyed boy with hair the color of straw and an astonishing way with horses.

  "I go by Luke now. I'm guessing that would make you 'Stump'?"

  "Claire," she said, flushing. "I finally got taller."

  He leaned down to touch the top of her head. "Not a whole lot. You still wouldn't make a good-sized fence post."

  She shook her head sadly. "I always wanted to be six feet tall, like Grandpa. I used to stomp around in a pair of his old boots, determined to grow up to be a tall cowhand and ride a tall horse like he did. I did my best, but it seems I take after my mother."

  "Your Ma was a little bit of a thing, as I recall," Campbell remembered. "Had a helluva hot temper on her. I once heard her cuss out a drunk wrangler so bad he slunk under the porch like a gun-shy hound. Stayed there 'til he sobered up, figuring she'd take after him with an iron skillet, I guess. Your Grandpa always said she'd scare the pants off Linus Thacker himself if she'd had the chance."

  "She died a few years ago," Claire said. "I miss her a lot. And Grandpa, too."

  "He was a good man. Tough as nails, though. He gave me about the worst licking I ever had in my life one afternoon—right over the end of that porch rail there—for calling Abe Lincoln a stinking Yankee son-of-a-bitch. Damned near took the hide off my rear with that big Mexican leather belt he used to wear. Your Grandpa took his politics real serious."

  She smiled. "He never raised a hand to me. Every time my mother threatened to spank me, he'd drag me off somewhere and deliver one of his awful, long lectures, instead."

  "Maybe the old man should have let your Ma have her way with you," Campbell suggested. "A couple of real good paddlin's when they were called for might have improved your manners some."

  "Well, Mr. Campbell," Claire said haughtily, "I can only repeat that if my manner offends you so deeply, and you don't want to stay here, the gate's right where you found it."

  Campbell shook his head, and got down from his horse again. "You know, I think maybe I'll stick around a while. You're on the ornery side, but your Ma was a brave lady, and Colonel Parkins was as fine a gentleman as I ever met, and I figure the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. It's about time somebody gave Linus Thacker a run for his money, and you just might be just the little lady thorny enough to do it—with a little help."

  "That's all very well," Claire said cautiously, "but are you capable of taking orders from a woman? I can assure you that I won't be the easiest person to work for, and I'll demand hard work and absolute loyalty. For that, I'll pay you top dollar, and you can sleep in the barn and take your meals in the kitchen."

  He looked around. "Which barn might that be?"

  Claire flushed. "Well, you'll have to build it, of course. We'll have to build it, I mean. In the meantime, I keep the wagon and my own horse in that broken-down springhouse in the back. You're free to do the same until we have the barn up."

  Campbell scratched his head. "You know a lot about putting up barns?"

  "No, Mr. Campbell, I do not. I intend to learn that, as well."

  "So, what I'll be doing mostly, is teaching you how to run a ranch and put up a barn, is that about it?"

  "We need a well, too," she said, annoyed at his persistence.

  He sat down on the edge of the porch. "Okay. Let's see. Raise cattle, build barns and dig wells. I'm waiting for the rest."

  "Well," she conceded. "There are several crates of chickens waiting in town to be picked up, and I don't know a great deal about growing vegetables, either."

  "Chickens and vegetables," he repeated, nodding. "What about a few hollyhocks or some morning glories by your back stoop? Let me ask you something. You do know how to dress yourself and to read and write, don't you?"

  Claire bristled. "I read and write in three languages, thank you."

  "That ought to come in real handy," he said wearily. "You do anything else useful? Can you use a gun?"

  "Will that be necessary?"

  "Well, that's a damn fool question if I ever heard one. Do you think Linus Thacker's just going to sit on his hind end over there at the Silver Star and let you take this place back without a fight? Your man Hernandez didn't get dead from old age, you know."

  "I'm sorry about Mr. Hernandez, of course, but even if Thacker was responsible, he may have meant it as just a warning."

  Campbell swore. "Hell, Stump, you're even dumber than I thought. Of course it's a warning, and it may be the last one you get before he comes down on you like a...."

  "Grandpa's pistols are in my suitcase, and I've got a shotgun and two rifles in the house," she said smugly.

  "That's a start, but a couple of good hands would be handy, to go along with them. The barn can wait for now, and so can the well. Today we'll start with some empty bottles on that fence over there. Get inside and take off that idiot dress and put on some work pants. Nobody I ever knew ran a ranch in a red dress and a damned corset. How were you expecting to breathe out here in that contraption?"

  He pulled the gun from his holster and handed it to her, barrel first.

  She took the weapon from him carefully and tried pointing it in the approximate direction of the porch. "Don't start trying to give me orders, Lucas Campbell. I'm still the owner of this ranch, and I intend to be giving the orders, as well."

  Campbell put both arms around her, positioned her hands properly on the gun and turned her back toward the yard. "I'd like to not shoot out any more windows, if it's all the same to you. It will start raining again some day. And as far as giving orders goes," he said, pointing to the farthest fence, "that'll be me, for the time being. When you can pick a lizard off that post down there at the far end of the yard or nail a jackrabbit for our dinner at the same distance, we'll talk about changing places. Meanwhile, I'll be making what decisions there are. If that doesn't suit you, try finding yourself another fella' dumb enough to stick around and get what brains he's got shot out. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

  "You can go straight to hell, you overbearing son-of-a-bitch," Claire said coldly. She hurled the gun at his head, wheeled and marched off toward the house.

  As she strode by, Campbell took her arm and pulled her quickly backward, picked her up bodily and dumping her facedown over the porch railing. Already shocked into momentary silence at what was happening, she could only gasp in disbelief when he tossed up her skirt and petticoats to add a second indignity—two resounding, open-handed smacks across the seat of her drawers. The blows were swift, hard and purposeful and elicited an equally swift response from Claire.

  "How dare you put your hands on me!" she screeched, throwing one hand back to in a belated effort at self-defense. "If you so much as touch me again, I swear I'll .…" When she turned her head to finish the threat, she saw that Campbell had picked up a long section of broken shingle from the step.

  "It looks like we need to get a couple things straight here," he remarked, dusting the dirt clods from the shingle. "In the first place, if I ever catch you handling a loaded weapon like that again, I'll roast your damned rump 'til it's the color of that stupid dress you're wearing. In the second place, I don't take to being called names 'til I've earned 'em." Then, to Claire's horror, he pushed her further over the creaking porch rail until her feet swung off the ground. Suspended helplessly and in some danger of either sliding down the splintered railing or falling headfirst into her dead flowerbed, she grabbed the post at the bottom of the steps with both hands and clung to it until her arms began to ache. Humiliated and furious, Claire
was more than willing to continue fighting, but in her precarious position it was obvious that escape was impossible.

  She could still hurl insults at him, however, and she did—as many of her grandfather's colorful profanities as she could bring to mind while being spanked so hard she was close to losing her grip on the splintered post. And with every new insult, Lucas Campbell simply shook his head a bit sadly, took careful aim and landed another stinging whap with the shingle. After the first dozen whaps, Claire's resolve was beginning to crumble, while the shingle—considering its age—was holding up admirably. Finally, risking an ignominious drop into the flowerbed, she reached back with both hands and grabbed the back of her drawers.

  "Keep those hands down," he warned. "Reach back there again and I'm gonna pull them drawers down and give you what you've really got coming—bare-assed." He reinforced the threat with a flurry of quick but agonizing swats across the soft under-curve of Claire's buttocks, just above her thighs.

  "O-W-W! Oh, God! You can't do this!" she screamed. "If your don't let me up from here, I'll go to the sheriff and swear out a warrant, the minute I... O-O-W-W-W-W!!! Stop it, you goddamned son-of-a-bitch!"

  "I'd watch my mouth if I were you," he advised. "It's that's sort of talk that got you over a porch rail with your rump on fire to begin with."

  But Campbell's painful assault on what was probably the most sensitive part of her backside had reignited Claire's rage. Gritting her teeth, she kicked backward with both feet and all her remaining strength, aiming for his groin.

  The kick missed. Campbell sighed. "You were always kind of a slow learner, Stump," he said. "Let's try three more and see if you smarten up."

  As the raspy wood tore at the thin muslin of her drawers, Claire bucked and squirmed frantically—wasting what little remained of her strength and achieving nothing. But while the "three more" hurt, she had the odd feeling that they were being administered with a somewhat gentler hand—even a trace of reluctance. That perceived reluctance wasn't something she could prove, but it was … interesting.

  "I'm hoping you'll be a bit more willing to see things my way after that," Campbell said, as he lifted her down and set her on her feet. "Unless you fire me off the place, instead." He chuckled. "Probably be just about the shortest job I ever had."