by Jana Barkley
“What else have we got?” asked Hank, while he exchanged the one-strap bag over his shoulder for a vest with large pockets in front and behind.
“Chelsea brought her red tail. I’ve got Sheba. You have any suggestions?”
“Naw, just curious.”
“Then, with your permission…?” Mike asked.
Hank gave a humorous shrug and smiled, transforming his inscrutable visage to reveal another side to the man, one that spoke of a lightness in stark contrast to the hard lines etched into his face. While the others laughed, Sam realized she had been staring at him. His eyes caught hers, and she turned to face the others.
Mary Kate pulled out a small, dark hawk with bright orange-brown splashes on its shoulders. Others brought birds out of traveling boxes, and she noticed the hawks all appeared the same, except for size. The males were smaller than the females—a fact she remembered from her test.
“This is Farley,” Mary Kate crooned, introducing him to Sam and scratching him underneath his breast feathers. The hawk made a series of low-note gurgles in response to her and wiggled around on the glove.
“He sure talks a lot.”
“It’s a Harris hawk thing. They’re social birds. They talk to you just like they would to the members of their pack in the wild.” Then to the rest of the group, she called, “Are we ready?”
Nods and calls of “Let’s do it,” met her with enthusiasm. Soon, the air was full of dark, bay-winged birds, circling each other and landing on various vehicles. They were all loose, and Sam laughed aloud.
“Stay with me,” Mary Kate said, and pointed to her right. “We’ll move out in a straight line. Don’t walk ahead of the line, and if a falconer tells you to go somewhere, do it.” The easygoing woman was all serious business now. She stepped out, motioning Sam beside her. Half the falconers held six- to eight-foot-high poles made of PVC pipe that had small perches on top. Harrises descended onto the T-shaped perches, and a couple to gloves, as they moved out in a straight line at a moderate pace.
Tramping through the sage was exhilarating. Its musky scent brushed against her clothes, washed over her hands as she raised them to her face, and engulfed her in its earthy odor. She kept herself five feet to Mary Kate’s right, careful to monitor her position in the line. Ten feet to her right, Hank carried an average-sized Harris hawk on his glove.
“When you see a rabbit,” said Mary Kate, motioning Sam closer to her, “the traditional cry is—”
She didn’t have time to finish, for another woman’s voice shot out clear on the crisp morning air, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“That’s it!” Mary Kate bolted forward. The birds took off in pursuit, and so did the falconers. Running break-neck through the sage to stay up with them, Sam tried not to stumble. The line staggered and collapsed as falconers ran to where the hawks circled and flew down. Reaching the others, she saw Harris hawks perched on a large sage bush while others were crawling through the bottom branches on the ground, searching for the rabbit.
“It’s gone to ground. A cottontail.” Mary Kate threw the news over her shoulder to the others.
“That’s fine, folks,” Hank said, walking up. “There’s plenty more around here.”
The line reformed and the falconers walked on without their birds. Sam glanced back at the pack of hawks, wondering how they were going to get them to follow. They answered her question with a series of whistles, or some just yelled “C’mon.” One by one, the pack members flew in and took up positions on gloves and T-perches. It didn’t matter who was on what perch, which gave this hawking party a grand free-for-all feeling.
They had walked the sage in silence for some minutes when Sam saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, ahead and to the right. She pointed it out to Mary Kate in a small, self-conscious voice. “Ho, ho, ho…?”
Mary Kate hooted. “Yell, girl. Get that rascal running!”
Someone else called it out, and Sam didn’t have time to stay embarrassed. A large black-tailed jackrabbit bolted forward and sent the pack off again with renewed fervor. Jumping over clumps of sage, her heart raced with exhilaration. There was nothing, nothing in the world she would rather do than this. It felt primal, elemental, and connected to the wildness around her, as if she were participating in an act her ancient ancestors might have done.
A scream pierced the morning air. It was a plaintive cry, like a small child or a cat wailing. The group hesitated as one, and then it surged forward to the hawks. If the falconers had run fast before, it was nothing compared to the urgency they displayed now.
Breathless, Sam straggled up behind to see the rabbit was caught. It kicked until the mass of black birds subdued the animal and covered it, their wings outstretched over each other like layers of fans to hide the catch. Falconers came in one at a time to pull their hawks off the catch and walked away, their backs turned to the rabbit as they attempted to keep the excited raptors from bolting back onto the kill. Remo and little Farley were left to grapple with the struggling rabbit together.
Hank kneeled down to retrieve Remo by holding out a small rabbit’s foot. It was a lure, meant to entice the hawk up onto his glove in exchange for the rabbit. Then, with deft hands, he clipped Remo to his glove and turned away from the kill as the others had.
“It’s Farley’s kill,” Hank said, and Sam stood back and admired the small hawk as it held on to the jack that was more than twice his size. But the rabbit was not dead.
Mary Kate knelt down by her bird.
“Sam, get down here. I could use your help.”
Sam jumped, not sure how in the hell she could help, and joined Mary Kate on her knees in the sage.
“Hold these, and don’t let go whatever you do.” She handed Sam the jack’s two hind legs, which set it off kicking while the tenacious Farley gripped its head.
Sam held on with a death grip, more afraid of what Mary Kate would do to her if the rabbit got free. Farley’s legs straddled the jack in a dangerous fashion, leaving him vulnerable to a kick in the head. Mary Kate coaxed the little Harris around onto the rabbit’s head, away from the struggling back feet in Sam’s hands.
“Okay, darlin’, I’ve got her now.” Mary Kate took the hind legs in one hand and held the rabbit’s neck with her other. With some effort, she pulled and stretched the rabbit until its struggle was over.
Mary Kate heaved a sigh and sat back, then motioned with her head behind her.
“Watch how I do this. You never obviously steal food away from your bird, or it won’t trust you anymore.”
She pulled out a plastic bag from her vest and placed it over most of the rabbit, except the head, which Farley still held onto with all his strength. “He worked hard for this, and he’s not letting go if he can help it. But because I still want to fly him, I can’t let him crop up and get full.” She pulled a bony rabbit leg with little meat on it out of her vest with her gloved hand and thrust it up under the hawk, right over the rabbit’s head.
“When he steps off, I’m gonna tell you to pull that rabbit, bag and all, and stuff them into the back pouch of my vest. Got it?”
“Yes,” she said out loud, since Mary Kate’s back was to her.
Farley must have stepped up onto the glove, because Mary Kate said, “Okay, do it now.”
Sam grabbed rabbit legs and bag and pulled everything back behind Mary Kate, away from Farley’s view. She knew she had to be quick; the other hawkers were working to keep their curious birds from trying to fly back to where the rabbit was. Feeling awkward, she fumbled at first as she stuffed the long bony legs inside the bag, but she managed to get the whole carcass in. It must have weighed at least six pounds, and she thought with admiration of the pound-and-a-half hawk that had subdued it. Stowing it in the back of Mary Kate’s vest, she said, “Done,” and stood back.
Minutes later, the birds were up again, and away they went for the next couple of hours. The hawks caught two more jacks and a cottontail, and on the last flight, Farley and Remo tag-teamed the c
atch and earned their final reward.
Claws gripped, pierced, tore. The sleek wings and neck feathers of the hawks jutted out in sharp angles to shield and hold fast, their pristine shine dulled under layers of desert silt and gore. And still the rabbit kicked from some left over reflex though its soul had gone well before the birds broke in through the tough hide.
Sam gagged. Not at the sight of bloody death, and not at the quavering muscles that lurched their last and finally lay still. Beneath layers of fur, skin, and cartilage, lay the heart lungs and liver (as Mary Kate so aptly pointed out to the prospective apprentice), the coveted sweet meats both hawks scrabbled and squawked to claim. And all Sam could imagine was herself, laid out on the operating table, vulnerable as never before, while surgeons pulled away her flesh, lifted muscles aside, and grasped her inner workings with impersonal, clinical hands. Clawed to death in both body and soul.
She dared not close her eyes to lose the image for fear they would think the sight of the dead rabbit sickened her. Hawks feasting on their hard-caught meal did not disturb her. Rather the graceful curve of head and neck, fanning wings, and terrible red-stained feet reminded her of her own angles. She was not like the short, soft, and rounded auburn-haired woman working with her hawk on its kill. Sam was small but sharp. Strong and reserved, she was able to strike out with force if needed. She would be the pursuer, not the pursued. The gripper, the taker, and catcher with her own claws. She would not be the meal, the victim, the remains.
The cold morning air cleared her tight chest in one deep breath, and she found solace in the vision of herself as predator, not prey.
When the birds were full, Mary Kate cut off a foreleg and managed to pick Farley up and move away.
Hank reached around to his back vest pocket and fumbled for the zipper with a bloody hand.
“Do you need help?” She regretted the question after it slipped out of her mouth.
Those ice-blue eyes flew to her face in an expressionless gaze she couldn’t read.
“I got it,” he said, finding the zipper and tugging the back pouch open. As if on second thought, he turned toward her. “Here.” He handed her his bloody game shears. “Cut off a hind leg, but mind the bird’s toes. He’s on the head now, but if he gets antsy and I tell you to back off, you drop everything and back off.” His cool, assessing eyes penetrated hers.
He was testing her. She knew it, just as she knew he was not someone to be toyed with. Sam nodded and moved in as she’d seen the others do. Taking the bloody shears, she smiled, knowing he wanted to see her cut into the soft, fuzzy bunny, touch the blood, and get all upset and go home. People often misjudged her because of her appearance, but she had never backed away from a challenge in her life.
She was beginning to see these birds appreciated the respect of a slow move but would react instantly to hesitant, fearful gestures. Always the predator, they felt what you felt instinctively. With the shears in her right hand, she caught hold of a hind leg with her bare left hand, knowing at any moment a strong, taloned foot could grab her. She focused on the rabbit’s leg, cutting through hide and flesh and bone to twist the hindquarter free, and then handed it to Hank.
Focused keenly on Remo, Hank took the game shears and the hindquarter from her and put it under the satiated Harris hawk to persuade him up onto the glove. With Remo’s attention on the rabbit leg, Hank moved forward on his knees, pulled the rabbit carcass away, and stuffed it into his back vest pocket. He’d done this a million times, and she, a rank novice, had offered to help him.
She stood and backed away while he secured Remo to his glove. Mary Kate had already started back to her van behind the others. Not sure if she should move off to join her or stay and walk back with Hank, she hesitated. The man was oblivious to her, accustomed to being alone. He probably preferred it that way. Yet she did not want to violate some unknown field etiquette by striking off on her own.
With his attention on the bird, she was free to watch him without being seen. He was in his element in this wild, undeveloped country. His worn, hardened face seemed ageless when he looked at you. Yet his profile hinted at what he might have been like as a young man, passionate and impressionable as he inclined his head toward his hawk and communed with him in a language only they understood. Hard and impassive with most people, but yielding and malleable with his birds, this strange conundrum of a man tugged at her curiosity. She had watched him interact with Mary Kate and knew they were good friends. Friendship came at a great price with this man, she surmised. And it was also clear he would not take his commitments or his relationships lightly when they occurred.
She shuffled a foot and earned a distracted backward glance from him.
“Worn-out yet?” It was an ambiguous question, as if he were uncertain about what to say. It told her he didn’t like to make chit-chat.
She laughed and caught a look of either surprise or mild irritation. “Not at all.” Truthfully, she was hot and sweaty and wanted a drink of water back at the car.
He struck off toward the truck and glanced back, expecting her to follow. She scampered over to his right side, remembering the field etiquette of staying on the falconer’s non-bird side. He cast her a quick glance as she strode to keep up with his long-legged gait.
“I have some soap and water back at the truck.”
“Excuse me?”
He jerked his head in the direction of her hands, which for the first time she noticed were covered in jackrabbit blood and fur.
“Oh. Thank you.”
“Some jacks carry a virus that can infect humans, too. Can make you pretty sick.”
Sam’s eyes widened. She wasn’t aware of this.
“Avoid getting the blood on open cuts or in your mouth.”
Sam wondered how in the hell she could get the blood in her mouth. He could have asked if she had any cuts on her hands before he handed her the bloody game shears. She glanced sideways at him as they walked, wondering if he was aware of what she was thinking, but he was stoic as ever.
The others chatted and drank coffee as Sam found Mary Kate. She watched Hank continue on to his SUV to put Remo and the rabbit carcass away, oblivious to what was going on in the group.
Sam held her hands up to Mary Kate with a grin.
“Follow me,” said the short woman, and led her to her van, where she rummaged around and produced some wet wipes. “Here.” She chuckled. Sam cleaned her hands in short order and they rejoined the others.
“We can break the rest of this up into two groups. Chelsea? Is Pandora at weight?” Mike orchestrated everything like a perfect bandleader.
The tall young woman who’d been at the Scottish games was there; she nodded. Since apprentices were required to start with either a wild-caught passage red tail or kestrel, Sam wanted to see this red tail hunt.
“Do you mind if I come along?” Sam ventured when the conversation lulled.
Chelsea smiled a great big welcome. “Not at all.”
“This red tail’s great with other people around,” Mary Kate said. “Plus, it’ll give you a chance to see the different hunting style used with red tails.”
Mike agreed, “Good for the future apprentice.”
“When are you taking Sheba out?” Hank’s voice startled Sam from behind. She turned to see him adjusting his baseball cap.
“Well, I thought I’d get her out and head down the road while they fly the red tail.”
“Mind some company?”
Mike gave him an incredulous look and laughed. “Like you need to ask. Of course, you’re invited.”
“Not for me. For this one.”
It took Sam a moment to realize Hank was referring to her.
Mike shrugged. “You know I can’t take more than two people with me—not that you’re a problem,” he said, turning to Sam.
She smiled through her confusion.
“Hey, boss,” Mary Kate said, “we wanted to get Sam out with the red tail so she’d see what she’s in for.”
&n
bsp; Hank was quiet and unreadable. Mike broke the tension.
“Okay, that’s fine. No reason why she can’t. Sam, why don’t you jump in my truck; hell, there’s room for all three of us in that cab. We’ll drive over the rise and see what the gos is up to.”
The gos. Sam congratulated herself on guarding her reaction. All the fun and happiness she had experienced that morning squished down into the tiniest kernel of apprehension.
“It’s up to you, kiddo,” said Mary Kate. Sam realized her ever-ready smile had not fooled the woman.
Sam’s usual directness came smooth and unrehearsed. “Sure, I’m game.”
She headed over to Mike’s truck and noticed Mary Kate and Hank talking, though she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Nothing angry from their demeanor, but Hank’s face was set as he said something that smacked of finality and turned to walk to Mike’s rig.
Sharp-set: A hawk that is ready to hunt
Chapter Seven
The back of Mike’s truck was open. Sam could see a large wooden box with holes. Unlike the traditional pet carriers some of the others used, this box made it impossible for the hawk to see out, or for anyone to see in, for that matter. As Mike assembled his gear, a loud thwack sounded from inside the box. Sam stepped backward.
“She’s anxious to get out.” Mike said, grinning.
“Is that typical for a goshawk?” Sam clenched and opened her left hand in its jacket pocket to remind herself how powerful and painful a goshawk footing could be.
“This bird will show you how a good imprint behaves.” Hank had come up from behind, which was becoming his usual manner of address around her. God, he must be as silent as a cat when hunting alone. No one and nothing would hear him coming.
She resisted the impulse to turn and recognize him or to let him know she was aware he was referring to her novice’s question at the Scottish games about bad imprints. Most folks walked up to a group and addressed everyone. Hank, however, had the annoying habit of flinging comments out there when it suited him and leaving when he was no longer interested. It puzzled her the others admired him so much. Perhaps he was the kind of man who didn’t tolerate fools, which left her uncomfortable, wondering whether it was her presence here that made him this way. As annoying as his demeanor was, she was more annoyed with herself for caring what he thought about her.