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Hunter's Prize

By Marcia Gruver

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Prologue

Pretoria, South Africa, November, 1904

A raspy, hissing zzzzzzZZTT spun Cedric Whitfield toward the lone African swift soaring overhead. Whimpering, he covered his ears, stumbling away from the jarring sound. Lips tightly sealed to spare his parched throat, he ran along the hard-packed road, the hot, dry air burning inside his nose with every breath.
He skittered past Denny Currie and Charlie Pickering, arching his back and shivering at the thought of touching the scary men hired to drive them to town. In his haste, he blundered into one of the great beasts Charlie led behind him like hounds on a leash.
“Mind the oxen, sonny.” The big man caught his collar, lifting him off the ground. “Unless you fancy being trampled.”
Fixing Ceddy with a bulging eye, the huge animal flared his velvet nostrils and snorted.
With a shrill scream, Ceddy struggled free and shot away.
“Blimey, he’s off again!” Mr. Currie shouted. “Missus Beale, can’t you keep the lad close at hand?”
At the mention of Aunt Jane, Ceddy slowed to a trot and spun, his heart thudding against his ribs. Shuffling backward, feeling the sun on the backs of his bare legs, he watched her top the rise.
“He’s frightened of your team, Mr. Currie,” she called, her brows rising to peaks.
Shifting his weight, Mr. Currie dried his forehead with his sleeve. “Appears to be frightened of most things, now don’t he?”
Panting hard, Auntie pressed a silk hanky to her mouth and plodded up the uneven path, the grasping branches of the sweet thorn brush tangling with her hem as she passed. “My nephew is a child, sir. A child with uncommon debilitations. Must I remind you of that?”
Charlie frowned. “He seems right fit to me.”
Mr. Currie jabbed him with his elbow and spoke from the side of his mouth. “She don’t mean weak in the physical sense, you twit.”
“Nor do I mean weakness of the mind, sir,” Aunt Jane said. “Please don’t twist my words.”
Mr. Currie’s smile slid away. “Whatever ails him, if he persists in playing about, we won’t see Pretoria by nightfall.” Spinning on his heel, he forged ahead. “Never mind catching the train.”
Ignoring his growly threat, Auntie fell in behind him, dabbing her beaded forehead with the cloth. “How much farther? This pace is a bit much, I’m afraid.”
Drawn to her strong, steady voice, Ceddy lagged to wait for her. . .until the long, silver wings of a snout bug teased away his eyes.
“A couple kilometers,” Mr. Currie said.
“Oh, my,” Auntie shrilled. “Did you say two kilometers?”
He quirked his mouth. “Yes, m’lady, there about.” He dragged off his battered cap to scratch behind his ear then used the hat to point. “If memory serves, once we round that distant grove, it’s but a few steps more.”
Staring across the rolling grassland, Auntie sniffed. “I’ll try to remain optimistic.”
Glancing around, she lowered her voice. “Could there be predators lurking in the brush? I’d prefer to survive this unscheduled trek.”
Ceddy longed to chase the darting snout bug, but her frightened tone pained his stomach. Holding his breath, he passed the men and their oxen then fell back to match her steps.
“Predators in South Africa?” Mr. Currie’s laugh rang hollow like a gourd. “There are lions in these parts, no doubt.” He patted the long-handled pistol at his side. “But you need fear no four-footed creature, Missus Beale. It’s the bloodthirsty lot who creep around on two limbs we hope to avoid.”
Stopping so fast she tripped on the uneven path, Auntie lifted her eyes. “Would you care to elaborate?”
His stubby fingers cradled his sidearm. “Soulless devils lurk in the veldt. The sort who slip up without warning and straddle your back. . .slit you from ear to ear without so much as a ‘how do.’”
Moaning, Ceddy curled into the folds of Aunt Jane’s skirt.
She clutched his shoulder with a trembling hand. “What could such men want with us?”
“Not an invitation to tea, that’s for sure.”
She drew Ceddy closer. “Really, Mr. Currie. If that’s the case, I should think checking the hitch for damage before we left would top your list of priorities.”
Mr. Currie scowled at Charlie Pickering. “You have my blundering assistant to thank for our present fix. He’s in charge of the rigging.”
“Quite right, missus.” Charlie lifted his sweat-stained bush hat and bowed. “An unforgivable lapse on my part.”
Guiding Ceddy with a firm grip on his neck, Aunt Jane continued up the road toward them. “You’d both better pray the train to Port Elizabeth hasn’t left without us. If we don’t make the coast in time to board the steamer for England, you’ll be explaining your lapse to my husband.”
“I’ll drop to me pious knees on the spot, you daft cow,” Mr. Currie muttered as she passed.
Frowning, Auntie paused and lowered her hanky. “Beg your pardon?”
“I say it’s a pleasant day for a walk, anyhow.”
She snorted. “Perhaps. . .if one considers a stifling greenhouse pleasant.” She blotted around her mouth. “Peculiar weather for mid-November, I must say.”
Charlie grinned. “Not in South Africa. November’s the first month of summer ’round here.”
“Is that a fact?” She tilted her head. “This time of year in London they’re banking fires and airing heavy wraps.”
He swiped his damp forehead. “Wish we had cause to bank a fire today. By the feel of things, we’re due a scorcher.”
Aunt Jane patted Ceddy’s back. “I suppose the American climate will be quite the adjustment for this young man.”
“The Americas, missus? I thought you were bound for England.”
“We are. But I will accompany Cedric to Texas in a few months. Should be quite the adventure”—she leaned to smile at Ceddy—“with all the buckaroos and Indians and such.”
“Blimey,” Charlie said, stroking his bristly chin. “I’d sorely love to see a buckaroo.”
Frowning, Mr. Currie elbowed past. “We can stand about chatting all day, if you like. Only don’t blame me when you miss your train.”
“You’re quite right, Mr. Currie,” Aunt Jane said. “Let’s soldier on, shall we?”
Ceddy clutched her skirt with both hands, allowing her steps to jerk him forward. Closing his eyes, he let his head drift back as he ambled along the path—listening.
The jumble of sound, at once frightening and familiar, settled around his shoulders like a favorite quilt. Resting in it, he picked out the rumble of a lioness calling her young to a meal, a yipping jackal, the trill of a sunbird, a huffing white rhino in the distance. Howls, barks, and calls that awakened him each morning and lulled him to sleep every night.
Mr. Currie sniffed, dragging Ceddy from his trance. Clearing his throat, the horrid man spat. “I understand his parents were missionaries?”
“Yes, the both of them.” Auntie’s voice drifted behind her, quivering like a sedge warbler’s song. “Peter and Eliza devoted themselves to sharing the gospel in this godforsaken region.” Slowing, she looked up. “How thoughtless of me to speak so harshly of your country. Forgive me, gentlemen.”
“Quite all right, mum,” Mr. Currie said. “I find their efforts downright inspiring.” He glanced behind him. “Your husband said they drove right off a cliff?”
Auntie gasped and eased Ceddy in front of her. “Mr. Currie, please!”
He tipped his grimy cap. “Sorry, missus. Just making conversation.”
“Sadly, it’s true,” she whispered. “My poor sister and her husband lost their lives in a terrible accident.”
Ceddy squirmed. Adults often talked quietly around him, as if his ears were dull. He could hear quite well, in fact, and her words rang his head like a gong.
“The crash of a motorcar, of all things! In the wilds of South Africa. Can you imagine the folly?” she shrilled. “The silly contraption slid off-road in a muddy downpour. What was Peter thinking to bring that accursed machine to a place with naught to drive upon but rutted ox trails? For all his good intentions, Peter Whitfield had more money than good sense.”
Charlie slid off his hat and clutched it in front of him. “More’s the pity, that. Dreadful sorry.”
Aunt Jane let go a rush of air, tickling the top of Ceddy’s head. “The news came as quite a shock. The poor dears perished the way they lived—side by side in service to our Lord. Now they’re together for eternity.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her hanky. “That hope is my only comfort.”
Charlie tapped Ceddy’s shoulder with a bony finger. “What will happen to this poor little mite?”
Ceddy drew away with a grunt.
Gathering him close, Auntie draped her arms around his neck. “I requested the privilege of raising him, but”—her clipped words sounded stern—“his parents made other arrangements in their will. He’ll spend Christmas with my family in London. Come spring, he’s off to live with Aunt Priss in Marshall, Texas.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Forgive me boldness, missus, but ain’t you his aunt?”
“Priscilla Whitfield is the boy’s great-aunt on his father’s side. To honor his parents’ wishes, the old girl will take him in.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s what they wanted, though I can’t imagine why they preferred that dried up old spinster to me.”
The lead ox stumbled on a mound of clods, nearly going down. Denny Currie cursed and stuck it with a rod, prompting the creature to bellow in protest.
With a loud wail, Ceddy broke free and ran.
“Oy! Not again,” Mr. Currie groaned. “Where’s he off to now?”
“It’s your own fault,” Aunt Jane cried. “The boy has no tolerance for sudden noise or violence of any sort.”
“Violence?” Mr. Currie said. “We ’aven’t—”
“Stay close, dear,” Aunt Jane called, as if from the bottom of a well. “It’s dangerous on your own.”
“Missus Beale, this won’t do!”
The packed dirt pounded beneath Ceddy’s feet, sending vibrations along his spindly legs.
“Cedric, love, please come back,” a lilting voice warbled in the distance. “Where are you going, darling?”
He stretched his arms to the sides and flew. He was a blue crane soaring over the rippling grass. A spoonbill searching for water. Cresting the hill, he shot down the other side counting his jarring footsteps.
“He’s gone!” The angry words echoed overhead. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Don’t just stand there.” The fury in Auntie’s tone drew Ceddy’s shoulders to his ears. “Earn your money, gentlemen. Go after him.”
Heavy footsteps thundered behind him on the trail as the men closed in, muttering fierce curses at his back. Cruel fingers lashed out, closing around his neck. “Come back ’ere, you little—”
Squirming, Ceddy spun and bit down hard.
Mr. Currie howled. Gripping Ceddy’s arm with his other hand, he shoved him along the path. “Oy, Charlie,” he growled. “When we reach the top of the ridge, mate, distract the old girl whilst I nudge this brat over the side.”
“Tempting, boss,” Charlie whispered back. “But we can’t kill off clergy’s seed. We’ll roast in perdition.”
Denny snorted. “I’d risk the fiery flames to be shed of ’im.”
Scowling, Charlie swiped a bony finger across his neck. “Shut it. She’ll hear you.”
“Let her hear. I don’t give a monkey’s behind.”
“ ’Ere she comes,” Charlie hissed. “Get a handle, mate. It’s the only way we’ll see our wages. We’ll be shed of them for good and all once they board the train.”
Ceddy covered his ears and moaned to escape their vile whispers.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Currie?” Aunt Jane’s panting cry came from behind the hill. “Catch hold of my nephew this instant.”
Catch hold of my nephew.
Nudge him over the side.
Ceddy’s breath caught as he pulled free of their grasping hands and shot around them. Veering to the right, he tripped over a tussock of wool grass, the smooth bottoms of his shoes slipping on the bright green blades.
Flailing his arms, he scrambled for a hold, but the long fronds slid through his fingers, leaving a sharp sting. He toppled, moving so fast the ground shot past in a blur. Shrieking in fear, he dug in his heels, plowing twin rows in the earth as he slid.
Halfway down, his feet hit a rock, flipping him again. He tumbled to the bottom in a blinding rush, rolling to a stop on his back, next to the bank of a stream.
Ceddy screwed up to cry, but the wide expanse of a cloudless blue sky drew his gaze. He stilled, watching the gray belly of an osprey soaring overhead.
Arching his body, he drew away from the sharp stones biting into his shoulders. Stirred by pain and frantic voices calling his name, he rolled to his elbows and stared at the scatter of rocks and stones he’d unearthed.
One of them glinted in the sunlight. Ceddy made a grab for it as the brush parted and long shadows fell, blocking the light.
Glancing up the hill, he tensed to flee, but Aunt Jane pushed between the men, her face bright from the heat. “Heavens, child! Are you all right? Come to me, dearie. That’s it, now. No more games, right? You’re a good boy, then, aren’t you, lamb?”
Pushing off the ground, Ceddy hobbled to the safety of her skirts.
Mr. Currie cursed aloud. “Well ain’t that just ducky. Dusts ’im off and pats ’is head, she does, and after he nearly got us killed. That brat needs a strap to ’is backside.”
Auntie spun. “Mind your tongue and your business, Mr. Currie. And I’ll thank you to abstain from vulgar language around Cedric. He understands every word.”
Mr. Currie snorted. “That ain’t likely.”
“It’s true,” she huffed. “Ceddy’s quite intelligent. Brighter than most, in fact.”
Charlie laughed, a muffled sputter from behind his hand. “Pardon, missus. I don’t mean to make sport. I’ll give it to you that he’s a right handsome child. But smart?” He fell to chuckling again.
Her arms tightened around Ceddy. “Let’s get something straight before we take another step. This is no ordinary youngster.”
Mr. Currie elbowed his partner. “We worked out that bit for ourselves.”
“Well, you’ve worked it out all wrong. Cedric’s brighter than the two of you lumped together. A bit of a genius, really. He has difficulty expressing himself, that’s all, and he’s easily distracted.” Her voice faltered. “It’s why he’s so flighty.”
Auntie’s white-gloved fingers closed around Ceddy’s clenched fist. Glancing down, she frowned. “What have we here, lovey?”
Prying the stone from his grip, she turned it over in her hands. “Oh my. Another rock? I should think you’ve gathered plenty for your collection. They’re weighing us down as it is.”
He whimpered and scrambled for it.
Pulling away, she poised to toss it into the stream. “Leave it behind, dear. It’s filthy.”
“Nuh!”
“Yes, ’tis, Ceddy.” She brushed her hand against her skirt. “Look how it soiled my nice, clean gloves. Let’s us throw it down, shall we? You have so many.”
Bouncing on his heels, he tugged on her arm. “Mm-muh!”
With a sigh, she knelt at his side. “Yours? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He worked for the word. Fought for it. “Muh.”
Auntie peered at him with narrowed eyes then pulled a hanky from her bodice. “Oh, all right. I suppose you’ve suffered loss enough for a lifetime. You may keep it.” She wrapped the jagged stone, shoving it deep inside his pocket. “See that it stays tucked in here until we can wash it, right?” Pausing, she caught his chin. “If you run off again, I’ll take it from you. Do you understand?”
He drew in his shoulders and turned away, curling his fingers around the bulging pouch at his side.
Auntie faced the angry men. “Shall we go back to the trail now?”
“Right,” Charlie growled. “If we can find it.”
Mr. Currie crossed his arms. “Listen up, Missus Beale. I ain’t signed on to be no baby-minder. For all the trouble the lad’s been, I’ve a notion to carry on without you.”
She gasped. “You’d leave us at the mercy of wild animals and prowling natives?”
He held his bleeding hand toward Ceddy. “Five minutes with ’im and they’d set you free.”
She stiffened. “He won’t stray again. I give you my word.” Her fingers tightened on Ceddy’s arm. “He certainly won’t be biting again. I’ll see to that.”
Charlie slapped Denny on the back. “Come along, old man. You’ve come this far, now see it through.” He puffed his cheeks and blew a breath. “Let’s get topside and mind the team before they’re set upon by lions.”
“No worries, mate,” Denny grumbled, falling in alongside him. “If a lion dares to show his hairy face, we’ll just sic that rabid boy on ’im.”

Denny had never been so happy to see Church Square. Coming into Pretoria from the acacia Karroo always startled him at first. The town, sitting square in the middle of nowhere, sported a richness that didn’t belong in the valleys and rolling plains of the thornveld.
South Africa afforded plenty of room to sprawl in, and the Capital of Transvaal Province had taken advantage of the space. The streets were wide, the buildings several stories high. Church Square, at the center of it all, was vast and gaudy.
Blindfolded and carried into Pretoria, Denny would recognize the town at once when the blinders came off. One glance at the Jacaranda trees lining the shaded lanes and the rambler roses climbing the walls would give it away. The City of Roses was a fitting name for a town strewn with colorful petals.
Drawing a deep, fragrant breath, he rested his hands on his hips. “Charlie, take the oxen and have them looked after. Once they’re settled, unstrap the baggage from the beasts and meet us at Pretoria Station.”
“Right, boss,” Charlie said, turning the team.
Mrs. Beale sought Denny’s eyes, her mouth set in a stern line. “There’s no need for you to accompany us to the station. Ceddy and I can find our way from here.”
Denny shook his head. “I was hired to see you safely onto the train, and that’s what I mean to do.”
She tugged on the fingers of her glove. “Very well, Mr. Currie. As you wish.” Resting her hand on the boy’s back, she struck out down the street—in the wrong direction.
“Missus Beale?”
She turned.
“It’s that way,” Denny said, pointing.
“Of course.” She raised a haughty chin and pranced up the sidewalk.
Denny grimaced at Charlie in the distance then grudgingly followed the silly cow and her impish nephew.
A bicycle careened around the corner, frantically pedaled by a businessman in a suit coat and dapper straw hat.
In a burst of speed, Denny yanked the troublesome child and his aunt out of the road.
Ceddy jerked free with a sullen pout and plodded woodenly toward the station platform.
Denny ran his thumb over the ring of teeth marks on his hand “S’aright, you cheeky little beggar,” he whispered to the back of the boy’s head. “I’ll be shed of you soon enough.”
The 132 wending its way toward them on the tracks—its big engine primed to take Cedric Whitfield out of his life for good—was a sight to warm the cockles of Denny’s heart. If he never saw the wicked lad again, it would suit him fine.
“Wait up, dear. You’ll be lost.”
Ignoring his aunt’s harried warning, the boy scurried onto the platform and ran to a row of windows. Folding his legs beneath him, he sat on the ground and reached inside his pocket. Unwrapping the stone she’d given him, he commenced to scratching on the wall of the station.
Mrs. Beale sighed then shook her finger. “Stay put, yeah? The train’s almost here.”
Turning to Denny, she held out a fat wad of bills. “I’ve decided to pay extra for your trouble.”
“Not extra, lady.” He raised one brow. “Double.”
She drew back, narrowing her eyes.
Denny wiggled his fingers. “I earned every copper.”
Releasing a huffy breath, she counted out a few more pounds. “Very well. Done.”
Loud tapping pulled their attention to the boy. Kneeling before a window, he rapped hard on the glass with his silly rock.
“Oh, bother. What’s he doing?” Denny waved his arms. “Hullo there, sonny! Stop that, now.”
Fidgeting, Mrs. Beale stared down the track, deaf and blind to the child in her charge.
“Call the lad away, Missus Beale, before he breaks something.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Leave him be, Mr. Currie. He’s not hurting anything.”
Gritting his teeth, Denny turned aside in disgust. “Right,” he whispered. “What’s it to you? You’ll soon be rolling south, free as the wind. I’ll be left to square the tab.”
Charlie appeared as the hulking engine rumbled past, the squeal on metal piercing as the engineer braked to a stop.
Denny hooked his thumb in Ceddy’s direction. “I’ll load their bags. You go fetch the brat so he can board. We can’t have her leaving without ’im.”
Nodding, Charlie dropped his burden then hustled to the boy and leaned to speak to him.
Cedric pushed to his feet and ran to join his aunt.
As they climbed the steps of the passenger car and disappeared inside, Denny drew a deep, cleansing breath. He didn’t relax until the rods on the massive wheels began to pump, rolling the bothersome blighters out of his life. Patting the wad of money in his pocket, he grinned and strolled to join Charlie. “Looks like we scored a profit after all.”
“Maybe not, boss,” Charlie said as he approached. “Take a gander at what he’s done.”
Denny groaned. So much for the few extra quid. “The window’s cracked, ain’t it?”
Charlie shook his head. “Not cracked. The little beggar left his calling card.”
“What are you on about now?” Curious, he bent to stare at the pane. What he saw fired a rushing sound inside his ears.
“Blast me! Will you look at that?” Heart racing, he ran his finger over the jagged letters of Ceddy’s name etched into the glass.
Charlie scratched the wiggly lines with his thumbnail. “He’s done it now, ain’t he? It’s ruined.” Standing, he tugged on Denny’s sleeve. “There’s still time to do a runner. No one’s noticed yet.”
Denny jerked off his cap and whacked Charlie on the head. “Don’t you know what you’re looking at, you mindless dolt?”
Clutching his reddening ear, Charlie frowned and shook his head.
“Use your loaf, mate. Nothing will cut into glass like that except. . .” His voice rose on the end, inviting Charlie to finish.
Wheeling, Charlie stared toward the train, the last car glinting on the horizon. “You mean that hulking great rock is a. . .” His words trailed off, but his eyes bulged from their sockets.
Denny gripped his arm and spun him around. “Where was that silly woman taking the boy?”
“To London for Christmas.” Charlie flapped his hands as if it helped him to remember. “Then somewhere in America. Texas, I think.”
“Ah yes,” Denny said, the satisfying hiss befitting his slanted eyes. “I remember now.” He whirled and stared down the tracks. “They’re bound for a place called Marshall.”

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