Lucas McCain had gotten himself a new farmhand. Lord knew, he had lost count how many young and older men he had had working with him and Mark. Youngsters who needed to tide over a tight spot, older men run down on their luck who needed a fresh start, a kind word and some encouragement. Lucas did not mind, though sometimes he had gotten to hate that each left, leaving him to find somebody new, often having to carry Mark over a spot of melancholy being alone again.

This young man though – this one he would miss himself.

….

Him and Mark had been in town for the usual run of supplies.

Darkness closing in slowly, the heat still lingered in places, making the air dance. The road was dusty, thirsty, and the dark clouds overhead promised reprieve within the next hours. Lucas threw the bag of grain onto the wagon and glanced around in search of his boy.

Micah caught his eyes from the door of his office and twitched his head. The tall man crossed the street with his usual few steps and frowned at his old friend. "Micah."

"Lucas, are you still looking for a hand?"

"Not precisely, but there's always work to be done."

"There's a young man Hattie sent to me – asked for work at her place and at the smithy's. Looked earnest to me."

That was praise enough to make Lucas consider. "What's his story?"

"He's not the talkative kind. Got a handsome horse but no saddle, a couple of heavy furs but only soft moccasins on his feet. And… no gun."

That raised the other man's brows. "I saw the horse… indian bred, I thought. But no gun, in this territory? That's…"

The corners of the older man's eyes lifted upward. Micah had known this last bit of information would tickle his friend. "His clothing don't make him no preacher, either."

Lucas pushed away from the chock. "Right, where do I find him? Time to get Mark home. Wind's picking up."

"Aye, we'll be having a regular autumn storm. Last I know he sat by the steps next door to the saloon."

Lucas found the stranger all right – the steps leading up to the little flat above the Locksmith's were crowded with children. His son among them, a second look told him. What kind of mischief were those boys up to now?

"Mark!"

The boy turned somewhat reluctantly and called out: "Pa, look, please, just a little bit longer! Look! He's whittling some kind of animal."

Intrigued despite himself, Lucas stepped closer. Things out here were done for practicality, not beauty. Carving an animal sounded … whimsical. And Micah thought this person could work?

There were six boys, most around Mark's age, settled around a slender man. Long, clever fingers held a short bowie knife and a block of wood. His movements were precise, well-practiced, and, Lucas noted with surprise, extremely considerate of his audience. Even more surprising – the block of wood already had the life-like shape of an otter, its head, eyes and front paws worked to precision, the hind body with the tail still raw.

"Impressive work there, mister." Lucas was anxious to get going. The trip home would take an hour in good light, and the clouds were threatening. "Mark, we have to leave soon."

"Thank you, S-" the deep, a little rough voice broke off.

McCain found himself looking into heavily-lashed, startling green eyes. The face they belonged to was fresh, diamond-shaped with a narrow nose and defined, clean-shaven chin. Not even the upper lip of an elegant, expressive mouth held a shadow. The expression on the boyish features was of quickly hidden surprise – or was it recognizance? and awe. An underlying wariness told Lucas that this boy had seen his share of life, even if he could hardly be older than twenty-and-two.

He wore a wide hat of light leather, but underneath his head was covered in a shawl of some kind, hiding the nature of the young man's hair.

Lucas noted that the left hand that had held the knife had turned it so the blade pointed inward – a movement so quick he had not seen it. Could be both to keep the children's erratic movements safe from harm, but also a defensive move.

"Mister," Mark had exchanged a glance with one of the older boys. "How long do you recon will it take you, to finish this?"

"Only a few more minutes, boy." There was warmth in the deep voice, though no smile lit the serious face. He got back to work with amazing speed, though still careful where his movements went.

"You think you could teach us, mister?"

That finally called forth a twitch in the young man's cheek. "Name's Eirik, boys. And to teach you anything, me and you'd need your parent's permission, and I'd need a job around here."

"Why?" a younger voice piped up.

"Whittling needs strength, an empty stomach doesn't really help with that."

"Ah." That was a well-known argument around here.

The answer had given McCain his opening. "Looking for work?"

"Aye, sir. I can do most of anything, if maybe not lifting horses." Again, those startling green eyes met his with appraising directness. A hint of humour glinted there.

"I've got a farm a bit out of town, there's always work to be done. Can't pay much, but we've got food enough and a bed in the barn."

"Cows or horses?"

"Cows!" Mark supplied eagerly. "We've got four new calves, too."

"Mark." Lucas admonished gently. He wanted to get this settled and go home.

The young man bent his head over his hands for a short moment, dusted the little animal with a gentle touch and presented it to the youngest boy, barely five years old.

"Oh!" the little one exclaimed, cradling the toy against him.

The stranger stood, fixed the older brother with a direct glance and said: "Help your brother put a piece of sandpaper to that. It's gonna take care of those splinters."

"Aye, mister, and thank you."

Taking a careful step out of the boys' circle, the young man held out a wary hand. "Eirik Donelly's the name, sir. I'd be grateful for the chance, and I'll do my best not to disappoint you."

"Lucas McCain. That's my boy Mark." Lucas finally smiled a little. The formal words sounded so sincere.

Donelly shook his hand with surprising strength, swallowed, and stepped back.

"Got a horse? You can ride with us right now."

"Aye, at Miss Hattie's. I'll get my things."

So even Hattie had liked the young man? She would, she had a soft spot for all those youngsters searching for a better something.

The horse was the next surprise, McCain reflected during the trip home. A dun stallion of a size that could carry even him, healthy and calm, though the muscles playing under the shining coat promised strength, speed and precision. The eyes though, they promised intelligence and youth. The young man rode bare-back, only a woven cloth and an animal skin between his long legs and the animal's back. The bridle was native-style, too, and the pack a curious contraption of two large bags that evenly distributed the weight on both sides of the horse's back, but needed not much buckling, giving the animal the most possible freedom of movement.

There was no possibility for talking on the ride, the wind whipped whatever was said from their lips. But the rain held up until they reached the farm, and with the third pair of hands the wagon was unloaded and pushed into the barn when the first drops fell.

"I'll rub down the horses, Mr. McCain." Donelly offered matter-of-factly.

Lucas nodded. "Mark, look after the fire and start setting the table."

The boy trotted off.

While taking tack and bridle of his own horse, Lucas kept an eye on Donelly as the young man expertly took care of BlueBoy. Then, showing the stranger the brushes to use for the horses, McCain enquired calmly: "That's a handsome horse you got there." He held out a hand for the stallion to nose. The big animal touched his soft mouth to the offered fingers as if in indifferent greeting and turned his head back to the young man, rubbing his shoulder affectionately.

A proprietary pride hushed over the half-hidden face. Donelly slung an arm around the dun's neck and stroked the shiny side. "Aye. He's something, all right."

"Got a name for him?"

"Spirit, for his colour."

"Had him long?"

"Since he was a colt."

Ah, that explained the symbiotic relationship between man and horse.

"Right. Pump's outside, grain for the horses over there. Dinner's in about half an hour."

The young man nodded, already brushing BlueBoy's side with practised moves.

Later, over the stew, Lucas amused himself by watching Mark watch the newcomer. Donelly was concentrating on the food, clearly appreciative, and warily curious about his surroundings. He had been almost timid in entering the house, as if aware of the intrusion he presented in the hustle and bustle the father-son-household was.

Mark's mouth had almost dropped open. Donelly had not only washed hands and face at the pump, he had changed his dusty linen shirt to one of supple leather, of the simplest style but expertly made, with the light criss-cross at the neck that spoke of native indian work. Well worn, but clean. With a clean scarf wrapped unobtrusively around his head, he looked otherworldly enough for the boy to be intrigued.

Finally the boy burst out: "Are you a Mormon or an indian?"

Lucas felt his brows rise: "Mark! Where are your manners?"

"I'm sorry, Pa. Sorry, Mr. Donelly. It's just, you look so different than normal people!"

"Don't worry, Mr. McCain." Donelly cut in, the deep voice gentle. "Mark's interest is understandable. You're an astute young man. I'm neither. My family was part amish. This-" he touched the scarf with his right hand, something wistful in his eyes, "is the last bit of my heritage I abide by. We keep our hair covered in reference to the Lord."

There was more to his words, Lucas was certain. The young man was fighting with himself to speak even these few sentences about his background.

"But your shirt, and you ride bare-back, and the shoes…" The boy was sputtering.

"Mark, enough. Let poor Mr. Donelly finish his food."

Lucas decided to touch upon a subject that made him curious. "I noticed you don't carry a gun. Part of the same heritage?"

The young man swallowed and looked up. He shrugged. "Don't like them, Sir. Don't own one, don't need one."

"But you do have a rifle?" Mark threw in, politely this time.

"No, Mark, no rifle either." The softening of Donelly's face could not quite be called a smile.

"But how do you hunt?"

"With snares, and bow and arrow, or knife."

"But how do you defend yourself if someone shoots at you?"

"Well, first of all I try not to get into situations where people shoot at me. Second, honest people accept that I don't own a gun. Fights can be settled in other ways, too."

Mark opened his mouth, more questions lurking, but Lucas put a hand on his arm. "That sounds like smart thinking, wouldn't you say, Mark? Now, if you're all done, why don't you get started with the dishes while I help Mr. Donelly with the bedding."

"Ah, ." Donelly stood uncertainly. "Don't need no bedding. I can sleep with the dun."

"No bother. We've got help out here quite often, everything's there already."

A little later Mark joined the stranger in the barn, carrying a lamp and a tin box. "Mr. Donelly. Here's a lamp you can use."

"Thank you, Mark. And the box?"

"Oh, that's nothing. BlueBoy's bridle got wet yesterday, and I need to fix it."

"Rainy day's work?"

"Aye." The boy smiled a little. "Sorry for asking so many questions at dinner. I just never seen somebody like you, Mr. Donelly."

"That's all right. And call me Eirik, please."

"Will you stay long enough to teach me how to carve, Eirik?"

The young man sighed and shrugged. "We'll see how it goes. Your Pa is a good man. Taking a chance on a stranger like that…"

"That's Pa all right."

"So, do you go to school?"

"Yes." It came out rather dejectedly.

"Do you like it?"

"Oh, school's all right, I guess, but the homework… fractions and arithmetic and volumes and such…"

"Like your teacher?"

"Oh yes. Miss Schuler is real pretty and has a nice voice. She reads to us sometimes."

"Mark? Show Mr. Donelly where we keep the blankets for the horses. Night's gonna be cold …" Lucas McCain climbed down from the loft and broke off. The horses were covered by a blanket each, the dun stallion wore the woven one that served as a saddle, too. Mark and the stranger were sitting over the bridle and saddle that needed fixing and were working companionably.

The young man looked up and asked quietly: "Please, Mr. McCain, name's Eirik."

The addressed smiled in appreciation. "All right, Eirik, that was quick thinking with the horses. Can you finish up here? Mark needs to go to bed."

"Do I have to go to school tomorrow?"

"Depends on the storm, Mark. We'll see. Come on. Good night, Eirik."

"Good night, Mr. McCain, Mark."

…..

"So, Lucas Boy, how is it going with that farmhand of yours?"

"Well, Micah, he's all right. Mark's taken to him."

"You leaving him to tend the farm while you're in town speaks for him."

"Aye. He might not look strong, but he's quick on his feet, even quicker with his head." Lucas took a sip of the beer they were sharing on the porch of Micah's office.

"I have some stories, though I can't say how reliable they are. Donnelly's a common name up north."

"Oh aye? He's mighty sparse with his words. Only the boy gets him to open up a bit."

"Mind you, that story comes down thousands of miles."

"Thousands?" Lucas narrowed his eyes. He'd known the youngster wasn't from around here, but…

"I heard there was a Donelly family up north in or near Montreal. Fur traders of irish ancestry, big extended family, two smaller children. Got into a fight with the natives there, something about money, I'm sure. House got burned down, only one child lived. Was a big story back then, maybe fifteen years ago. Child was said to be about ten. No relatives left. It was said the child vanished into the woods."

"Natives took him?" Lucas pulled up the collar of his coat. Winter was coming.

"That's the strange part. Nothing more is known. Only suddenly a young man of the name Donelly turns up in Kansas, asks around for a man named Benton."

"Benton?" Something rang in Lucas' head.

"Aye, and by the look on your face you've heard that name too. Business-man, worst reputation, a man you'd not leave Mark alone with."

"Who hails from up north, too. Came south with a small fortune, looking to buy into either oil or gold."

"Ever crossed paths with him, Lucas?"

"No, Micah. Not sure I'd want to. Last known whereabouts of this Benton?"

"Nothing certain."

The tall rifleman rubbed his chin. "And Donelly has a couple of furs that don't originate from around here… I just hope this boy hasn't brought trouble our way."

To Mark, who was just coming to join his father, pockets full from Miss Hattie's store, he called: "Mark, lets ride on home."

…

McCain returned from a detour to the neighbour's farm to find Eirik and Mark crouching over something in the middle of the yard, sticks in hand.

A quick look around told him that neither had dawdled – the place was clean, wood was cut and stapled safely, horses and the young calves had water. So Mark would be free to do his homework… but of course, the boy would find anything to keep him from doing that.

"What you've got there?" Both the young man and the boy had straightened as Lucas rode in, and now Mark turned to him with a decidedly odd look on his face.

"I think I got it, Pa." The boyish features cleared, he pushed gently at Eirik beside him and threw his stick into the air. "I got it, Pa, I really have!"

Lucas frowned, completely confused. "Got what, Mark?" Into the dusty earth a few symbols were scratched – circles and squares and numbers.

"Those stupid fractions! They make sense now! I've got to try this out. I'll do my homework now, Pa!" He scampered off like a colt.

It was the first time Lucas had noticed the other man grinning outright. Between the two of them, Mark and him had managed to make their young farmhand smile now and then, softening the somewhat stern features into an endearingly expressive face that suddenly spoke of Eirik's true age. But now, the smile spread from ear to ear, he'd caught his tongue between his teeth and was scratching his head lightly. A strand of shiny light-brown hair had escaped the scarf and he was pushing it back under the cover absentmindedly. Growing aware of the piercing blue eyes on him, Eirik blushed lightly, erased the figures with his foot and met Lucas' gaze.

"Hope I didn't overstep, Sir." He buried his hands in the pockets of his pants, the gesture so innocent and embarrassed that Lucas blinked bemusedly.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Only just now. I'd gotten back from looking after the calving cow and he came out to the yard, looking for chores to do, because he was so frustrated with homework. So I asked him what it was."

"Well, as long as you don't do it for him, and other chores don't get left behind, I got no problem. But…" he struggled to put this politely. "Did you study to be a teacher?"

"No. But I read and write and do numbers."

Having seen the young man's delight at Mark's victorious exit, Lucas tilted his head, looking at the farmhand through his lashes. "I get a feeling you're being very modest, Eirik. You're quick with your hands, but that head of yours is your biggest strength and weapon."

The transformation on the young man's face startled McCain. Eirik's features closed up, his eyes darkened, lips pressing together.

Lucas reached out to clasp the boy's shoulder. "That was a compliment, Eirik."

The boy had startled at the touch, and lifted his head to meet McCain's gaze again. His eyes held a question. "Thank you, Mr. McCain."

"Now. Anything out of the ordinary happen?"

"No, Sir. Though that cow troubles me. Seems like the calf is lying wrong."

"Still?" Lucas grimaced. If the calf was breech, they'd most certainly loose the cow and the calf. He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. This was not what they needed right now.

"Let me take care of the horse, Sir." The young man pulled the dark mare away to free her of the saddle.

Lucas headed for the house, but hesitated on the porch.

"Eirik," he called to the lanky figure near the horse patch. "How much do you know about birthing cows?"

The young man turned his head, face pale against the backdrop of the horse's dark hide. His voice was heavy. "I'm not certain it is enough. I helped birth a breeched foal once."

Lucas nodded, considering. That was about the amount of experience he had, too.

"Would you mind bringing her into the corral after dinner?"

"Aye, Sir. That's a good idea. Have her close, watch her. Though I'll go now."

Lucas stuck his head out the door when Donelly whistled, a low melodic sound. The dun stallion calmly trotted toward the corral's opening, waited for the young man to release him and stood patiently while Donelly locked the other horses in again. The farmhand grabbed the long stave he never seemed to go without and swung himself onto the big horse's back without the help of bridle, stirrup or even a length of rope. It was a move that left Lucas impressed – Donelly was not tall, hardly reaching Lucas' shoulder, and the horse was one of the biggest McCain had seen – yet the man had jumped lightly, swinging a leg over and righting himself in one smooth motion, and the stallion had started to move without waiting for any visible sign. As they galloped away in the sinking light, it seemed to him the two creatures moved as one.

Pursing his lips in appreciation and a little envy, Lucas entered the house.