"Lucas, I was wondering whether I could have a quick word with you."

"But sure, Miss Hattie, what's it about?"

"This young man who's been working on your farm." The old lady beamed. "Such a polite fellow, always ready to lend a hand, always friendly."

"What has he done?" Lucas smiled, expecting either a love story or some such nonsense.

"I was wondering if I might, well, steal him from you for a time."

"Oh?" now that was a turn he had not expected.

"Well, my niece is getting married down in Cleveland. I was hoping I might commission a wedding gift from Mr. Donelly. He's so good with these carvings of his. You don't happen to know what he would charge for one?"

"Well, Hattie, you'd have to ask him, on both accounts. I certainly would not object, as long as it doesn't take too much time from him."

Lucas left the older woman with a slight smile, but also a frown on his face. This could be a perfect opportunity for the young man – he would not be a farmhand forever, that much was certain.

Sharing coffee with Micah, he watched the young man amble aimlessly through town, exchanging greetings and nods here and there, count the few coins he had brought and change directions to Hattie's shop. The old lady did not waste time, and came up to Eirik with her usual busy friendliness.

From where they sat, the two men could watch Donelly's face go through all stages of colour and expression, and finally he nodded at his interlocutor, tipped his hat to her and turned, purchase forgotten. Burying his hands deep in his pockets, hunching his shoulders, he slowly walked away until he was out of sight.

"Seems he has to think about it." Micah leered. "I wonder why."

Lucas threw him a glance. "Got something to say, Micah, say it."

"Oh, just that he seems to like working on your farm."

Lucas padded down to the smith's – ostensibly for some nails, in truth he wanted to satisfy his curiosity: the pumps were both working stable and clean. Sure, one would have to wait for the durability, but somehow he trusted the young man's work.

Swenson wanted to talk about the boy more than he wanted to sell nails.

"I asked Donelly if he had apprenticed for a smith, but he said no."

Lucas had to shrug. "Doesn't talk much about his past, that boy."

"He knew his way around the place, the equipment. The work he did was precision. Couldn't have done it much better myself."

"I was impressed, too."

"You should be. You can send him down any time. And if he ever wants to earn some extra money…"

He was going to loose that help any moment now, Lucas surmised grimly.

Freddy, the red-haired son of the Swenson pair barrelled into the smithy, eyes wide.

"Dad! Dad!"

"Wohow there, Freddy, what's the matter?"

"A fight , just outside of town. But the one man has no guns! He don't want no fight."

Grabbing the boy's shoulder, McCain asked. "Who?"

"It's the Dorcas brothers, sir. And he who works for you - Mr. Donnelly."

A sense of urgency overcame Lucas. Those brothers were rough folk, large men with quick tempers and little respect for a human life.

"Get the Sheriff!" He grabbed his rifle, jumped onto the horse he had just been about to harness and galloped out.

The picture that presented itself to him and to the few men riding up behind him wasn't that unusual.

A group of men had gathered between the last building of the town, forming a loose circle. The three Dorcas brothers stood to one side, the slender youth to the other. Donelly had his staff in one hand, the other relaxed at his side. Just then, the younger Dorcas, Liam, called out: "All right, no guns, Donelly. We'll do it your way. But if you've got that stick, I get my knife." Hefting the announced, he pounced on the younger man. Donelly stepped to the side nimbly, using the moment to say loudly: "I don't want this fight."

"But you got it now, boy. Gonna make a man out of that baby face of yours."

Liam closed in on Donelly, slower this time, leering hungrily.

A short back and forth ensued, no contact was made. Lucas pushed through the people, only to have a hand on his arm hold him back. "Let them finish, McCain."

"What's the grievance?"

"Seems Cade, the youngest, has his eyes set on Miss Schuler, and doesn't like the way your farmhand has been carrying on with her."

Another bystander chimed in: "Ah, he never had no chance with her. Donelly was just being friendly, is all. More'n can be said for any of the Dorcas."

A cry went through the crowd – Liam's knife went flying wide, Donelly stood calmly on feet set apart. With a furious growl the broader man lowered his head and charged, like a bull. Donelly stepped aside, having the other stumble over the outstretched staff. Laughter ensued, though the two brothers frowned deeply.

"Liam, here." The oldest threw his brother his knife – a longer version than his own, giving him a decided advantage.

A few cries of "unfair" could be heard, but Donnelly's only reaction was that he took his hat off, throwing it to the side.

Bending his knees deeper, he awaited his antagonist. "I made no advances to Miss Schuler, regardless how it may have seemed to you. It was just friendly talk. If she's rejecting your brother, it was none of my doing."

Liam had gathered to his feet. "You've been bothering me since you came to town. So clean, such a girly face, and what's with that turban?"

There was laughter all around.

"And which respectable man refuses to carry a gun?"

"Maybe he can't afford one?" someone cried.

Liam played to the crowd, jeering some more, and with a sudden, vicious move tried to surprise the young man. But Donelly lightning quick evaded to the side and swung the staff in a sharp arch: The knife fell from the immobilized right hand of the other man. Another quick stab, Liam fell to his knees, cradling his hurt wrist to him. Donnelly rested the staff lightly on the burly man's clavicle.

"Enough." He was breathing faster.

"Dean, No!" Cade tried to hold the oldest brother back. "It's done!" But the other one shrugged off his coat in a determined fashion and stepped into the ring, his brother's knife in one hand.

"What if I take that staff from you, boy? Let's see how mighty you are then…"

Murmuring went through the audience, the oldest Dorcas was known for his pure strength and brutality.

Lucas made a move to step in, rifle at the ready. But Micah pushed through the crowd right between the two men and called clearly: "What's going on here?"

"None of your business, sheriff." Dean growled, starting to walk the circle.

"It's ok, sheriff. I gotta finish this." Donnelly's voice was deep and calm.

Micah stepped back. He found Lucas' eyes over the crowd and nodded – they'd look out for foul play.

Lucas pressed his lips together – too different seemed the outset of this match. Dorcas a grizzly and Donelly a…

The fight started, and the whole group of people held their breath. For a while it seemed Dean Dorcas would not get to touch the more slender man – the staff twirled and twirled, dipping and flying, hard to follow with bare eyes. The muscular man seemed to strike a few punches here and there, Donelly had to be wary of the knife. But then the bigger man got hold of the wooden stick and held it at shoulder level with both hands. Staring down into the younger man's face, he grinned widely. With a vicious pull he tried to loosen Donnelly's grip on the wood, but Donelly did not let go, and instead used the other man's surprise to drop down on his knees, pulling Dorcas with him. Setting a foot right against the other man's chest and rolling backwards he half pulled, half threw his heavy opponent overhead. Dorcas landed with a dusty crash, needing a moment to right himself. Donelly already stood, chest heaving this time.

He looked up for a second, and met Lucas eyes. The rifleman didn't know what his face betrayed, but for some reason Donelly seemed mortified to find his employer watching him. Lucas frowned at the wide-eyed, wary glance the youth regarded him with, and grew aware of a change in the situation. The younger Dorcas had crept up behind Donelly while his brother was still catching his breath, and reached out to jump the younger man. A shout escaped the rifleman's lips, and Donelly was warned. Liam managed to get his arms around the farmhand, but Eirik bent forward into a half roll and threw his opponent to the floor, landing half way over him. Jeering rose from the crowd. Donelly stood quickly, staff at the ready, and glanced around. Seeing the oldest Dorcas hunched over staring at his brother with brooding eyes, the youngest Dorcas stepped into the ring hesitantly.

"Get 'im, Cade!" the eldest growled.

These two men at least were of the same figure, more or less, the onlookers commented between them. Cade ran at Eirik, who threw the staff lightly to the side and turned with the onslaught. Using his hips as lever, fists buried in the other's shirt, he used Cade's momentum to lever him over his hip and a heartbeat later the blond young man lay in the sand, blinking up bemusedly.

The farmhand climbed to his feet and held out a hand to Cade. "I swear to you I have no design on your girl. She's all yours – though the problem might not be me, might be your family."

That brought friendly mumbling all around. Even Cade had to grin. He gripped the offered hand and pulled himself upright.

Lucas saw the oldest Dorcas move, and so did others. Donelly moved even faster. Eyes widening, he pushed Cade out of the way. While he managed to deflect the long blade Dorcas had regained, the sheer momentum of the large man could not be countered cleanly. Dorcas managed to score a few vicious punches to Eirik's stomach and then pinned the breathless younger man underneath him, the staff uselessly locked with the long blade. With an evil grin he started pulling a second knife from his shoe.

But by then Lucas and another, leather-skinned man, were there, pulling the bulky man upright and back from the slender youth. Blue eyes met dark ones over the staggering fighter.

"Sam Buckhart."

"Lucas McCain."

"Well met, old friend." They exchanged a smirk over the struggling troublemaker, who reeked of whiskey.

"Trouble, McCain?"

"Nothing the sheriff can't handle, I'm sure."

During the resulting commotion, Micah had the growling Dorcas taken to the prison for a night to cool off and sober up.

"Sam, let me introduce you to my young farmhand." Lucas turned to look where Donelly was standing, talking to Cade of all people.

"He's your farmhand?" Buckhart's measured tones betrayed more emotion than Lucas had ever heard from him.

"I'm as surprised as you are." The tall man surprised himself with the sarcasm. They joined the two young men, catching only the last few words Donelly was saying earnestly to Cade: "… help you with Miss Schuler."

"You're a right fine fellow, Donelly. Come, let's have that arm of yours looked at. Oh, Mr. McCain." The youngest Dorcas grimaced a little shamefacedly.

"Cade, Eirik, this is…"

Donelly's pale face stilled. "Sam Buckhart."

"Indeed." Lucas frowned. "You know each other?"

Donelly shook his head. "Heard of you, seen a drawing once. Honoured, Mr. Buckhart." He moved to hold out a hand, winced and bent over. There was blood dripping to the sand.

"Honoured, I'm sure, young man, but we should get you to the doctor's." Buckhart touched the young man's back. Eirik stood straight with an effort, one hand clamped around a nasty gash on his right forearm.

"Here." Lucas pulled his kerchief from his throat and quickly wrapped it around the heavily bleeding wound. The boy was very pale, and looked a little lost between the two men. Cade had left to look after his brothers.

"Do you want to ride?" Lucas pulled his horse closer, worried by the bloodless countenance of the young man.

"No. Thank you, though. I'll manage."

Slowly the trio made their way into town, accompanied by appreciative comments and humour from the bystanders.

"Seems your farmhand is well liked, Lucas." Buckhart commented dryly.

"Seems people enjoyed seeing the Dorcas taken down a notch."

Donelly coughed a wry laugh, and bent over with a sound of pain. Lucas grabbed his arm in support, but the young man was already righting himself.

"Breath, Eirik."

"I'll manage."

"You're quite proficient with that staff of yours." Distraction was the only thing that would take them to Doc Burrage's office.

"I said I can take care of myself." Something swung in the youngster's voice that made Lucas think of Mark – who came running toward them at full speed.

"Pa, what happened? Eirik, are you hurt? Hello Mr. Buckhart!"

By the time the story was told, the town centre had been reached – but Doc Burrage turned an impatient frown at them. "Sorry, Lucas, the smith's boy just came in with a hot iron through his leg. And I got two Dorcas to look after. That boy's got to wait."

"But…" Lucas was about to throw in, angry now – couldn't the burly man see Eirik was bleeding?

Buckhart put a calming hand on his arm. "If he lets me, I can take care of your friend."

Lucas took one long look at Sam, then at Eirik, who was standing upright only by sheer will. "Eirik?"

"I would like to go home. I can sew this up myself if need be."

McCain and Buckhart exchanged a glance.

"I knew he was stubborn, but not to that extent." Lucas commented wryly. The native's brow lifted expressively.

"Mark, help me with the horses." The two McCains got the cab ready, Sam Buckhart helped Donelly onto it, and they were on their way out to the farm. Spirit cantered behind them.

….

Sam ordered them into the main house. While he set Mark and Lucas to work on providing hot water, a needle and thread and clean bandages, he asked the slender youth a few pointed questions while trying to make him swallow more than a few sips of whiskey. Eirik answered quietly, so quietly that Lucas did not always catch every word. Finally, the water boiling, thread cleaned with alcohol and the needle heated over a flame, the dark-skinned man ordered calmly. "Put him on your bed, Lucas. He might faint."

"No, leave me be." The note of desperation pushed the deep voice higher. "I won't faint."

Buckhart exchanged a glance with McCain. "As you wish. Your arm, boy. Lucas, hold him down."

Eirik sucked in a breath, and Lucas could feel a shiver running over the young man as he stood behind the chair and rested his hands tightly on the slender shoulders.

"Mark, you want to leave? This is nothing for you."

"No, I want to do something. I want to help."

Eirik turned his head tiredly. Buckhart was reaching for the whiskey-bottle. "Serrated knife, and we have to assume it wasn't clean. Hold on, young man." He was going to clean the wound first.

"Distract me, Marc. Try your hand on the harmonica." The last word turned into a hiss, as Sam started padding the raw flesh with a soaked pad.

So Mark played, Buckhart worked, and Lucas felt the muscles tense and relax under his hands. The patient never made a sound, the only show of discomfort was him burying his face against Lucas' arm, clenching his fingers into a white-knuckled fist.

Afterwards, the arm bandaged, Mark wanted to know: "Eirik. Which hurt worst? The needle sure looked worst."

"Nah, Mark, the needle is your friend after that cleaning." Eirik looked exhausted. "Thanks, Mr. Buckhart. I'm glad you were around."

The native man regarded his patient with unreadable eyes for a long moment. Then he nodded, appreciation in his voice: "Your farmhand is brave, Lucas."

"Mark, help with the clean-up, and set the table. We'll have an early dinner. You're staying, Sam?"

"Aye, and thank you." Buckhart turned to the door to wash his hands. The young man made to move, too.

For a second time Lucas put his hands onto Eirik's shoulders, and felt a shiver run over the slender man. "Don't move, boy. You're staying put and eating dinner."

"So, Eirik Donelly, where do you hail from?" Buckhart's words were strangely formal, the dark eyes intense.

The boy's face twitched. "Up north."

"Your family?"

"Don't have much of a family."

"They were from up north, too?"

"Aye."

Lucas grinned evilly. "Sam, if you haven't caught on yet, the boy doesn't like to talk about his folks."

That earned him an amused glance from the dark eyes, a stern one from his son, and a burning one from the green eyes. He lifted his hands in mockery. "Peace, Eirik, I've seen you fight now."

Even Eirik managed a smile, though it was a heavy one.

"But you've got Spirit, Eirik. He's like family."

The smile warmed. "True, Mark."

The elder McCain noted how the horse's name caused Buckhart to frown, and the intensity of his gaze on Donelly only increased.

"Spirit is a native bread horse?"

Eirik tensed perceptively. "Aye."

But no more questions came. The native lawyer bent over his plate nonchalantly.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "What was the fight about in the first place? Miss Schuler?"

Donnelly shrugged, annoyance crossing his features. "Half of that was pretence. The older Dorcas was drunk and looking for a fight. Cade tried to talk him out of it."

"You could have tried to get out of it!" McCain turned to his son in amused surprise – Mark was upset by what he had seen.

Sam Buckhart came to the farmhand's defence. "He did, Mark, he did. More than once." Reading relief on Donnelly's face, Lucas added measuredly: "Careful, Dean's one to hold a grudge."

The young man fixed McCain with hooded eyes. "I'm not scared of him. I'd smell him coming three miles against the wind."

That made Sam Buckhart grin appreciatively and Mark chuckle. Lucas could not hide his smile. The youngster had a point.

Dinner finished, it was agreed Eirik and Mark would finish the boy's schoolwork.

Lucas joined his old friend on the porch.

"Interesting character you've got there, Lucas. How long has he been here?"

"Almost half a year."

"Things going well?"

"Very well. He's not an ox, but he's right smart, and very quick with his hands. Quiet, hardworking, honest. You were mighty curious about him."

"There's a story, about a family called Donnelly. I use 'called' on purpose. Hailed from Saskatoon. Close connection to the native population. Fur traders. Two children, a boy and a girl. Whole family got killed over some dispute, only one child lived. Happened a while ago, but was quite the uproar then, with natives involved, and a wealthy businessman sent packing. The father of that family was the first Canadian native Indian who earned a degree from King's college. I told you I was sent to Harvard. These stories were kept alive by the tribes."

"What happened to the child?" The tall man had followed the dark-haired lawyer's words with interest.

"The way I heard it the girl vanished – probably was taken in by some trapper, or a native hermit. Swallowed from the face of the earth. Here things get hazy. There was tribe of Saskatchewan who sent a boy who did not look like a native to a college, but that might be a different story. A native girl of fitting age married an irish Donnelly and moved to the west coast. Either might be a completely different one with the same name, but when I saw the horse out there, and heard Mark call him Spirit, I had to ask. Few American tribes breed duns of that size."

"But you haven't gotten any closer to… a truth?"

"No, but if Eirik stays with you, I, or you, might get another chance. Here's a trail I can backtrack."

"It's that important to you, Sam? Maybe he'll trust you. It sure took him a while to tell us about how he got his horse."

With short words Lucas repeated the events of that evening with Micah Torrence. Buckhart did not react to the information.

"Wait, Buckhart, what was the businessman's name?"

"I couldn't say."

"Micah knew a different version of that story. Maybe talk to him. - But that's not why you're in Norfolk."

"No. Due north in a few days. I came to say hello. Maybe I'll drop in on my way back."

"Always welcome. You know that."

At that moment, Eirik opened the door behind them. "We're done, Mr. McCain, Mark is getting quite good. If it's all right with you, I'll…"

"Go, Donelly, rest."

"Hope to see you again, ."

"Same here, young man."