Chapter 3

The sudden realization made the folded territorial papers tucked inside his leather saddlebag feel infinitely heavier.

As they pulled up near a large central fire pit framed by river boulders, an older man approached from the largest shelter.He was tall despite his years, perhaps close to sixty, with long black hair streaked heavily with silver. His bronze face had been carved deep by decades of desert sun and hard winters, yet nothing about his posture or his stride looked frail or weak. He wore a simple linen shirt over leather leggings, and his dark eyes held the absolute authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.Someone in the crowd murmured his name in a respectful whisper.Lobo Negro. Black Wolf.Maverick’s mind flashed back to hushed conversations he had overheard in border saloons and supply posts. He had heard that name before. Lobo Negro was a leader known among traders, scouts, military officers, and cattlemen alike across the entire territory.Some white men called him dangerous. Others called him unpredictable. But every man who had ever dealt with him agreed on one thing: he was completely impossible to deceive.Maverick suspected the second description was by far the most important one.Lobo Negro stopped six feet from Bramble’s shoulder. He looked at Maverick’s dirt-caked clothes, at the tired bay horse, and finally at Maverick’s gray eyes."You crossed the desert alone," Lobo Negro stated. His English was clear, deep, and measured."Yes," Maverick replied, keeping his hands resting openly on the saddle horn."You carry maps of our valley."Maverick saw no point in lying. A man who lied to Lobo Negro was likely a man who didn't live to see the sunset. "Yes.""Why?""Because a land claim filed in Tucson says I have an interest in land here," Maverick said plainly.A subtle, electric shift moved through the surrounding people. The quiet murmurs ceased instantly.Lobo Negro extended one broad, calloused hand. "Show me."Maverick swung his leg over the cantle, his boots hitting the soft grass. He unbuckled his saddlebag, pulled out the oilcloth wrapper, and handed the folded territorial papers directly to the chief.

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