Smoke drifted from cone-shaped wickiups clustered beneath the shade of the grand cottonwoods. Herds of painted ponies grazed along the riverbanks, their coats sleek and shiny.
It was paradise.
It was also undeniably inhabited.
Maverick took off his battered Stetson and wiped his sweat-soaked brow on his sleeve. "Well," he breathed into the silence. "Someone built heaven down here, and they didn't leave the gate open for wandering white men."
Before he could decide whether to turn back toward the dry ridges or seek out a hidden spring, a sound cut through the silence behind him.
The click of an iron hammer coming back to full cock.
Maverick froze. His hands remained resting openly on the pommel of his saddle.
"Step down from the horse," a voice said in English, slow and steady, carrying the clipped cadence of the Apache tongue.
Maverick turned his head slowly. Emerging from the brush on either side of the pass were six mounted riders. They sat on lean, muscular paint horses without saddles, guiding their mounts with simple hair ropes looped around the lower jaws. Every man held a Winchester or a Springfield carbine, barrels pointed down toward Maverick’s saddle skirts, but steady enough that a twitch of a finger would punch a hole clean through his ribs.
They wore buckskin leggings, high moccasins turned up at the toes, and calico shirts tied with woven sashes. Their faces were impassive, dark eyes studying him with the razor-keen scrutiny of hawks.
"I didn't come here looking for a fight," Maverick said, speaking clearly and keeping his palms flat.
The rider nearest him—a man with two long scars across his cheekbone—did not blink. "Every white man says he wants no trouble while he carries guns and maps into our canyons."
"Then I suppose I'm not original," Maverick answered quietly.
No one smiled.
The scarred warrior flicked his carbine toward the trail descending into the valley. "Ride down. Do not reach for your belt, or you will feed the ravens before sunset."
Maverick nodded once, turned Bramble's head, and rode down into the green shadow of the valley.
The path down into the valley floor wound through narrow gorges where the air grew noticeably cooler with every switchback. When Bramble’s hooves finally struck the dark, moist soil beside the river, the gelding dropped his muzzle straight into the flowing water, drinking with desperate, deep swallows. Maverick sat still, letting the animal drink, his eyes scanning the settlement.
This was not a war camp; it was an ancestral village.
Cured deerskins hung on wooden frames being scraped clean by older women. Strips of venison hung from drying racks over smoldering cedar fires, perfuming the air with savory smoke. Children with dark, shining hair and bare feet were playing a stick game along the sandy shallows, but as Maverick was escorted past, they stopped instantly, gathering behind their mothers' skirts with wide, watchful eyes.
Maverick noticed iron kettles, woven willow baskets so tight they held water, finely crafted saddles, and cultivated rows of beans and maize growing along ditches dug to tap the river's high water. Everything spoke of permanence, dignity, and deep roots.
The folded territorial paper in Maverick’s coat suddenly felt like a branding iron against his ribs. The United States government in Tucson had drawn lines across a grid on a sheet of paper, claiming this was unsettled territory open for homesteading. Looking around, Maverick knew that was a lie. These people had lived beside this water while the men in Washington were still clearing forests along the Potomac.
The six warriors halted their mounts in a clearing beneath an enormous grandfather cottonwood that spread its canopy forty feet across.
From the largest shelter—a dome-framed lodge covered with thick willow mats and canvas—a tall man emerged.
He walked with an easy, measured grace that age had not diminished. He was near sixty winters, Maverick guessed, with long, thick hair that fell past his shoulders, heavily streaked with silver like winter frost on dark river ice. His face was carved by sun, wind, and old sorrows into deep, granite-like folds. He wore a loose deerskin shirt adorned with simple quillwork, and around his neck hung a single medallion of hammered Mexican silver.
A murmur ran through the assembled villagers. Lobo Negro.
Maverick recognized the name. Even in the border towns, men spoke of Lobo Negro—the Black Wolf of the Mimbreño bands. The army colonels called him an elusive ghost who refused to bring his people to the barren reservation pens at San Carlos; the traders called him a shrewd diplomat who never made a deal he didn't keep and never allowed himself to be cheated.
Lobo Negro stopped six paces away from Maverick's stirrup. His eyes were dark, penetrating, and unyielding.
"You crossed the high desert without water wagons," the chief said. His voice was deep, resonant, and calm.
"I traveled light," Maverick replied.
"You carry maps of our river."