"I’m Marshal Frank Colter," the man said. His voice was a dry, gravelly baritone that commanded immediate silence in the lodge. "Out of the federal district court at Prescott. I carry a warrant of ejectment signed by Judge William Henry Harrison Sterling, ordering any and all unauthorized persons, squatters, and non-reservation tribal elements to vacate this drainage within forty-eight hours."
A low, menacing growl ran through the Apache warriors sitting along the walls. Several fingers tightened around the walnut stocks of carbines hidden beneath their blankets.
Lobo Negro did not move a muscle. He kept his eyes on Colter’s face, as unblinking as a hawk on a dead branch.
"You speak of unauthorized persons, Marshal," Maverick said, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that brooked no posturing. "I suggest you take a look at the records in Pima County before you start serving papers on men who don't run from badges."
Maverick stepped forward, retrieved the oiled-cloth packet from his coat, and slapped it down onto the flat council stone between them with a sharp, leather-cracking report.
Colter picked up the papers with a skeptical grunt, adjusted his spectacles, and held the parchment toward the firelight. He read through the three pages with the slow, meticulous scrutiny of a frontier attorney who had spent twenty years untangling fraudulent land syndicates and bogus Mexican grants.
"This is an original preemption patent," Colter said after five minutes of silence, his brow furrowing into deep, puzzled creases. "Filed under the Desert Land Act of 1877. Registered to Maverick Cole, late of the Second Texas Cavalry, United States Volunteers. Bounded by the Willow Water and the eastern spires."
"Every fee paid in gold," Horace Finch interjected timidly, raising his ink-stained fingers. "Entered in the territorial registry book four months ago, Marshal. I countersigned the entry myself under the seal of the territory."
"And Vance McCall’s claim?" Maverick asked.
Colter reached inside his leather dispatch case, pulled out a thick folio tied with red legal tape, and dropped it beside Maverick’s patent.
"McCall bought a Spanish grant from the heirs of the Peralta family," Colter said. "Or rather, he bought what he claims is a Peralta grant. It purports to cover forty leagues along the San Pedro, including this entire mountain valley. He brought thirty affidavits from saloon-keepers in Tombstone swearing the Peralta family had run cattle here since 1820."
"Those affidavits are forged, Colter, and you damned well know it," Maverick said bluntly. "The Peralta grant was thrown out by the federal court in San Francisco ten years ago. It never touched these mountains. McCall manufactured those papers so he could use you and your deputies as a private army to clear the water so he can sell the timber to the railroad syndicate."
Colter did not flare up in anger. He laid his large, freckled hands flat on his knees and looked around the lodge. His eyes rested on Lobo Negro, then moved to Hesper, studying the unmasked scar across her cheek and the proud, unwavering gaze she turned back on him.
"The law in Washington is an ugly, crooked machine, Mr. Cole," Marshal Colter said quietly. "You know it, and I know it. On paper, your preemption title has priority over a contested Spanish warrant. But a title on paper is only as good as the force that stands behind it. Vance McCall didn't come to Prescott alone. He brought forty hired men with him from Texas—regulators, bounty men, and every border drifter who can shoot a repeating rifle. They’re camped at the mouth of the San Simon right now."
Colter paused, his face darkening with grim reality.
"And they aren't coming with marshals this time," Colter added. "McCall knows that if I verify your patent, his legal claim is dead in the water. So he bought himself two twelve-pounder brass mountain howitzers from a corrupt quartermaster at Fort Grant. He has six wagons of canister shot, fifty kegs of blasting powder, and forty men who get five hundred dollars each if this valley is empty by Sunday night. He doesn't want to arrest you, Cole. He’s going to turn this canyon into an abattoir, bury your patent in the ashes, and tell the territorial governor that the Apaches massacred each other before he arrived to restore order."
The lodge fell into a deathly, suffocating silence.
The name of the weapon—howitzer—was known to every warrior in the circle. It was the big gun on wheels that threw screaming iron balls that burst into a thousand whistling shards of lead, the weapon that had torn the lodges of their cousins to bloody rags at the Washita and the Lava Beds. Against repeating rifles behind stone, an Apache could hold an army; against bursting iron shells that shattered the cliffs into avalanches of razor rock, even the mountains offered no sanctuary.
Lobo Negro rose to his feet. The chief towered over the council fire, his elk-hide mantle spreading wide like the wings of a great bird of prey.