By April of 1874, the iron grip of the winter finally shattered.
The snow melted from the high ridges in a sudden, roaring thaw, sending cascading torrents of white water down through every canyon and arroyo. The dry washes of the San Pedro valley were transformed into singing streams bordered by yellow wild mustard, scarlet paintbrushes, and lush carpets of blue lupine that smelled of honey and fresh earth.
The Mitchell homestead was transformed.
With the help of two Mexican woodcutters whom Sarah hired with the gold Major Howard had recovered from Carpenter's saddles, a new cabin had risen upon the blackened foundations of the old.
It was larger, sturdier, and built to endure for generations. The walls were constructed of heavy, square-hewn ponderosa pine logs hauled down from the mountain sawmills; the roof was pitched steep and shingled with hand-split cedar shakes; and a wide, shaded porch ran along the entire southern face, looking out over the greening valley.
At the edge of the clearing, where the front gate opened onto the northern trail, Sarah had planted a small sapling—a scrub oak she had dug with her own trowel from the high slopes of the Sierra Bonita, where Bih-chin-te had been named. The little tree had taken root in the rocky soil, its buds swelling with fresh, pale green leaves that trembled in the warm spring wind.
It was late afternoon, and the air was filled with the rich, pungent scent of damp pine sawdust and wild sage.
Sarah sat on the front porch in the rocking chair Thomas had carved for her before his death. The chair had been recovered from the ash pile—scorched on one runner, but sanded smooth and rubbed with linseed oil until it gleamed with the warmth of aged honey.
On the blanket before her, ten-month-old Thomas was crawling with astonishing speed, chasing a wooden carved horse that Corporal O’Dowd had whittled for him during a supply run from Fort Lowell. The boy was barefoot, wearing a soft tunic of deerskin, his legs sturdy and brown, his dark curls whipping in the breeze.
Whenever he caught the toy, he let out a joyful, guttural shout, pounding the wood against the pine planks with unbridled energy.
A shadow crossed the porch railing.
Sarah looked up, her heart leaping with a sudden, quiet joy that she had not felt in many long months.
Chato stood at the bottom of the porch steps.
He was dressed for long travel: his deerskin leggings were newly oiled, his hair was freshly braided with strips of red wool, and across his chest hung a pouch of dried provisions. He did not carry his Winchester; his hands were empty, resting lightly at his sides.
Behind him, tied to the rail fence, were three ponies laden with pack bundles of tanned hides and dried meat. Beside the horses stood Tazhi, wrapped in her gray blanket, her old eyes squinting against the afternoon glare with quiet satisfaction.
Sarah rose from the chair, gathering her son into her arms.
"Chato," she said softly, stepping down the stairs to meet him in the red dust of the yard. "Tazhi. You come in peace."
"We come to take the long trail, sister," Chato replied, his voice low and solemn.
Sarah’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a sudden pang of sorrow. "The soldiers?"
Chato shook his head. "Major Howard is a man of his word. He has kept his patrols to the south. But the great council in Washington has spoken. They have sent the gray-beard commissioners with papers. They are moving our people to the reservation at San Carlos. They want us to live in the ditch by the yellow water, where the cattle die of fever and the corn will not grow."
His dark eyes turned toward the southern horizon, flashing with ancient, unquenchable fire.
"Goyahkla will not sit in the ditch. The Bedonkohe will not eat the sour flour of the agent. Tonight, we cross the border into the Sierra Madre of Mexico. We go where the iron roads cannot find our lodges."
Tazhi stepped forward, her tin cones chiming softly with every step. The old woman looked at little Thomas, her withered face breaking into a wide, toothless smile that crinkled the scars around her eyes. She reached out one gnarled, brown finger and touched the boy’s round, copper cheek.
"He grows like the oak," Tazhi whispered in her broken tongue. "Strong bone. Clear eye. He will not forget the mountain."
The old woman unhooked a heavy silver necklace from her own neck—a string of polished Mexican trade pesos interspersed with beads of ancient red pipestone—and slipped it gently over the boy’s head. It hung down against his deerskin tunic, heavy and cool against his chest.
Thomas chuckled, grasping the silver coins with his chubby fingers and looking up at the old matriarch with wide, fearless eyes.