THE MAP OF TRUST

 The Stranger at the Cottonwood

The morning sun had barely cleared the eastern hills when Caleb Morgan saw the village.

For three days he had ridden through country so dry that even the grass seemed tired of living. His horse, a sorrel gelding named Red, carried dust along his flanks, and Caleb's boots were gray with the same powder. Behind him lay nearly two hundred miles of hard country, broken trails, abandoned wagon tracks, and stretches of land where a man could ride from sunrise to sunset without seeing another living soul.

Yet when Caleb reached the crest of the low ridge, he stopped.

Below him stood an Apache village.

Smoke rose gently from several cooking fires. Horses grazed near a narrow creek. Children ran between the shelters while women worked beside the lodges. Men stood farther away, watching the stranger on the ridge.

Caleb immediately noticed something else.

Everyone was looking toward the same place.

A huge cottonwood tree stood near the center of the village, its branches spreading wide enough to shade dozens of people. Beneath it stood the chief and several elders.

The entire village seemed to be waiting.

Caleb rested one hand on the saddle horn.

He had no desire to frighten anyone.

Slowly, he guided Red down the slope.

He had learned long ago that a man could show respect without saying a word. He removed his hat. He kept both hands visible. Most importantly, he did not reach for the revolver resting at his hip.

The village grew silent as he approached.

A young warrior stepped forward with a rifle.

Caleb stopped.

The warrior's finger remained outside the trigger guard, but his eyes were fixed on Caleb's face.

Then an older man raised one hand.

"Enough."

The warrior stepped back.

The old man walked beneath the cottonwood.

He was tall despite his age, with long silver hair tied behind his head. A dark blue blanket rested across his shoulders.

"You are far from the road," he said.

Caleb nodded.

"I know."

"You know this is Apache land?"

"I know that too."

"Then why did you come?"

Caleb looked toward the creek.

"I was following a map."

Several of the men exchanged glances.

The chief studied him.

"What map?"

Caleb reached into his saddlebag.

Every rifle in the village seemed to rise half an inch.

He stopped immediately.

"Paper," he said quietly. "Not a weapon."

The chief gave a small nod.

Caleb pulled out a folded piece of old parchment.

He opened it carefully.

The map was badly worn. The corners were torn, and a faded red line crossed the paper from east to west.

At first, the chief showed no reaction.

Then his eyes changed.

"You have that."

Caleb noticed.

"You know it?"

The chief stepped closer.

"Where did you get it?"

"My father."

The old man's expression hardened.

"Your father."

"Thomas Morgan."

Silence fell over the village.

A woman near one of the shelters covered her mouth.

One of the elders whispered something in Apache.

The chief stared at Caleb for a long moment.

"What was your father's name?"

"Thomas Morgan."

"I heard you."

The chief's voice had become colder.

"I asked for his name."

Caleb swallowed.

"Thomas Elijah Morgan."

The chief looked toward the cottonwood.

For several seconds he said nothing.

Then he turned back.

"My name is White Elk."

Caleb lowered his head.

"I came looking for answers."

White Elk's gaze settled on the map.

"You may have found them."

He pointed beneath the tree.

"But answers are not always gifts."

Caleb dismounted.

"What do you mean?"

The chief looked at him.

"Your father came here twenty-six years ago."

Caleb froze.

"He never told me."

"I know."

White Elk turned toward the village.

"That is why you are dangerous."

Caleb frowned.

"I don't understand."