Untitled Chapter

It was not a white soldier's salute. It was not an outlaw's greeting. Jack knew that sign. He had seen it during the war near the New Mexico border. It meant: we see you. Not friendship. Not threat. Jack did not draw. He moved his hand away from the gun and raised an open palm. The three native riders watched him for a long time. Wind moved over the red stone like old words being spoken far away. At last, the tall rider turned his horse. The other two followed. Jack waited until they vanished before he rode on. He knew he had crossed another people's ground. The frontier was not empty. White maps were merely too lazy to write the names of its true owners. After noon, the dry salt lake appeared ahead.