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had been stolen in the greatest robbery in history.” Garber’s head pops back into view. “And, in the process, killed the most feared outlaw in the Territory, perhaps the entire Frontier.” He rises to his feet and tosses a yellowed newspaper on the desk. “You killed the Snowman.”
    I don’t make much of the headline and its jumbled letters, but I recognize at once the penciled likeness of Garrison LaForge. You don’t forget the Snowman. And farther down the page, no bigger than a nickel, is another face. That sketcher from the Gazette never could get my chin right.
    â€œIt was someone else kilt the Snowman. I was just a witness.”
    â€œA trifling distinction,” Garber sipping his coffee. He leans back in his chair. “The power of myth can hardly be derailed by something as inconsequential as the truth.”
    â€œYou said there were two things.”
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œTwo things you did not know.”
    â€œAh, yes,” Garber says. “That would be the validity and condition of the parcel in question.” All at once he pushes off from his desk and slides in his chair across the room to a tall cabinet. A chair with wheels. Had Sheriff gotten wind of such a conveyance, I suspect the jailhouse back in the Bend would still bear rings around where his desk stood. “You understand, just because a man says he owns something doesn’t mean he does. The will and testament you showed me had to be verified with the assessor’s office, which it was, eventually. Yes, the late Sheriff Pardell did intend for his property to go to you—”
    â€œWhat do you mean, eventually?”
    â€œWell, there was the slight matter of your heritage.” He trails off and waits for my reaction. When I give him nothing, he continues, choosing his words carefully. “You’re an Indian . . . or half-Indian, yes?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œIn the eyes of the law, most certainly.”
    â€œNavajo. My mother was Navajo. My father was a white man.”
    â€œYes, well unfortunately the law makes very little distinction between Indian and half-breed.”
    â€œI don’t care for that word.”
    â€œWhat, half—?” Garber stops himself. A knot of flesh rolls slow down the man’s throat. “My apologies, Mister Two-Trees,” his voice breaking. “I meant no disrespect. The point is that there are laws against Indians owning property, except in designated areas. The reservations.”
    â€œSheriff and the missus raise me on that land since I was a spud. He leave it to me fair and square.”
    â€œThe concept of ‘fair and square’ doesn’t apply much when it comes to Indians.”
    â€œNo. It does not.”
    â€œBefore I could even think about a potential buyer,” Garber begins, “there is the issue of title. The problem, you see, is that the clerk has a ledger, and in that ledger is recorded every sale and transfer of real estate holdings in the territory, including the names of the buyer and seller, and of each, his race.” At this, the man gets up from his seat and crosses to the window, his fingers smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his waistcoat. “You are as much white as you are red. I don’t care what Washington says. Washington is not New Mexico.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œLet’s just say that there are few obstacles in this world that cannot be solved by a pair of double-eagle gold pieces. The clerk had to write something down in his book. I made sure it was what we wanted.”
    â€œYou risked yourself on my account?”
    â€œYou’re not the only one with a connection to Caliche Bend. My sister lives there. Perhaps you know her. Alma is her name, Alma Early. She’s married to Jack Early.”
    â€œBig Jack. He’s my friend. ’Course I know Alma.”
    â€œI assumed that’s who referred me to