Stand Down by J. A. Jance

stooge to be your partner.”
    Big Bad John Lassiter never saw the punch coming. Amos’s powerful right hook caught him unawares and unprepared. His blow broke John’s cheekbone and sent him reeling backward, dropping like a rock on the sawdust-­covered floor. Big John landed, bloodied face up and knocked cold. In the shocked silence that followed, with all eyes focused on John, no one in the room noticed when Amos Warren slipped the brass knuckles back into his pocket. No, it hadn’t been a fair fight, but at least it was over without any danger of its turning into a full-­scale brawl.
    As John started coming to and tried to sit up, several ­people hurried to help him. Amos turned back to the bartender. “No need to call the cops,” Amos said. “Next round’s on me.”
    As far as the bartender was concerned, that was good news. He didn’t want any trouble, either. “Right,” he said, nodding in agreement. “Coming right up.”
    It took several ­people to get John back on his feet and work-­wise. Someone handed him a bar napkin to help stem the flow of blood that was still pouring from the cut on his cheek, but the wad of paper didn’t do much good. The damage was done. His shirt was already a bloody mess.
    â€œSee you tomorrow then?” Amos called after John, watching him in the mirror as he staggered unsteadily toward the door.
    â€œGo piss up a rope, Amos Warren,” John muttered in reply. “I’ll see you in hell first.”
    That was the last thing John had said to him—­I’ll see you in hell. They’d quarreled before over the years, most recently several times about Ava, but this was the first time they’d ever come to blows. In past instances, a few days after the dustup, one or the other of them would get around to apologizing, and that would be the end of it. Amos hoped the same thing would happen this time around although, with Ava standing on the sidelines fanning the flames, it might not be that easy to patch things up.
    Lost in thought, Amos had been walking generally westward, following the course of the dry creek bed at the bottom of the canyon, some of it sandy and some littered with boulders. During monsoon season, flash floods carrying boulders, tree trunks, and all kinds of other debris would roar downstream. As the water level subsided, and the sand settled out, there was no telling what would be left behind. In the course of the day, Amos had seen plenty of evidence—­spoor, hoofprints and paw prints that indicated the presence of wildlife—­deer, javelina, and even what Amos assumed to be a black bear. But there was no indication of any human incursions.
    At a point where the walls of canyon narrowed precipitously, Amos was forced off the bank and into the creek bed itself. And that was when he saw it—­a small hunk of reddish-­brown pottery sticking up out of the sand. Dropping his heavy back with a thud, he removed the prospector’s pick he carried on his belt and knelt on the sand.
    It took several minutes of careful digging to unearth the treasure. Much to his amazement, it was still in one piece. How it could have been washed down the streambed and deposited on a sandy strand of high ground without being smashed to bits was one of the wonders of the universe. Amos suspected that the sand-­infused water of a flash flood had buoyed it up before the water had drained out of the sand, leaving the pot on solid ground.
    Once it was free of the sand, Amos pulled out his reading glasses and then held the piece close enough to examine it. He realized at once that it was far too small to be a cooking pot. Then he noticed that a faded design of some kind had been etched into the red clay before the pot was fired. A more detailed examination revealed the image of what appeared to be an owl perched on top of a tortoise. The presence of the decorative etching on the pot, along