Stand Down by J. A. Jance Page A

with its size, meant that the piece was most likely ceremonial in nature.
    Still holding the tiny but perfect pot in his hands, Amos leaned back on his heels and considered the pot’s possible origins. He wasn’t someone who had a degree in anthropology, but he had spent a lifetime finding and selling Native American artifacts from all over vast stretches of Arizona deserts.
    Years of experience told him the pot was most likely Papago in origin. Sometimes known as the Tohono O’Odham, the Papagos had lived for thousands of years in the vast deserts surrounding what was now Tucson. This particular spot, on the far southeastern flanks of the Rincon Mountains, overlooked the San Pedro Valley. It was on the easternmost edge of the Papagos’ traditional territory and deep into the part of the world once controlled and dominated by the Apache. Had a stray band of Tohono O’odham come here to camp or hunt and left this treasure behind? Amos wondered. More likely, the tiny artifact had been a trophy of some kind, spoils of war carried off by a marauding band of Apache.
    Since the pot had clearly been washed downstream, there was a possibility that a relatively undisturbed site was sitting undiscovered farther up the canyon. There were several professors at the U of A who would pay Amos good money as a finder’s fee, so they could go in and do a properly documented excavation. As to the pot itself? Regardless of where it was from, Amos knew he had found a remarkable piece, one that was inherently valuable. The curators at the Heard Museum would jump at having a whole undamaged pot like that for their Southwestern collection. Amos knew that most of the pots on display in the museum had been pieced back together, and there was a reason for that.
    The Tohono O’odham believed that the pot maker’s spirit remained trapped inside the pots. As a consequence, when the pot maker died, tradition demanded that all her pots be smashed to pieces. So why was this one still whole? That made the idea of its being stolen goods much more likely. The Apache would have no reason to follow Tohono O’odham customs. Why free a dead enemy’s spirit. What good would that do for you?
    Wanting to protect his treasure, Amos put the pot down and then tore a strip of material from the tail of his ragged, flannel work shirt. The material was old and thin enough that it gave way without a struggle. He wrapped the pot in the strip of material. Then, stowing the protected pot as the topmost item in his bag, he shouldered his load and headed back to the truck. It was early afternoon, but he wanted to be back over Redington Pass early enough that the setting sun wouldn’t be directly in his eyes.
    Making his way back down the streambed, he kept a close watch on his footing, avoiding loose rocks wherever possible. With the heavily laden pack on his back, even a small fall might result in a twisted ankle or a broken bone, and one of those could be serious business when he was out here all by himself with no way of letting anyone know exactly where he was and no way of summoning help. And rocks weren’t the only danger.
    On this late-­spring afternoon, rattlesnakes emerging from hibernation were out in force. In fact, halfway back to his truck, a diamondback, almost invisible on the sandy surroundings, slithered past him when he stopped long enough to wipe away the sweat that was running into his eyes. That pause had been a stroke of luck for both Amos and the snake. If left undisturbed, snakes didn’t bother him. Most of the time, they went their way while Amos went his. But if he’d stepped on the creature unawares, all bets would have been off. One way or the other, the snake would have been dead and even, in spite of his heavy hiking boots, Amos might well have been badly bitten in the process.
    Amos’s lifetime search for gemstones, minerals, fossils, and artifacts had put him in mountains like this for