Vince stopped behind a pickup, parked on the side of the road. As we tumbled out of the car, a tall man with copper-colored skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, a perpetual squint, and black, shoulder-length hair stepped out of a truck and ambled toward us.

His unsmiling face made him look merely unfriendly; the rifle slung over his shoulder and the forbidding-looking knife tucked into his belt made him look downright hostile.

“You didn’t say we were meeting Attila the Hun,” said Rita.

“He sounded fine over the phone,” Connie replied.

“Thank you for coming,” said a voice behind us. We turned and faced three more men. Though unarmed, that they could catch us unawares set off alarm bells. Vince reached for his sidearm.

“Wait,” said Connie, staying Vince’s hand. “There could be others.”

“My name is Marcus Marks. As you can see, we, my older brother Matthew and younger brother Luke, and I have come unarmed. Maximilian you’ve met,” he added, pointing to the armed man with the flinty gaze, who was now behind us.

“You’ll have to forgive Maximilian. He doesn’t trust Whites, especially White cops,” said Marcus.

“And you do?” said Rita, wasting no time throwing down the gauntlet.

“Not at all, but I trust White Buffalo here,” Marcus replied.

“White Buffalo?” Connie asked.

“Yes. That is what the People call you.”

“I’m not sure I understand, but I’ll take it as a compliment. Hi. I’m Detective Almaden.”

“Rank and title mean nothing here.”

“In that case, call me Connie.”

“It will be dark soon,” said Marcus, shaking Connie’s hand, “so we best get to the Sacred Circle. It’s an easy climb, up that rise. The blancos love their guns, but you can’t bring firearms to the Sacred Circle.”

“You’re joking, right?” said Rita.

“About the Sacred Circle?” Marcus asked.

“That too, but I was referring to our guns.”

“Maximilian could take them from you, if you prefer.”

“He’s welcome to try,” said Vince, upping Rita’s defiance.

“It seems we have a situation,” said Marcus. “And I thought this would be a friendly powwow. Oh well, we’ll settle this like real men.”

Marcus pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to Vince while Maximilian produced his knife.

Cliché to the point of comical, the symbolism was unavoidable. If they settled the matter with a ruler instead of a blade, there’d be no need for knife play.

“Vince,” said Connie. “Give the knife back before you cut yourself.”

“You think I don’t know how to use one of these bad boys?”

“I’m sure you’re a regular Jim Bowie. As refreshing as it might be to see two men settle their differences with something besides guns, this is neither the time nor place. Give the knife back. Don’t you see? Marcus is messing with you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s messing with the wrong guy.”

“I’ll call you Dog-Who-Fights-over-a-Bone-in-an-Ossuary,” said Marcus.

“That’s a mouthful. What the hell does it mean?” Vince snarled.

“I have no idea. It just popped into my head.”

“You must’ve meant something by it. What was it?” Vince insisted.

“Which part?”

“The whole thing.”

“You sure require a lot of explaining. They keep the bones of the dead in an ossuary.”

“So?”

“Bones are plentiful.”

“That’s it?”

“To fight over something plentiful is to fight for no reason.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“While we seldom negotiate these names, I see I’ll have to make an exception in your case. I dub you Bonehead.”

“What’s with you and bones?” Vince replied.

“How does ‘Mad Dog’ sound?”

“That’s more like it,” said Vince, returning Marcus’s knife.

“You got a name for me?” Rita asked.

“When the People heard how you threatened the man called Reese, they named you Bull Woman.”

“Bull Woman? That’ll take some getting used to.”

“What’s there to get used to?” Vince asked. “It suits you to a T.”

“That’s quite an endorsement coming from a man thrilled to be called Mad Dog.”

“Can you two not do this now?” Connie asked.

“He started it,” Rita complained. “Just because he agreed to a stupid name doesn’t mean I have to.”

“It’s just a name, Rita,” said Connie.

“Bull Woman, or Rita, if she prefers, has a point,” Marcus interjected. “We give names to people based on their personality, a prominent characteristic or an achievement. They might not always be flattering, but because they fit, the People rarely complain. I can call you something else if you wish.”

“I suppose Bull Woman will do, but if you guys call me that anywhere else . . .”

“We call you Watcher,” said Marcus, addressing me. “I don’t know the English for it, but it means more than watching. One-Who-Protects-with-His-Eyes is a better translation.”

“You might want to renegotiate that name, Wendell,” said Rita.

“Suits me fine.”

“Hey, Chief Pulls-Names-Out-of-His-Ass,” said Vince. “Doesn’t my young sidekick here deserve a name?”

Maximilian reached for his knife.

“That’s okay, Maximilian, Mad Dog is right. Although I’m not a chief, Pulls-Names-Out-of-His-Ass isn’t a bad name. More important, it shows Mad Dog is getting into the spirit,” said Marcus.

“So, what name does your ass have for my partner?” Vince asked.

“Stands-between-the-Two-Rivers,” Marcus answered, after hesitating.

“Sorry, son,” said Vince. “We’ll come up with a better name for you later.”

“No, I’m okay with that. Thanks, Marcus,” replied Mason.

“Now that you are happy with your names, shall we proceed to the Sacred Circle?” said Marcus.

Mason slipped his sidearm out of its holster and placed it in the car.

“Come on, Vince. If they intended us harm, they would’ve done it by now.”

“Kiddo, we’re going to have a little chat after we’re done here—if our scalps are still intact. How about you, Rita? You coming?”

“Surrender my weapon because he asked me nicely? I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself,” said Marcus. “I recommend you lock yourself in the car. There are marauding ‘Injuns’ skulking around who will ravish any White women they meet.”

“That’s hysterical,” said Rita.

“I thought it was rather funny myself,” Marcus replied.

We had gone a short distance when we heard a scuffle behind us. Ignoring Marcus’s admonition, the still-armed Rita tried to sneak past Maximilian, who grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, turned her around, and gave her an ungentlemanly shove down the hill.

“I thought I made it clear. Bringing a weapon into the Circle is not negotiable,” said Marcus.

“What about Geronimo there? He’s a walking arsenal,” said Rita.

“Maximilian has volunteered not to join the Circle. Please, make yourself comfortable. We could be awhile.”

“Back there, you mentioned a man called Reese,” said Connie, as we continued up the hill. “You and your brothers were there when Innes, the young man, blew himself up.”

“Yes. And when you went flying, we thought you joined him on the other side.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

“The man you call Innes, we call He-Who-Lost-His-Head, which doesn’t translate well into English, or as my mother calls it, the Devil’s Tongue. There’s the literal meaning but also a spiritual one denoting self-sacrifice. I don’t know the English equivalent.”

“Martyr, perhaps?”

“Yes. But I don’t like the connotation.”

“And yet your names . . .”

“The Gospels were the only White names my mother knew, so she named us in our order of arrival. Imagine being called Mark Marks. That’s why I changed it to Marcus. Speaking of the old witch, there’s the matriarch now.”

“What was that, Peanut Dick?” said a diminutive figure. Perched on a log, her hands resting on a cane as on a scepter, she could be a dowager queen.

“Mother has very good hearing. She also understands English better than she lets on, so be careful what you say around her. This is my kid brother, John.”

John rose to greet us, while his mother remained seated, warming herself at a fire that blazed in the center of a ring of logs.

“Mother, this is White Buffalo,” said Marcus.

“I can see that,” said the old woman. “Do you think I’m blind? Can we start now? My ass is freezing.”

“Mother, I offered you a blanket,” said John.

“If you’re so concerned for my comfort, you wouldn’t have dragged me out here,” the old woman...