When she finished, he let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Well,” he said, finally, “Bein’ as I ain’t read these-here books meself, all I kin say is that Mister May of your’n ain’t set foot west of the Mississippi for sure, and I’d lay good money he ain’t never been in the United States a’tall. Seems t’me like he got hisself a buncha books by fellers that had, an’ he studied ’em good and hard, but there was a buncha stuff they either left out or figgered people already knowed, an’ that there is where he falls all over hisself makin’ mistakes. Like, I kin tell you from personal experience, Apaches of whatever stripe ain’t never been farmers and ain’t never gonna be, they ain’t never lived in pueblos, an’ they ain’t real fond of the Dineh, which is to say the Navaho, and the Navaho ain’t real fond of them. In fact, there ain’t no tribe whatsoever that’s fond of the Apache, ’cept another Apache, bein’ as they live by huntin’ an’ raidin’. The ideer an Apache chief’d be any kinda peacemaker ’mongst t’other tribes is enough t’make a cat laugh. An’ sure, there’s what y’all’d call a real forest or two in Texas, but they ain’t a day or two’s ride away from the mountains, it’s more like weeks, an’ they’re over toward Loosiana. And there ain’t never been no carbine ever shot 25 bullets without reloadin’. Only thing close is the Henry Rifle, an’ thet’s sixteen iff’n you got one in the chamber. But—” he continued, holding up his hand to keep her from speaking “—here’s the thing. We ain’t sellin’ the gold. We’re sellin’ the treasure-map.”

She knitted her brows in consternation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, hesitantly.