I drove a rented Ford from the Phoenix airport, pursued by a succession of dust devils, little funnels of loose earth spinning beside the blacktop like wild dervishes. A growing anticipation swelled my chest as I thought about what might lay ahead, and curiosity over Clint’s discovery hummed along with the car’s motor, counting off the miles.
The Halloway ranch sprawled over a dusty bluff about four miles northwest of Florence, patterned in shades of gray and brown spangled by silvery green in the leaves of an olive grove and clusters of chaparral. A split rail fence meandered across the property, dividing it roughly into pastures occupied by livestock—horses, sheep, and a few cows.
Along the back side of the ranch, with occasional views of the Gila River, rested a series of log cabins,
