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names. My mother was Chiricahua Apache, an aunt of Firewood, the warrior you know as Cochise, and she gave me my first name, Too-ah-yay-say.”
    â€œTooaysay,” I say, struggling with the complex pronunciation.
    My companion smiles.
    â€œIt is, I think, difficult for your ears. It means Strong Swimmer. I earned it as a boy, in the first year of your century, for the time I swam the Rio Grande River to recover a horse that had run away. Too-ah-yay-say.”
    â€œToo-ah-yay-say,” I try again after the old man has repeated his name slowly. My pronunciation is awkward and halting, but I do better.
    â€œGood, but Too-ah-yay-say is only my first name. My father was Spanish. This land was all New Spain when I was born, but he gave me no name. You see, I began life living in two worlds.
    â€œAnd I have been called many things over the years, some good, some not so good, but I have one name in your tongue. It was given to me by an Englishman for whom I was a hunting guide many years ago and who taught me to speak your language. He called me Wellington.” The old man placed the emphasis heavily on the final syllable. “I think it is after a famous warrior of his people. Perhaps you know him?”
    â€œI have heard of him,” I say, forcing myself not to smile. “He was a great general.”
    Wellington nods approval.
    â€œThat is the name I use today and by which you may call me. But now it is time for stories. Perdido’s story is lost, but I can tell you my story and Perdido’s where it is a part of mine. Will you respect Perdido and my story?”
    â€œYes,” I answer.
    â€œAnd will you tell me your story in exchange?”
    â€œYes,” I repeat.
    â€œVery well then, Busca. Let us exchange stories. My story begins with this.” He thumps his chest over his heart. “My Apache half.”

7
    â€œT his land is very ancient,” Wellington begins his tale. “ Antiguo , and many people have passed through it. The old ones carved pictures on the rocks and built houses of mud that dwarf the puny things you white men build of wood, many lifetimes before even my mother’s people arrived here. Their stories are vanished.” He looks sad at the thought of all the lost stories.
    â€œWhen I was a child, my grandfather told me of something that happened when his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was but a niño .” Wellington waves his arms as if to emphasize how long ago that must have been.
    â€œIn those far-off days some men came to our land from the south. They were white men and they rode the first horses my people had ever seen. Some said they were gods because they carried spears that flashed fire and some wore suits made of metal that glinted in the sun, but they were not gods, they were just different men. They were led by a man called Coronado, and they had wonders that we did not know of—horses, guns and armor—but all their wonders were things, and without them they had little.
    â€œWe had few things—a sharp arrow point, a good club—but we had something more valuable: knowledge. They did not know where to find water or how to catch and skin a lizard for dinner. They did not know how to live in the desert, and without that what good are all the wonders of the world?” Wellington stares at me as if he expects an answer, but when I stay silent, he continues.
    â€œThey came to our villages and asked about a city of gold, una ciudad del oro . We said we did not know, but perhaps there were such things to the north where we had not been. I do not know if they believed us, but they left.
    â€œSome of our young men followed them, and when they saw how these newcomers did not know how to live in the desert, they wanted to kill them and steal their wonders. The elders said that only bad would come of molesting these men and it would be best to let them pass through, but young men do not always listen to