"You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry Clementine."
"He's coming up the gorge," Giordino murmured, clutching a lug wrench.
Pitt picked up several rocks as weapons. They took up positions silently on opposite ends of the sand-covered car, crouching in readiness to attack, waiting for whoever was approaching to appear around a nearby bend in the gorge.
"In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine…" The figure of a man shadowed by the wall of the gorge walked around the bend leading an animal. "Lived a miner forty-niner and his daughter Clementine… "
The voice trailed off as he spied the car blanketed by sand. He came to a halt at the unexpected sight of the camouflaged vehicle and studied it not so much from surprise as simple curiosity. He moved closer, pulling the stubborn-acting animal behind him on a tether. Then he stopped beside the car, reached out, and brushed the sand from the roof.
Pitt and Giordino slowly rose and confronted the stranger, staring at the man as if he was an alien from another planet. This was no Tuareg leading a camel through the wilderness of his native land. This apparition was totally inconsistent with the Sahara, completely in the wrong place and time.
"Maybe he doesn't carry a scythe anymore," muttered Giordino.
The man was dressed like an old American western desert prospector. Battered old Stetson hat, denim pants held up by suspenders and tucked into scrapped and faded leather boots. A red bandana was tied around his neck and covered the lower part of his face, giving him the appearance of an early bandit.
The animal behind him was not a camel, but a burro, its back loaded with a pack almost as large as he was, containing goods and supplies including several round water canteens, blankets, tins of food, a pick and shovel, and a lever-action Winchester rifle.
"I knew it," Giordino whispered in awe. "We've expired and gone to Disneyland."
The stranger pulled down the bandana, revealing a white moustache and beard. His eyes were green, almost as green as Pitt's. His brows matched the beard but the hair that leaked from under the Stetson was still graying with streaks of dark brown. He stood tall, about the same height as Pitt and was more heavy than thin. His lips broadened into a friendly smile.
"I sure hope you fellas speak my language," he said warmly. "Because I could sure use the company."
Pitt and Giordino looked at each other blankly, and then back at the old desert rat, certain their eyes and their minds had run amuck.
"Where did you come from?" Giordino blurted.
"I might ask you the same thing," replied the stranger. He gazed at the coating of sand on the Voisin. "You the fellas that airplane was lookin' for?"
"Why do you want to know?" asked Pitt.
"If you two gents want to play question and answer games, I'll be on my way."
The intruder hardly wore the image of a nomad, and since he talked and looked like a fellow countryman, Pitt quickly decided to trust him. "My name is Dirk Pitt and my friend here is AI Giordino, and yes the Malians are looking for us."
The old man shrugged. "Not surprised. They don't take kindly to foreigners around here." He gazed in wonder at the Voisin. "How in heaven's name did you drive a car this far without a road?"
"It wasn't easy, mister…"
The stranger moved closer and stuck out a callused hand. "Everybody just calls me the Kid."
Pitt smiled and shook hands. "How did a man your age come to be called that?"
"Long time ago after, after I'd return from a prospecting trip, I'd always head for my favorite waterin' hole in Jerome, Arizona. When I'd belly up to the bar, my old saloon pals used to greet me with, `Hey, the Kid's back in town.' The name just sort of stuck."
Giordino was staring at the Kid's companion. "A mule seems out of place in this part of the world. Wouldn't a camel be more practical?"
"To begin with," the Kid said with noticeable indignation, "Mr. Periwinkle ain't no mule, he's a burro. And a real tough one. Camels can go farther and longer without water, but the burro was bred for the desert too. Found Mr. Periwinkle roamin' free in Nevada eight years ago, tamed him, and when I came to the Sahara I shipped him over. He's not half as rotten as a camel, eats less, and can carry as much weight. Besides, standin' lower to the ground like he does, he's a helluva lot easier to pack."
"A fine animal," Giordino retreated.
"You look like you're fixin' to move on. I was hopin' we might sit and talk a spell. I haven't met up with another soul except an Arab takin' a couple of camels to sell in Timbuktu. And that was three weeks ago. I never figured in a thousand years I'd run on to other Americans out here."
Giordino looked at Pitt. "Might be smart to hang around and pump information from someone who knows the territory."
Pitt nodded in agreement, opened the rear door of the Voisin, and gestured inside. "Would you care to take a load off your feet?"
The Kid stared at the leather seats of the car as if they were upholstered in gold. "I can't remember when I sat in a soft chair. I'm much obliged." He ducked into the car, sank into the rear seat, and sighed with pleasure.
"We only have a can of sardines, but we'd be happy to share it with you," offered Giordino with a gracious generosity seldom witnessed by Pitt.
"Nope, dinner's on me. I've got plenty of concentrated food packs. Be more than pleased to split them with you. How's beef stew sound?"
Pitt smiled. "You don't know how happy we are to be your guests. Sardines aren't exactly our idea of a taste treat in the wild."
"We can down the stew with our soft drinks," Giordino suggested.
"You got soda pop? How you fellas fixed for water?"
"Enough for a few days," answered Giordino.
"If you're running short I can point you coward a well about 10 miles to the north."
"We're thankful for any help," said Pitt.
"More than you know," added Giordino.
The sun had fallen below the horizon and twilight still lit the sky. With the approach of evening the air became breathable again. After hobbling Mr. Periwinkle, who found and began happily chomping on several clumps of coarse grass growing out of a small dune, the Kid added water to the concentrated beef stew and, to the relief of Pitt, cooked it over a small Coleman stove along with biscuits. If Kazim had sent aircraft to hunt them by night, a small fire, no matter how shielded by the walls of the gorge, would have been a dead giveaway. The old prospector also provided tin plates and eating utensils.
As Pitt soaked the final remains of his stew with a biscuit, he pronounced it as the most magnificent meal he'd ever eaten. He thought it amazing how a small measure of food could rejuvenate his optimism again. After they finished, the Kid produced a half-full bottle of Old Overholt straight rye whiskey and passed it around.
"Well now, if you've a mind to, why don't you boys tell me why you're drivin' around the worst part of the Sahara in a car that looks as old as I am."
"We're searching for a source of toxic contamination that's polluting the Niger and being carried down to the sea," answered Pitt directly.
"That's a new one. Where's the stuff supposed to come from?"
"Either a chemical plant or a waste disposal facility."
The Kid shook his head. "Ain't nothin' like that in these parts."
"Any heavy construction around this section of the Sahara?" asked Giordino.
"Can't think of any, except maybe Fort Foureau a ways to the northwest."
"The solar detoxification plant run by the French?"
The Kid nodded. "A real big spread. Mr. Periwinkle and me tramped past it about six months ago. Got chased off. Guards everywhere. You'd have thought they were secretly buildin' nuclear bombs."