Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

"I'd be most grateful."

Billy reached down a hand. "My village not far. You can ride on back of my horse."

Pitt hesitated. He definitely preferred mechanical means of transportation. To his way of thinking four wheels were better than four hooves any day. The only useful purpose for horses was as background in Western movies. But he wasn't about to look one with a gift in the mouth. He took Billy's hand and was amazed at the strength displayed by the wiry little man as he hoisted Pitt's 82 kilograms (181 pounds) up behind him without the slightest grunt of exertion.

"By the way, my name is Dirk Pitt."

"Billy Yuma," said the horseman without offering his hand.

They rode in silence for half an hour before cresting a butte overgrown with yucca. They dropped into a small valley with a shallow stream running through it and passed the ruins of a Spanish mission, destroyed by religion-resistant Indians three centuries ago. Crumbling adobe walls and a small graveyard were all that remained. The graves of the old Spaniards near the top of a knoll were long since grown over and forgotten. Lower down were the more recent burials of the townspeople. One tombstone in particular caught Pitt's eye. He slipped to the ground over the rump of the horse and walked over to it.

The carved letters on the weathered stone were distinct and quite readable.

Patty Lou Cutting

2/11/24-2/3/34

The sun be warm and kind to you.

The darkest night

some star shines through.

The dullest morn a radiance brew.

and where dusk comes,

God's hand to you.

"Who was she?" asked Pitt.

Billy Yuma shook his head. "The old ones do not know. They say the grave was made by strangers in the night."

Pitt stood and looked over the sweeping vista of the Sonoran Desert. A light breeze gently caressed the back of his neck. A red-tailed hawk circled the sky, surveying its domain. The land of mountains and sand, jackrabbits, coyotes, and c

anyons could intimidate as well as inspire. This is the place to die and be buried, he thought. Finally, he turned from Patty Lou's last resting place and waved Yuma on. "I'll walk the rest of the way."

Yuma nodded silently and rode ahead, the hooves of the buckskin kicking up little clouds of dust.

Pitt followed down the hill to a modest farming and ranching community. They traveled along the streambed where three young girls were washing clothes under the shade of a cottonwood tree. They stopped and stared at him with adolescent curiosity. He waved, but they ignored the greeting and, almost solemnly it seemed to Pitt, returned to their wash.

The heart of the Montolo community consisted of several houses and buildings. Some were built from mesquite branches that were coated with mud, one or two from wood, but most were constructed of cement blocks. The only apparent influence of modern living was weathered poles supporting electrical and phone lines, a few battered pickup trucks that looked as if they'd barely escaped a salvage yard crusher, and one satellite dish.

Yuma reined in his horse in front of a small building that was open on three sides. "Our meeting house,"

he said. "A phone inside. You have to pay."

Pitt smiled, investigated his still soggy wallet, and produced an AT&T card. "No problem."

Yuma nodded and led him into a small office equipped with a wooden table and four folding chairs.

The telephone sat on a very thin phone book that was lying on the tile floor.

The operator answered after seventeen rings. "Si, por favor?"

"I wish to make a credit card call."

"Yes, sir, your card number and the number you're calling," the operator replied in fluent English.