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The Kid silently nodded.
"Who dreamed up that piece of fiction?" Pitt waved off another offer of the rye.
"A Confederate cavalry captain by the name of Neville Brown made a deathbed statement to a doctor in Charleston, South Carolina, when he died in 1908. He claimed his troop captured Lincoln and delivered him on board the Texas. "
"The ravings of a dying man," murmured Giordino in absolute disbelief. "Lincoln must have caught the Concorde to arrive in time to be shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford's Theatre."
"I don't know the whole story," admitted the Kid.
"A fantastic but intriguing tale," said Pitt. "But tough to take seriously."
"I can't guarantee the Lincoln legend," the Kid said adamantly, "but I'll bet Mr. Periwinkle and the remains of my grubstake, the Texas and the bones of her crew, along with the gold, lie here in the sand somewhere. I've been roam
in' the desert for five years searchin' for her remains and by God I'm gonna find her or die tryin'."
Pitt gazed at the shadowed form of the old prospector in sympathy and respect. He rarely saw such dedication and determination. There was a burning confidence in the Kid that reminded Pitt of the old miner in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.
"If she's buried under a dune, how do you intend on discovering her?" asked Giordino.
"I got a good metal detector, a Fisher 1265X."
Pitt could think of nothing more of consequence to say except, "I hope good luck leads you to the Texas, and she's all you imagined."
The Kid lay there on his blanket without speaking for several seconds, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Finally, Giordino broke the silence.
"It's time we were on our way if we want to make any distance by dawn."
Twenty minutes later the engine of the Voisin was quietly idling as Pitt and Giordino said their goodbyes to the Kid and Mr. Periwinkle. The old prospector had insisted they take several packages of concentrated food from his stock. He had also drawn them a rough map of the ancient riverbed, marking in landmarks and the only well near the trail leading to the waste facility at Fort Foureau.
"How far?" asked Pitt.
The Kid shrugged. "About 110 miles."
"A hundred and seventy-seven kilometers on the odometer," translated Giordino.
"Hope you fellas find what you're lookin' for."
Pitt shook hands and smiled. "You too." He climbed in the Voisin and settled behind the wheel, almost sad to leave the old man.
Giordino lingered a moment as he bid a farewell. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Glad to be of help."
"I've been wanting to say this, but you look vaguely familiar."
"Can't imagine why. I don't recall meetin' up with you fellas before."
"Would I offend you if I asked you your real name?"
"Not at all, I don't take offense easily. It's an odd name. Never used it much."
Giordino waited patiently without interrupting.
"It's Clive Cussler."
Giordino smiled. "You're right, it is an odd name."
Then he turned and settled in the front seat beside Pitt. He turned to wave as Pitt eased out the clutch and the Voisin began rolling over the fiat bed of the gully. But the old man and his faithful burro were quickly lost in the dark of evening.
