EXCERPT

"philosophers' stone: a magical substance believed by alchemists to have the power, among others, to change base metal into gold.
~Webster’s Dictionary

ONE

Dense sunlight pounded the Sanoran Desert with the relentless, driving power of a forge hammer, superheating the sun-cooked, flinty soil already baked dust-dry right down to bedrock. The distant Gila Mountains shimmered in a formless haze and wherever the ground leveled out, great sheets of mirage water made empty promises of refuge from the ferocious heat.

From somewhere nearby came an alien rhythm, the quick slapping beat of helicopter rotors and the annoying whine of its stabilizer. Kyle Brinhaven stopped halfway up the shale incline and eased the straps on his pack.

He couldn't imagine why anyone would be flying into this stretch of desert unless it was an emergency.

Sounds from the helicopter came closer now, moving toward him from the west.

He shrugged his pack into place and started on up the slope. The helicopter wasn't looking for him, no one knew he was here, not even Joe Tincup his adoptive father.

At the top of the incline, he stopped under the shade of an old Pinõn. The blistering sun had already chased the rock squirrels back into their cool lairs and even lizards were beginning to look for shelter. They're smarter than I am, he thought.

With an ear-slapping roar, the helicopter appeared over the bluffs behind him, arrowed straight overhead and disappeared behind hills to the East. It was a small two seater painted bright red and black.

Going in a straight line at high speed, thought Kyle. He's not searching for anyone, he's on his way somewhere and he's in a hurry.

Casually he checked his bearings. To the East a splintered stone monolith crowned a barren hill of gray shale and to the north a sandy ridge, capped with ocotillo, shimmered in the heat.

A dry, brush filled canyon wound between them and disappeared into the hills. Although there was no distinct trail, for Kyle this parched land was filled with markers, easier to read and follow than the centerline of a freeway. The markers told him that he was now in the San Carlos Indian Reservation and only a few miles from his father's cabin.

He unhooked a canteen from his belt and took a small sip of water. Although he had plenty, he'd grown up in these high, parched Arizona mountains where water was scarce and conserving it a habit too strong to break. Joe had taught him well.

Actually, Joe had taught him almost everything he knew that was of any value. And that thought gave Kyle a twinge of guilt. Almost six months had passed since his last visit to the old man's remote cabin. But he knew Joe wouldn't complain about the lack of attention. Even when his beloved Jenna died, the old man hadn't protested, although he'd cried many nights when he thought Kyle was asleep.