Alex "Legs" Cleveland was the first to admit that he thrived on luxury. He was, therefore, not surprised that he was less than thrilled at the idea of sleeping on a rock in the middle of nowhere.
Well, not exactly nowhere. Don Laughlin's private airstrip was in the Mojave Desert, on the outskirts of Laughlin, the southernmost town in Nevada, right on the border of both California and Arizona. Hottest spot on earth where people actually live. Rarely got below one-twenty-five in mid-summer. Still it was close enough to Las Vegas to be somewhere in Alex's lexicon.
Could be worse, Legs thought. It often had been.
He walked to the far end of the runway, leaned on a fence, and watched a helicopter marked Riverside, take off in the direction of Vegas. Then he lit a cigarette, and glanced enviously at Sam Mtshali, sleeping comfortably on a large, flat rock just the other side of the fence.
Sam stirred and opened his eyes.
"That helicopter belongs to the man who built this town," Legs said.
Sam said nothing. He stared out into the desert He could see nothing around him except dust and sand and, in the distance, the blinking lights of a few highrise hotels. He thought about the Karroo, where he had once spent a month listening for the voice of his ancestors. "Do you understand spirit-seeking, red-man?" he asked.
"I have been part of it," Legs said. He pulled something out of his pocket, looked at it, and seemed about to show it to Sam.
"Then you know the desert. We are brothers after all."
Legs rubbed whatever it was he held in his hand, then replaced it in his pocket. In strangely companionable silence, he joined Mtshali on the rock, still warm from the heat of the day. They lay together and contemplated the stars. Later, they talked quietly for a while of weeks spent alone in the desert, at the time of their initiations.
"I was taught that my ancestral guide would come to me in the form of an animal," Sam said.
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