"OK," Morrison said. "It should be around here somewhere. Max, what's today's date?"
"July thirty-first. Why?"
"Just wondering. I'll call you when I've found something."
After hanging up, Morrison sat on a little boulder and stared dully at the sand. July thirty-first. Tomorrow was his birthday. His family would be thinking about him. Aunt Bess in Pasadena, the twins in Laos, Uncle Ted in Durango. And Janie, of course, waiting for him in Tampa.
Morrison realized that tomorrow might be his last birthday unless he found goldenstone.
He got to his feet, strapped the telephone back in his pack beside the empty canteens, and set a course to the south.
He wasn't alone. The birds and beasts of the desert marched with him. Overhead, the silent black kites circled endlessly. The sandwolves crept closer on his flanks, their red tongues lolling out, waiting for the carcass to fall....
"I'm not dead yet!" Morrison shouted at them.
He drew his revolver and fired at the nearest wolf. At twenty feet, he missed. He went down on one knee, held the revolver tightly in both hands and fired again. The wolf yelped in pain. The pack immediately went for the wounded animal, and the kites swooped down for their share.