Thomas Shining Turtle sat in the ancient roadside cafe, nursing the last of his meal and his beer. The food was good, and the beer had maintained something of it's cold in the Arizona heat. The sign outside, the one that read "Best Food For 100 Miles, Air Conditioned Comfort" hadn't lied, it was just a few decades old. Beyond the kitchens of a few battered mobile homes, there wasn't another kitchen within a hundred miles, and the air conditioner not only wheezed and banged to itself, it required an equally old oscillating metal fan (also banging) to attempt to circulate the air. Thomas had made do with slugging down as much ice water as the jaded waitress would continue to bring around, but she had made it clear that the water service only lasted for the length of the meal. Once the last bite and sip were gone, it was all over, and he'd be expected to pay his tab and leave.

Friendly folks, he thought sarcastically to himself. Not that he blamed them. The dry heat and open terrain sucked more than water out of a person. Most of these people stayed in the area for personal reasons, not for the scenery. The desert offered offered no respite for those claiming tourist status, and less to those that lived here. He himself had spent as little time as possible here, but an old friend lived out in the area. He'd needed some time with Ira (or, as the locals called him, "that crazy ol' Injun beadshaker"), and had left his retreat in the north to come visit the man. Ira was mortal, but he'd recognized Thomas for what he was the first time they'd met. Nothing shook the old man, and he'd served as Thomas' moral compass on a few occasions.

The visit had been good, despite Ira's method of getting to his points. People of the Nations had always had a way of making a point without making a point, and Ira was better than most in that area. Add the heat and remoteness to the issue, and Ira could take the better part of a week to get through "Hello, how are you?". Plus his damned concoctions to better his visions. Two nights in the desert with his head swimming from home brewed halluncinagenics had been almost more than he could bear.

He'd been spared by the arrival of the letter. The Fed Ex man had groused about getting to the retreat, but he'd still handed over an envelope with the clearly printed address that used Thomas' original name, carefully phonetically spelled across the label, in care of Ira. The return address was Tibet, of all places, and the label attached to the envelope's bar code showed that this had been posted three weeks ago. Curious, since he'd told no one other than Coulter that he was coming here, and Patrick was even more closed mouthed than he was. Hell, he hadn't even known until almost that time that he was going to Arizona.

The envelope contained four sheets of paper, and a small talisman. The papers were, in order, a picture of a sword's hilt, a series of small artist's sketches of varying blade styles, complete with measurements, a photocopy of a map section with carefully handdrawn directions added, and an invitation, formally written in phonetic Shoshone, to come to Bolivia for a treasure hunt.

The talisman was what had caught his attention. It was a coin-sized circle of polished stone, one side burnished by years of contact with skin. Small sigils were carved into it, and a pair of tiny beads of amber completed the decorations. The remains of a knotted leather thong still clung to it.

He remembered it well. He'd given it to a lover over a century ago. They'd parted ways, their lives not just hampered by her aging, but also by his inability to give her children. He'd recognized the need in her, and he finally did the hardest thing he'd done up that point. She had eventually married and started a large family. Thomas had kept an eye on her and her brood. Upon her death, he'd quietly introduced himself to her oldest daughter, and told a bit of a fib, claiming to be an old family friend. He promised that if he could ever be of assistance to the family, that they need only to contact him, using the talisman as a proof. The call had never come, until now, if this was what it was. If not...

Pulling himself back to the present, Thomas finished his meal. He had a plane to catch, and that meant a long drive to the airport. It had taken a bit of wrangling over an ancient pay phone to get the arrangements made, especially since he'd had to remember the details of one of his identities while standing in the narrow shade of an old gas station. Money, papers, flight arrangements, even the specialized considerations for carrying his weapons on an international flight, all had to be dealt with before he had taken his leave of Ira. Of course, after he had argued and finagled his way through the arrangements, Ira, who had given him complete solitude after the letter's arrival, had handed him a Spanish/English dictionary and a set of maps of Bolivian cities, then disappeared into his cabin. Thomas had been only able to smile, then get into his truck and hit the road.

Now, if only he could find out how the talisman had found it's way to him...

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"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.