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In 1846, a German adventurer named Jacob Waltz immigrated to the United States. Eighteen years later, he arrived in Arizona. He was 56 years old and the year was 1864. He prospected in the Prescott area and then moved to Phoenix to look for gold in and around the Superstition Mountains, a chain of rugged peaks some twenty-five miles East-Northeast of the center of the city. In the spring of 1878, he found it. Waltz either discovered a mine by himself or was shown it by a Spaniard named Peralta, a native of Sonora, Mexico. Waltz had saved Peralta during a barroom brawl, which ensued after Peralta had been stabbed in a gambling dispute. Waltz never disclosed the whereabouts of the mine.

Jacob Waltz was never a congenial man and after he discovered gold, he became downright ornery. He was thought to have killed several men and would threaten anyone who tried to learn the location of his mine. By 1884, he was seen selling small quantities of gold in Mesa City and the richness of his mine began to grow in the minds of other prospectors. The more the fame of his mine grew, the more reclusive and protective Jacob Waltz became. And the more reclusive and protective Jacob Waltz became, the more the fame of his mine grew.

They tried to follow him. They tried to trick him. They searched and searched but they couldn't find the mine. In February of 1891, Jacob Waltz contracted pneumonia and on October 25th of that same year, he died. He was 83 years old. He had lived his life in seclusion, coming to town to drink and gamble each time he sold some gold. He was mean and unloved. He died in the home of one Julia Thomas, a baker and perhaps his only friend.

The rumors began immediately. The Dutchman had drawn a map. He had given the location of the mine to someone on his deathbed. Maps appeared and were sold as genuine. Amateurs and professionals alike began to search for the mine in earnest. The Superstition Mountains were almost overrun with prospectors. Without a vengeful Jacob Waltz to stop them, the mine was fair game for the first one to find it.

They came, they searched and they died. Over the next 100 years sixty-eight people lost their lives trying to find the Lost Dutchman Mine. Some perished in the desert climate of the Superstition Mountains, some fell to their deaths from perilous heights, some became victims of the denizens of the desert and some met their maker by violence and murder. But the mine kept Waltz's secret.

Every year first timers and veterans alike take up the hunt, not even sure that the mine ever really existed. They search and fail. They search again and fail again.

The treasure has become the excitement of the hunt rather than the gold itself.

In the Southwestern Sonoran desert in the Superstition Mountains, a dent-ridden, rust-marked pickup truck drew to a stop. Two men emerged. They wore jeans, wool shirts, work boots and weathered western hats. They circled the truck from opposite directions, arriving at the back at the same time. The driver lowered the tailgate and the passenger scrambled into the truck bed. He handed a ventilated crate to the other man, who dropped it roughly to the ground.

"Hey! Be a little careful! Will ya, Butch!" the man in the truck bed said.

"What's the matter, Charlie? 'Fraid I'm goin' to hurt 'em?" Butch laughed. "Maybe you'd like to get 'em ready this time. I'm sure you'd be gentle. Har! Har!"

"Cut the crap, Butch," Charlie said. "Let's just get it over with. You know I don't like this part."

With that Charlie dropped from the truck bed beside the crate. Each man grabbed a rope handle, lifted the crate and walked in a straight line away from the truck. After about three hundred yards, they deposited their load on the ground and stepped back.

"All right," Butch said. "I'll do it. You just hand 'em to me and make sure that none get away."

With a little sigh of relief, Charlie opened a wire door on the top of the crate, reached in and extracted a soft bundle of shivering fur. He handed the cottontail to Butch, who grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of the neck and walked another 50 yards into the desert. There he tied a thin cord around a docile rear foot. The other end was attached to a nearby brittle bush. Butch then stood up and withdrew a hunting knife from the scabbard attached to his waist. He bent down, lifted the rabbit by the loose fur above the shoulders and drew the razor-sharp blade across its trembling chest. Blood appeared immediately and streaked the front of the animal. The wound was serious but the rabbit would not die from it. That would come later. Butch placed the animal on the ground, gave it a pat on the head and said, "Bye-bye, bunny!"

He turned just as Charlie was approaching with another rabbit. Butch grabbed the quaking animal and proceeded to perform the same routine. He tethered this rabbit to another bush. Soon he had seven rabbits tied down in a circle about twenty feet in diameter.

"Well, that's that," he said to Charlie. "Let's get comfortable. It's starting to get dark."

They returned to the truck and unloaded a large duffel bag. Charlie drove the pickup away from the stakeout into a small depression. Butch grabbed the duffel and lugged it to a crude blind some twenty-five yards from the circle of rabbits. He had just unzipped the bag when Charlie dropped down beside him.

"Looks like a good night," he said. "Half-moon gives just the right amount of light and no wind to speak of." "Yeah!" Butch returned. "Just do yer job and let's get outta here."

They had a long wait and they knew it. It was now just past eight-o'clock and it would be nearer eleven before anything started. Charlie checked his gear while Butch settled in. First, he assembled the gas propulsion rifle. This weapon could propel a dart 100 yards with a drop of only eight inches. In the 25 to 30 yards that their projectiles would be traveling, the trajectory would be deflected by less than an inch. Charlie then pulled out a black leather tube and extracted the infra-red telescopic sight. He mounted it on the rifle and sighted it on a nearby palo verde tree.

"Good," he breathed. Next he attached a hose to the bottom of the gun stock and connected the other end to a nitrogen pressure tank. He checked the pressure gauge and inserted a dart into the chamber of the rifle. Now, he activated the night scope and sighted on the crotch of another tree that was located just beyond the rabbit circle. He was in a prone position completely hidden by desert foliage. He squeezed the trigger. There was an almost inaudible hiss as the dart flew to its mark. It hit the tree a half an inch below and three-quarters of an inch to the right of where Charlie had aimed. He made two adjustments on the sight, loaded another round and fired. This time the dart hit the mark dead center. Charlie laid the gun down. "Ready!" he said.

"Bout time," Butch replied.

It was exactly eighteen minutes after eleven when they heard the first sound. It was just a single low note. It seemed to go unanswered. Then it sounded again. Was it the same or had it come from another direction? It was difficult to be sure. At the first sound, Butch had awakened from a seemingly deep sleep and nudged Charlie. Charlie had been on a nervous watch the whole time and didn't need any prodding. He glanced at Butch and placed a forefinger to his lips. The second note sounded. Both men slid forward. Charlie to his rifle and Butch to a vantage point on his right side. Between them was a rectangular wooden box. Charlie reached over and raised the lid exposing two rows of six darts, each with the point downward. He took the first one from the first row and carefully inserted it into the firing chamber of the gun. He placed the stock to his shoulder, his right eye to the infra-red scope and waited.

The sounds in the night were now double-pitched and more frequent. They seemed to be coming from all quadrants. The rabbits were completely still, only betrayed by their uncontrollable shaking. Then, off to the right of the circle of the tethered animals a pair of yellow beads reflected in the light of the half-moon. Another pair appeared on the left and still another behind. The rabbits were trying to become invisible but sensed that they were hopeless and doomed. The beads moved closer and the moonlight unveiled their true identity, the eyes of the hunter. What Charlie had been able to detect through his infrared-nightscope became visible to Butch as well, as his eyes had become adjusted to the darkness. Butch scanned the area.

"I make out six of 'em," he whispered. "I get eight," Charlie corrected. "Good," Butch answered.

The coyotes had completely surrounded the helpless cottontails and were silent, watching, waiting. Then as if on a prearranged signal, they began a high-pitched, blood-chilling yapping. The rabbits froze in terror, unable to move. The shrieks continued until the prey was completely immobilized. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Steel jaws clamped on soft fur. It was over quickly and perhaps mercifully.

As the feeding began, Charlie sighted on the rear quarters of one of the coyotes nearest the fringe. He squeezed off a dart. The coyote turned in annoyance and then slowly slumped to the ground. Charlie reloaded and downed another and another. The largest of the pack, possibly the leader, sensed that something was wrong. He turned to look at his fallen brothers just as a dart slammed into his hip. He tried to warn the remaining few but his voice was nothing but a gush of air as his legs gave way and his eyes fogged over. Charlie was working rapidly and efficiently. In less than a minutes time he had fired eight darts and eight coyotes lay unconscious on the ground.

"That's it!" Butch said. "Let's pack up and get outta here!"

Charlie had already disconnected the hose at both ends and was busy taking down the scope and rifle. He quickly packed the gear and headed for the truck. Butch had moved out of the blind and was approaching the coyotes, gun in hand. He made sure that each one was completely inert and then began to hog tie and muzzle them. By the time Charlie arrived with the pickup, he had completed his job and was untethering the mangled rabbits. One he found that was still breathing. He crushed its head under the heal of his boot with a final "Bye-bye, bunny."

Charlie was now by his side. He turned his head in revulsion and said, "Let's get these critters in the truck. We've only got about four hours until they start to wake up and I don't want to be around if they're not in their cages."

"Gottcha!" Butch agreed.

Charlie produced eight bags from the truck. Each coyote was zippered into a bag and laid in the bed of the pickup. A tarp was then secured over the entire cargo area. Butch jumped into the driver's seat.

"Let's go!" he said.

Charlie was only too glad to let Butch drive the final leg. He took one last look around. Satisfied, he climbed into the right side, slammed the door and said, "Okay," as he settled in for the two-hour bone jarring ride over the rocky off-road terrain that lay ahead of them.

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Meanwhile a special Cabinet meeting has been called by the President of the U. S. in Washington, D. C. He wants answers why the price of meat has skyrocketed to unprecedented levels. Tensions are high.

"Now here we are, two years later, and the problem is worse than when I took office. What in the hell is happening and why haven't we been able to correct or alleviate the situation?"

The President looked directly at the Secretary of Agriculture. "George," he said. "Let's have a report and you'd better have some answers."

George Harkens was from the panhandle section of Texas. He had been appointed Secretary of Agriculture because of his personal cattle interests. He controlled over 100,000 acres of range land and fed 250,000 head of cattle in his and other feedlots. He had a doctorate in animal husbandry from Texas A & M University. He was a self-made man and had built a medium-sized fortune from his chosen career in the cattle business. He was well respected in the industry and had access to every university and research facility in the country. Secretary Harkens pulled a large file of papers in front of him, arranged them in some private order and began.

"Mr. President," he nervously started. "We've made some progress but we still have a long way to go. The universities are all cooperating and their research departments are exchanging information. The Meat Institute has coordinated the research facilities of all the major meat-packing companies and the Cattleman's Association is doing what they can to combine the efforts of the ranchers. The Department of Agriculture has established a central command room where all the information gathered from these sources is combined and fed into a computer. The results are then distributed to all of the participants. We have established a communications network that allows for the immediate exchange of information. And-"

"Yes, yes!" the President interrupted. "We're well aware of all of this, but what have they discovered?"

"I was getting to that, Mr. President," the Secretary continued. "The only thing that we're sure of, right now, is that a virus is infecting the animals and affecting their ability to breed. It looks like the virus is airborne. They're still trying to isolate it in order to develop a serum. So far only warm-blooded, four-legged animals seem to be affected. It appears that wildlife numbers are down proportionately."

"What about that, Bill?" the President directed his question to William Denner, the Secretary of the Interior.

"That's right, Mr. President," the Secretary of the Interior replied. "We've been getting calls from all of the environmental groups demanding to know what's going on. So far we've been able to stall them. But, I'm afraid that they won't keep still much longer."

The President returned his attention to the Secretary of Agriculture.

"We're frantically looking for the host so that we can contain the spread of the virus, but, frankly we've drawn a blank so far. The entire continental forty-eight states seem to be infected, and parts of Canada and Mexico as well."

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Brian Nichols, adventurer, is about to begin his long-awaited search for The Lost Dutchman Man.

Brian pulled into the parking area in front of the Tortilla Flat restaurant. A couple of lights illuminated the inside and Brian could see that full service was not going to be available yet. He ignored the parking stripes and left his rig parallel to the road. He tried the front door and found it unlocked. He headed for a saddle that served as a stool at the bar and straddled it. A sleepy-eyed, unshaven man wearing a cook's apron appeared.

"What'll it be?"

"Just a sinker and some black coffee," Brian replied. The man turned and placed Brian's order in front of him.

"That'll be $2.50," he said and left for the mysteries of the kitchen.

Brian finished his breakfast, left $3.00 on the counter and walked out the door. The coffee made him feel a bit edgy. He wondered if he really needed it, as hyped up as he already was with the prospect of his upcoming adventure.

"Well, too late now!" he thought as he put the pickup in gear and pulled away from the restaurant. The headlights were almost a redundancy as they barely lit up the road in competition with the brightening day. He drove about three miles out of town on the dirt road. The terrain was flattening out and Brian easily found the little turnoff that he had discovered last weekend. After a little more than a quarter of a mile of bumpy four-wheeling, he stopped and parked next to a stunted palo verde tree.

It seemed like yesterday, when he had first noticed those articles in Arizona Highways. Now, he was about to begin the adventure that those articles had stimulated. "The Mysterious Lost Mine of the Dutchman" had grabbed his attention immediately. He began to study all the reports, articles and books that he could find on the Lost Dutchman Mine. He was hooked. He knew that someday he would be counted among the people who had spent a disproportionate amount of time and money chasing the Dutchman.

The other article probably accounted for most of the delay in the start of Brian's quest. It was entitled "The Ultralights of Arizona." It described a small group of airmen who flew aircraft known as ultralights. Basically a flying wing, they were very similar to a hang glider. The wing was attached to the pylon of a tubular structure known as a trike, a three-wheeled fuselage with the single wheel in front and the two main wheels on either side to the rear. The pilot sat just above the three wheels, his feet resting on a bar that controlled the steerable nosewheel. A passenger could sit behind and slightly above the pilot. The power plant was mounted directly behind the passenger seat and thrust was generated by a pusher-type propeller. The pilot controlled the aircraft by means of a bar that tilted the wing, side to side and up and down. There was no yaw control as tipping the wing to one side provided a coordinated turn in that direction. Pushing the bar forward tilted the wing upward and slowed the speed, while pulling the bar tipped the wing downward and increased the speed. Climb and descent were controlled by the throttle.

He found an airport seven miles to the northwest of his house that had a fixed-base operator specializing in ultralights. It wasn't long before Brian found himself hanging out in the ozone, suspended in the student seat of a trike. It was thrilling and Brian knew that his love of flying had been rekindled.

The mastering of ultralight flying was harder than Brian had guessed. The controls reacted just the opposite to the conventional wheel and rudder that he was used to. Brian was a patient man and he took his time because he had lots of it. He spent the better part of four years becoming an expert ultralight pilot and an authority on the Lost Dutchman Mine. As his flying skills increased, he was developing a theory about Jacob Waltz and his gold.

Most, if not all, of the prospectors had concentrated on the area of the Superstition Mountains that lay within easy reach of Apache Junction. They had gone east and south. They scavenged Weaver's Needle and surrounding territory and found nothing. It seemed that each failure encouraged the next group of adventurers to search the same ground. Brian reasoned that Waltz probably came from a greater distance to cash his gold than most people thought.

Tortilla Flat was no more than an outpost in the late 1800s and hadn't grown much since. It once had a population of 125, but after the new hotel burned down, people began to leave, and now the inhabitants of Tortilla Flat numbered only six. Brian decided to search in that region. He would look to the east and north of Tortilla Flat.

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Get prepared for a bullet-train ride as the action explodes off the pages.

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