“Four hundred and two on the Boone and Crockett scale,” said Burleson proudly. “A local record.” He took a sip of coffee. “They say you’re a Donner Party descendant.”

“My great-great-great-grandfather was a Breen.”

“Can’t imagine how it must feel, coming up here.”

“It’s hard to describe. They did what they had to do—that’s how I see it.”

“And that’s how I see it, too.” Burleson turned to Nora. “The Lost Camp has always been the subject of tall tales and myths around here.”

“I can imagine,” said Nora. She wondered just what those tall tales might be.

“It’s not a myth,” Clive added. “The camp’s a documented historical fact. It’s the location that’s never been ascertained.”

“Well, that’s always the problem, isn’t it?” Burleson pulled a manila folder out of a battered leather bag, laid it on the table, and flipped it open. “I got your list of supplies, added my own. It’s all purchased, sorted, and ready to pack. We leave tomorrow—if that’s still your wish.”

“It is.”

“I’ll want you to unload your own gear on the porch so we can have a look at it—size- and weight-wise—and figure out how many horses we’re going to need to pack it all in. We’ll leave at dawn.” He turned to a young man who’d been hovering around. “Call in the team.”

A moment later three people entered. Nora had the impression they’d been waiting just outside.

“Jack Peel, our new wrangler, just arrived from Nevada, where he worked on a dude ranch outside of Reno.” Burleson pointed to a compact African American man.

Peel went around, shaking hands silently, face grave. He was wearing a white cowboy hat stained with dirt, sweat, and dust, which he did not remove. As he walked, the spurs on his boots jingled faintly. His eyes were gray.

“Maggie Buck, our cook.”

Maggie’s personality seemed the polar opposite of the laconic Peel: she came thrusting forward with a grin on her face, almost bowling Bruce Adelsky over in her eagerness. “Pleased to meet you!” she said. She looked, Nora thought, a bit like a fortysomething Charlie Brown in curls.

“Maggie’s a wizard with a Dutch oven. Wait till you try her biscuits.”

“I hope y’all like home-style cooking. We got any dietary restrictions here?” She looked around with a disapproving expression on her face. Nobody responded. “Good! I can cook tolerable vegetarian, but I draw the line at gluten-free.”

“And this is Drew Wiggett, assistant wrangler,” Burleson said. “He’s a vet student from Berkeley, looking to spend some time with horses in the mountains.”

If it was possible, Wiggett looked even younger and lankier than Adelsky. Flipping his long hair out of his face, Wiggett offered his hand around, nodding and smiling.

“Our turn,” said Nora. “Clive Benton, historian and Donner Party expert. Jason Salazar, field assistant with the Institute. And Bruce Adelsky, graduate student in the Anthro Department at UNM, working toward a dissertation in Southwestern archaeology.”

A slightly awkward silence fell over the group.

“Well,” said Burleson, “we’ll get to know each other soon enough in the mountains. Maybe too well!” He laughed and turned to Nora. “Like you asked, we’re all sworn to secrecy. Right, Maggie?”

“What’re you looking at me for?” she said. “He thinks I talk too much.” She looked at Nora, winking.

“Before we go any farther, I’d like to say a few words. About the risks.” Burleson’s tone turned serious. “Where we’re going is pretty much trackless wilderness. Don’t let the proximity of so-called civilization fool you. A dozen miles into rough country can be like a thousand: look at the Donners. Things can go wrong fast. Even in May a blizzard can blow up out of nowhere. Speaking of snow, we had a big winter and the mountain ridges still have cornices.”

“Cornices?” asked Adelsky.

“That’s a pileup of snow, blown by the wind along one side of a ridge. Those cornices build up and can be a hundred feet deep. While May avalanches are rare, they can happen. The important thing is not to tramp through snow fields, especially atop a ridge, because you might dislodge a cornice. Always stay on solid rock.”

He poured himself another mug of coffee. “As for animals, there are only two to worry about: bears and mountain lions. Bears can be dangerous, especially mamas with cubs. We’ll be hanging our food in trees. Don’t keep any food in your tents. If you encounter a bear, back off slowly. Look as harmless and unafraid as possible. Let it retreat. With mountain lions, do the opposite. Act belligerent, make yourself big, open your coat up and flap it, spread your arms and make a lot of noise.”

“What about snakes?” Adelsky asked.

“What about them?” Burleson replied.

“He’s got a phobia of snakes and spiders,” Nora said, glancing at the graduate student.

“We’ll probably see a few rattlers, despite the altitude. As for spiders, just shake out your boots in the morning before putting them on.” Burleson slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Now let’s see that map of yours,” he said to Nora. “I’ve only got a general idea of where we’re going.”

“Sure thing.”

Adelsky, who was holding the tube, handed it to Nora, who slid the map out of it and spread it over a nearby table. It was a USGS topo map on which she and Clive had worked out their planned search area. Burleson weighted down the corners with coffee mugs. He bent over and examined it, muttering under his breath.

“So this is where you want to go?” he said, pointing to the markings.

“The Lost Camp is somewhere up one of those canyons,” Clive told him.

Burleson frowned.

“You familiar with that country?” Clive asked.

“No, and I daresay few are. That’s true high-country wilderness. Rough, remote as hell. Not like Winnebago Central down here.”

Clive pointed at the map. “The probable location of the Lost Camp is along one of these creeks—Sugarpine, Poker, or Dollar Fork. Tamzene’s map only shows one creek, but she drew it from a description given by a dying man and she never saw the camp herself. She mentions a couple of landmarks, but the crucial one is this: from the Lost Camp, you could see the profile of an old woman on a rocky cliff to the north. Tamzene noted it was like New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain, except an old woman with a hooked nose.”

Burleson nodded. “That must be pretty unique. I’ve never seen anything like that up here.”

“The plan is to make our first camp up in here somewhere—” Clive pointed to an area of less dense topographical lines— “and use it as a base camp. We’ll conduct the search from there, concentrating on the three streams that flow into Hackberry Creek. The Lost Camp must be in one of those canyons.”

“Hellacious country. Why did they go up that way? There’s no way out.”

“The simple answer,” said Nora, “is they got lost.”

“Here’s what apparently happened,” said Clive. “The emigrant train was spread out as they entered the mountains. A group fell behind—eleven individuals. As the snow began falling, they missed the trail over the pass and drifted northward into that maze of ravines. Then they went up one of these side canyons, where they became snowbound. A few months later, a single person managed to reach the Donner camp at Alder Creek, only to die of starvation not long after. But it was from him Tamzene got the information about the Lost Camp, including its location.”