This seemed an ideal vantage point for a stone face to be visible—if what was now rockfall had once resembled a face.

She backed up further, sizing up the hollow with a practiced eye. The ground fell away from the valley edges, leveling out into a smoother area—smooth enough for a campsite. It was three, maybe four acres: much larger than the archaeological site itself, which would probably occupy no more than a quarter of an acre.

So where, exactly, might they have pulled up the wagons? She tried to put herself in their heads. At the time, there was about a foot of snow on the ground and it was falling fast—the leading edge of a blizzard that was about to alter their lives forever. The remote landscape had changed little, if at all, since 1846, and Nora knew that—except for the lack of snow—she was seeing much of what they would have seen.

If she were leading the group, where would she have made camp?

She moved about, walking a transverse first to the right, then to the left. Closer to the creek the ground sloped down again. They would have stopped somewhere in the middle of the flat area. From which vantage point would the now fallen face have been seen best, the sharp granite corner most visible? It was hard to be sure, but after a bit of squinting up at the still snowy cliff she settled on a spot that somehow felt right. The hollow was larger than it looked from a distance. The grass was wet from the rain here, thick and healthy. Unusually thick and healthy. And there were flowers.

There were no flowers anywhere else in the damp meadow. As an archaeologist, she was trained to watch for areas of soil that were unexpectedly rich, or where there was a sudden change in vegetation.

She knelt and pressed her hand into the icy grass. Should she?

She was qualified, and they had all the proper permits. There was no reason not to.

Kneeling, she took off her pack and removed an archaeological trowel, gloves, and a face mask from it. After measuring and cutting a fifty-centimeter square in the thick grass cover, she edged the trowel underneath, working the roots loose, and lifted free the plate of grass to expose the muddy soil below. Slowly, with exquisite care, she began scraping back the layers of dirt, bit by bit. A 175-year-old site would not be far below the surface, especially at this high altitude, in a meadow where soil would have accumulated slowly.

At three inches, the trowel tapped something. Changing to a light brush, she exposed the object.

It was a tooth.

* * *

When she returned to camp, the weather had fully cleared, the fleeting clouds tinged a blood red from the setting sun. The freshly whitened peaks were afire with alpenglow. Jason and Clive were still out, and Nora said nothing while Maggie cooked dinner and the wranglers fed the horses their evening oats. Finally, just as she was beginning to grow concerned, Jason appeared in camp. Clive followed, his face a mask of discouragement.

“What a bust,” he said, dumping his pack. He picked the ever-ready coffeepot off the fire and poured himself a cup, sitting down on the log.

“No go, eh?”

Clive shook his head.

“Nothing at all? Really?”

“Not so much as a button.”

Jason poured himself a cup as well.

“Jason, what do you think?” Nora asked.

He shrugged. “If there’s a camp, it’s not up Dollar Fork.”

Night was falling quickly and Nora heard the hoot of an owl. She turned back to Clive. “Kind of selfish, don’t you think?”

He looked at her in incomprehension. “What? Who is?”

“You. All this whining about what you didn’t find. Why haven’t you asked me what I found?”

Both men turned. “You found something?” Clive asked.

She nodded.

“What?”

“A human molar.”

Clive leapt to his feet. “No shit! Really?”

Everyone started talking at once, asking questions.

“It was just over a mile up Poker Canyon, in that hollow we first explored.”

“Nora, my God, that’s fantastic,” said Clive, giving her a hug before recollecting himself, stepping back, and shaking her hand vigorously. She was gratified, and a little surprised, by Clive’s lack of envy that it was she, not he, who’d made the discovery. On top of that, she realized the hug had left her with a faint tingle.

“Amazing. Phenomenal.” He sat down again, still laughing with joy, his blue eyes flashing. “Tell us how you did it.”

She briefly told the story, while Burleson broke out a bottle of wine and poured glasses all around.

“A toast,” he said, holding up his tin cup.

That bottle was followed by another, as Maggie served dinner. Afterward they sat by the fire, and the conversation—consisting mostly of excited speculation—eventually fell off into silence. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the hooting of an owl, and the faint sigh of wind in the trees.

“We’ll move camp tomorrow,” said Nora. “There’s a flat area along Poker Creek only about half a mile down from the site.”

Burleson nodded. “I’ll get Jack and Drew on it at first light.”

Again they lapsed into silence. And then Jason sat up. “Did anyone hear that?”

A long silence. Nora heard a knocking sound, very distant and faint.

“There it is again,” said Jason.

“Woodpecker,” said Clive.

“They don’t peck at night,” said Maggie.

“Sure they do. Don’t they?”

Another distant knocking sound, this time a little nearer. The wind sighed in the trees.

“Anybody missing from the campfire?” Maggie asked. “Off answering nature’s call?”

“Nobody’d go that far,” said Peel.

They did a quick head count anyway. Everyone was accounted for.

“Okay,” said Maggie loudly into the darkness as she rose to her feet. “We know you’re trying to scare us. Well, it worked. So show yourself, now that you’ve had your fun.”

They waited and, as if on cue, there was another knock, followed by a low thump.

Nora stood up and flicked on her headlamp.

“Where you going?” Maggie asked.

“Out there to see what it is.”

Nora walked quickly across the verge of the meadow, ignoring the various voiced warnings from the campfire. She reached the tall trees and walked into the forest, the trunks like giant pillars in a cathedral, disappearing into the darkness above her. She paused and looked back. The glow of the fire was visible through the trunks. She walked farther, then paused to listen. Nothing but barely audible voices from the campfire, no doubt calling her back.

Then the thumping sounded again—closer. It could be the wind, Nora thought, knocking two trees together. Or perhaps an elk moving about in the dark, rubbing its rack on tree trunks.

The sound came again and this time she zeroed in on the direction, walking fast through the trees, keeping to a straight line. After a few minutes she stopped to listen once more. This, she judged, should be the approximate location of the sound. She waited, and waited some more. But no sound came.

Taking a few more steps, she passed through a particularly dense stand of trees and suddenly emerged into a roughly circular clearing. Odd: there was no reason for a break like this in such thick forest. She shone her light around, but there was nothing: just a soft bed of green moss, undisturbed by tracks, and a few scattered boulders.