As she began work on the grid, carefully sweeping the dirt away, a shadow fell over her. She turned to see Clive, hands still in his pockets.

“Decided to try your luck over here?” he asked.

Nora wiped her forehead with the back of one glove, then nodded.

“Mind if I watch?”

“Not at all.”

Clive squatted beside her, careful not to disturb any of the grid lines. He pulled out one of his cigars and lit it up.

“Do you mind?” Nora said, pointing downwind.

“Oh. Sorry.” Clive changed position. “I used to be a cigarette fiend, three packs a day. So I switched to cigars—these expensive Dunhills—hoping the cost would keep my habit down.”

“That’s only the second one I’ve seen you smoke.”

“Yeah. I’ve cut back over the last couple of years. Now I only smoke to relax, calm my nerves—you know, that kind of thing.”

For about five minutes, he watched her work. And then he shook his head. “I’ve been thinking…” He stopped.

“Thinking what?”

“What a goddamn idiot I’ve been.”

Nora stopped working and sat back on her heels. “Care to tell me why?”

“Those two, Reinhardt and Spitzer, were carrying the gold in their boots. Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because that’s all the fucking ‘treasure’ they had.”

Clive said this in a low, bitter voice, eyes on the ground. It was the first time Nora had heard him use such profanity. “And how do you figure that?”

“You and I both agree they would have kept the gold close. Well, we just excavated their entire miserable hovel and found nothing.”

“Maybe they hid it beneath a nearby tree,” Nora said. “Or buried it in the snow.”

Clive shook his head. “That’s not what my gut tells me.”

Nora could hardly believe what she was hearing. “But, Clive, it was you who did the historical research on all this. It was impeccable. You laid it all out, for me and Dr. Fugit, back in her office. Wolfinger withdrew that gold.”

Clive puffed on his cigar. “All I found was a withdrawal note. Its details in regards to Wolfinger are, technically, debatable.”

“But still, we know there was a robbery and murder.”

“Sure, by a couple of jackasses who got a hundred dollars for their trouble. When we first found those coins, I said they looked uncirculated, although with heavier bag marks than usual. But I’ve thought about that some more. If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that’s not the case. They’re scratched, dinged up, far beyond what any bag marks would cause. And do you know why? Because Reinhardt and Spitzer had been walking around with those coins in their boots ever since they killed Wolfinger.”

“But—” Nora began, then stopped when she saw the expression on his face.

“They murdered him expecting a fortune—and found only ten gold pieces. Not exactly chump change in 1847, but no treasure, either. It’s exactly from such things that legends are born, and this particular legend was just credible enough to gull this particular historian.”

“Clive, what makes you think that gold isn’t hidden somewhere else—?” Nora began, but Clive cut her off.

“Put yourselves in their shoes for a moment. Think about what you would do.”

Nora thought. “I suppose I wouldn’t have let it out of my sight.”

“Exactly! I made a fatal mistake. I’m a trained historian, and I should have been more careful. I have no excuse.”

“What mistake, exactly? Excuse for what?”

“For making an assumption. I assumed Wolfinger made that withdrawal. But Nora, the fact is those bank records were incomplete. Dr. Fugit was right to be skeptical. Sure, Wolfinger made a withdrawal that week—but it was for one hundred dollars. The other nine hundred must have gone out in other withdrawals, lost in the bank’s incomplete records. That’s why Reinhardt and Spitzer divided the gold equally between them—five coins apiece. That’s why it was in their boots. And…and that’s why I’ve let you down.” As he’d done earlier, he looked up at the sky. “Nora, I’m ashamed. I guaranteed the Institute we’d find that gold—and instead all we have is ten lousy coins.”

Nora was silent a moment. Listening to Clive talk, she felt something she hadn’t expected: regret. As an archaeologist, she’d always told herself that gold—treasure—didn’t matter. After all, she wasn’t going to get any of it. Here she was, surrounded by the real treasure—an important archaeological discovery—and yet despite her best efforts, she, too, was experiencing more than a pang of disappointment.

She pushed these thoughts away. “Those ten coins are still worth a lot of money,” she said.

“Not enough to fund this expedition,” Clive said. “And they’re not uncirculated. Their historical value might up the price a little, but they’re still only worth a thousand dollars each, perhaps a bit more.”

“Maybe so. But don’t you see? We were never sure we’d find that gold. And the fact is, it doesn’t matter anymore. We found the Lost Camp. That’s what’s important. This is going to be such a coup for the Institute that Dr. Fugit will probably be able to raise a lot of money based on the site alone.”

“I hope she can,” Clive said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I let you down.” He dropped his half-finished cigar and ground it out in the grass.

“Better take that away with you.”

“Of course. Sorry.” Clive wrapped the cigar stub in a tissue. “Here I’ve interrupted your work, feeling sorry for myself. Go ahead: let’s see what’s in this grid.”

Nora took the whisk and began brushing her way down through the soft soil, removing it with the trowel for later screening. Almost immediately, she felt the whisk encounter an obstruction. She set the whisk aside and resumed work with a paintbrush, brushing in a gentle semicircular motion. A delicate human jawbone appeared—the maxilla.

“Tiny,” Clive said.

“It’s a child,” said Nora. “See the baby teeth? I’d estimate this came from a person six to eight years old.” Her voice faltered; in a moment, all thought of the gold was gone.

“There was only one child of that age in the group,” Clive murmured, peering closely.

Working slowly, with something close to reverence, Nora continued to brush dirt away from the jaw, freeing it from the earth that had held it prisoner for more than a century and a half.

“Why don’t you take pictures while I work, to document this,” she murmured.

Clive photographed the jaw from a number of angles. Soon the rest of the skull appeared. It was intact.

Quietly, as if sensing an important discovery, Adelsky and Salazar had left their quads and come to observe.

Working downward, Nora began uncovering cervical vertebrae and a small rib cage. A silver hair clasp appeared, in the shape of a ribbon, with a lock of blond hair wedged in it. Seeing this, she paused. The others were looking on, mesmerized. She could feel the intensity of their gaze as they stared at what were quite clearly the remains of Samantha Carville, the only child in the Lost Camp. The skeleton was lying on its back, skeletal arms folded lovingly across the chest.