“That first rescue expedition could only save a few: they themselves almost starved to death crossing the Sierras to reach the stranded travelers. Tamzene and George Donner were still alive when the first relief party arrived, but Tamzene refused to leave her husband, who was dying of a hand infection. A second rescue expedition brought additional people out of the mountains, and a third, but Tamzene refused to leave George, even while her own children were carried out.

“At some point during all this, a man named Asher Boardman showed up at Donner camp by Alder Creek. It was at the end of February. He had fled the Lost Camp, and alluded to how the place had descended into a kind of cannibalistic madness. Boardman was an itinerant preacher and said he’d run away when his own wife, Edith, tried to kill and eat him. Boardman ended up dying of starvation and exhaustion a few days later, about the time the third rescue expedition arrived.

“All this and much more Tamzene recorded in her journal.

“Finally, in April, the fourth and final relief effort arrived. But in the aftermath of the third rescue expedition, many more had died and the cannibalism had actually accelerated. What those last rescuers found was even more shocking than what had come before. In the Alder Creek camp, they found no one alive. George Donner was dead, his body lying in the melting snow, butchered and partially dismembered, his head split open and brains removed. There was, however, no sign of Tamzene. The rescuers went on to a rude campsite nearby, where they found a single living man named Keseberg. Next to him was a frying pan with a human liver and lungs in it. Under pointed questioning, he admitted they were the remains of Tamzene. He had been eating her body for weeks, he said, and the liver and lungs were all that was left.

“At any rate, that final relief expedition brought out the last of the survivors. The story of the Donner Party became a tale for the ages, retold, reprinted, and sensationalized until it was almost unrecognizable. It has never ceased to fascinate.

“Which brings me to why I’m here. As I mentioned, two primary campsites were identified—the camp near Truckee Lake and the one along Alder Creek. But the Lost Camp has never been found. It was visited by only one member of the third search party. We don’t know many details of what he found there, but we do know that after witnessing it he refused to go back. Bad as the two main camps were, what happened in the Lost Camp was apparently worse—much worse. The rescuer found only one survivor in that camp, and brought him out, but he died raving not long afterward.

“The elusive stories about the Lost Camp haunted me. For half a dozen years I searched, following one dead end, one false lead after another…until I dedicated myself to finding Tamzene’s diary. Of course, there were plenty of sensational newspaper stories, letters, secondhand accounts of dubious accuracy—but this crucial primary source had been lost for almost two centuries. Everyone believed it must have been left behind, just so much mulch rotting into the forest floor. Thinking it was lost, nobody undertook a systematic search for it. I’ll spare you the details, but my patience was finally rewarded in not one but two ways. First, I managed to find the journal—just in the nick of time. And second: it includes not only a list of everyone who was stranded at the Lost Camp, but directions to it as well. Asher Boardman, the man who escaped the Lost Camp, shared information about it with Tamzene before he died. Beyond that, her journal contains notes with landmarks, and a hand-drawn map showing the locations of all three camps. The Lost Camp may have a particularly infamous reputation—and the horrors that occurred there may never be fully known—but we now have a road map to it.”

Benton paused again, leaning forward. “And that’s the job I’m offering you: to lead an expedition to find the Lost Camp.”

5

November 29

THE ASSISTANT OPENED the door and Nora stepped into the office of Jill Fugit, PhD, president of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. Clive Benton followed behind. The office itself, though not large, was warm and cozy and, Nora thought, had a friendly feeling—with an old Spanish tiled floor, adobe walls, and a small fireplace. The windows along the far wall overlooked a garden, now blanketed in white from the previous night’s snowfall. A 1920s Two Grey Hills rug adorned another wall, while a shelf displayed a row of Zuni ollas from the late 1800s.

Dr. Fugit raised her head from a stack of papers and rose, shaking both their hands. Her smartly tailored suit, long blond hair, and habitual sense of style were hardly the standard image of a fussy, unimaginative academic—something Nora silently applauded. Fugit had been a controversial choice for president when the post became vacant a few years earlier, but her credentials were impeccable, while her keen and at times acerbic intellect was a pleasant change from the usual mumbling fossils who’d inhabited the office. The Institute was already showing the tangible benefits of her business and fund-raising acumen.

“Nora, nice to see you,” she said briskly. “And you must be Dr. Benton. So good to meet you. Please sit down.”

She indicated seats for them on either side of the fireplace. Dr. Fugit resumed her seat at the desk and looked at them both with a pleasant but searching expression.

“Can I offer anyone coffee or tea?”

One of the perks of working in the Old Building at the Institute was the coffee service. Fugit picked up the phone and put in their requests. She then pulled a manila folder off the top of the stack, slid it in front of her, and opened it. “So, Dr. Benton. I see you’re a Stanford graduate.”

“For my PhD, yes. I did my undergraduate work back east.”

“My alma mater as well. But let’s get down to it. I’ve read through the report you and Dr. Kelly prepared.” She paused. “I knew about the Donner tragedy, of course, and I’m somewhat familiar with earlier archaeological work on the two main camps. But the details you’ve outlined are remarkably vivid—particularly of this Lost Camp, apparently a scene of exceptional deprivation and despair.” She closed the folder. “I couldn’t help but notice your spelling of Mrs. Donner’s first name. She was perhaps the central figure of the tragedy, and one of the most studied by historians, but I recall her name always being spelled as ‘Tamsen.’”

“That’s correct. Her mother’s name was ‘Tamesin’ and that was the name she was given at birth. However, she chose to spell her own name as ‘Tamzene’—and I’ve tried to respect her wishes.”

“Of course.” There was a brief pause. “So—Dr. Benton, you want the Institute to sponsor a search for this camp and excavate it.”

“Exactly. I’m a historian, not an archaeologist. The Lost Camp is almost certainly in the Tahoe National Forest, on federal land, so we’d need to get state and federal permits to excavate. The prestigious reputation of the Institute would be extremely helpful.” He paused. “And I’m convinced Dr. Kelly is the perfect person to lead this expedition.”

Fugit’s penetrating gaze did not waver. As usual, Nora found herself unable to read the president’s expression with any accuracy.

“Well, as I said, the proposal is admirably thorough. I’ve given it much thought. But I don’t think it’s right for us at this time.”